The NOLA Heart Novels (Complete Series)

by Maria Luis

  Like right now.

  Shaelyn slipped her hand under his belly to pick him up before he threw another well-aimed right hook. A small paw went to her chin in protest. “No, baby,” she murmured with a playful tap on his nose.

  Meme Elaine frowned. “Where are his manners?”

  “Brady’s?” Shaelyn asked innocently.

  Pointing her fork in Shaelyn’s direction, Meme Elaine clucked her tongue. “You know exactly who I’m talkin’ about.” The fork swiveled down toward Freckles. “If I find him chewing on another one of my Victoria’s Secret bras, I’ll introduce him to Chow.”

  “We buried that dog fifteen years ago.”

  “Exactly.”

  Shaelyn lowered Freckles down to the ground with the order to “save yourself.” His tail shot up in the air like a fluffy middle finger as he pranced into the rarely used parlor.

  Truth be told, most of the house now sat unused. The Lawrences were Old New Orleans—the sort of family who continued to live in the same mansion a great-great-great-great-grandparent had constructed in the 1850s. The Italianate-Revival mansion boasted seven bedrooms, five bathrooms, a converted ballroom, a parlor, a kitchen, a media room, and one very, very pretty circular wrought-iron staircase. Six thousand square feet later, Meme Elaine owned it all.

  Or she would until her living will was instated and Shaelyn inherited the monstrosity.

  She poked at the herb-encrusted chicken on her plate with her fork, her head swirling with dread of the impending responsibilities.

  “Are you going to eat that?” Meme Elaine barked over the sound of her knife scraping against the porcelain plate.

  “I told you, I’m a pescetarian.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It means that I don’t eat meat or chicken.”

  Her grandmother’s blue eyes narrowed. “What did that godawful place do to you?” Up went the fork again, only this time it pointed unerringly at Shaelyn’s neck. “You’re too skinny. Eat.”

  “Meme—”

  “What? You used to love chicken. What am I going to tell people?”

  “That I have a weird obsession with blackened red fish and crawfish. I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  Clucking her tongue again, Meme Elaine punctured Shaelyn’s uneaten chicken breast with her fork and plopped it onto her own plate. “You’d best stop this pesce-whatever business before the Taylors’ BBQ this weekend. I won’t be—”

  A red cherry tomato flew out from under Shaelyn’s fork, skidded across the table, and dropped to the floor. A thrilled meow echoed in the room as Freckles initiated a sneak attack, snatched the tomato in his mouth, and beat a hasty exit back to the parlor.

  “The Taylors are having a BBQ?” She turned slowly toward her grandmother, even though she really, really wanted to escape with her cat.

  “Saturday coming up.” Meme Elaine drained the rest of her glass. “Everyone will be there. At least a hundred people—you know how the Taylors are.”

  Yeah, Shaelyn knew all right. She knew that Arthur and Mary Taylor, Brady’s grandparents and guardians, were all about The Image. The Image they presented to their neighbors, to their fellow churchgoers, and to their only grandson. Lovely as they were, Shaelyn also knew that it had been Mary Taylor’s idea to hook up Brady with Shaelyn, her best friend’s granddaughter.

  How cute would it be if they got married? Mary Taylor used to say when the two families gathered together. Brady would be the lawyer in the family (after attending Tulane University, of course), and Shaelyn would follow in her daddy’s footsteps and become a doctor (after attending Tulane, of course).

  Shaelyn had always known that Mary Taylor had supported her and Brady’s relationship throughout high school, but she hadn’t known then that Mary was the sole reason for the relationship in the first place.

  Over the humming in her ears, she heard herself whisper, “I can’t go.”

  Meme Elaine reached for her hot-pink cane. Bracing one hand on the table, and gripping the cane with the other, she hoisted herself up. “You’re goin’.”

  Given the option between coming face-to-face with Brady or living the rest of her life in the bayou with the gators, she’d choose the gators. Every. Single. Time. “I’m here to help you get better, Meme, not to party.”

  Slow, tempered steps brought her grandmother to the fridge, which she opened to withdraw a decanter of homemade sweet tea. “You wouldn’t have agreed to come back at all if it weren’t for your mama and daddy dying.”

  Shaelyn felt the words like a blow to her stomach, eliciting age-old guilt that never quit. She screwed her eyes shut and shut those black thoughts away in a box. Ultimately, her parents’ death may have driven her home two years ago for their wake and funeral, but the elderly woman standing at the fridge had brought her back now. For however long that Elaine Lawrence continued to feel unwell, Shaelyn had no plans on leaving New Orleans.

  Hopefully her grandmother was destined for a speedy recovery.

  Meme Elaine poured sweet tea into her glass, then mixed it with the vodka sitting on the countertop. A Southern girl’s secret, she’d always called it.

  “You’re gonna go to the Taylors’, cher, and I’m going to tell you why.” Dropping heavily into her chair, Meme Elaine swirled her finger around in the mixed drink. “You’re gonna go because, after twelve years, you ought to show that Brady Taylor just what he missed out on.”

  Oh, no. No, no, no.

  “Because you’re a young woman with a promising career ahead of you—”

  Actually, she wasn’t. Shaelyn didn’t even have a career. She’d bounced from one job to another, so much so that she’d made a career out of not having a career. She opened her mouth to tell her grandmother just that.

  “And because you’ve returned home to take care of your old, decaying grandmother—”

  “You’re not decaying, Meme,” she interjected weakly.

  “And because you’re engaged to be married.”

  Hallucinogens, they were the only answer. Shaelyn would have to question the doctors on the prescriptions they’d prescribed to her grandmother. She eyed Meme Elaine’s sweet-tea concoction suspiciously. Cleared her throat. Fixed her attention on the Svedka vodka on the countertop.

  Finally, she managed, “I’m not engaged.”

  Meme Elaine winked, like Shaelyn ought to be in on the joke. It wasn’t funny. “I know that but he doesn’t.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Brady.”

  Inhaling through her nose, Shaelyn counted to five. Some years ago, her mama had called Shaelyn to say that she thought Meme was losing her marbles. “She tried to take off her shirt right there in church, like the Good Lord would not remember her old wrinkled self on Judgment Day,” Charlotte Lawrence had hissed over the phone. “I’m telling you that senility has struck, but your daddy is convinced nothing could ever be wrong with his mother.”

  “Was she wearing one of her Victoria’s Secret bras?” Shaelyn had felt compelled to ask.

  “Shaelyn Magnolia Lawrence! What your grandmother was or was not wearing matters little compared to what she did in the House of the Lord.”

  So maybe Meme Elaine was losing it. That was all right. The woman was closing in on eighty and slipped more vodka into her drinks than was probably healthy for a woman her age. She played bingo every Tuesday and still made her way downtown to listen to jazz every Friday night with friends. If she was losing a few marbles along the way, well, it was bound to happen. At least Shaelyn was here to help.

  And, quite honestly, a crazy scheme like this was just up Elaine Lawrence’s alley.

  She gently placed her hand over her grandmother’s. “I’m not engaged. Not that I think Brady would care one way or another.”

  “He can’t win, you see? And neither can Mary.”

  Shaelyn had done her best over the years to forget about her first love. She’d tried and mostly she’d succeeded. But not once had she ever thought about their breakup in
terms of wins or losses. “I don’t understand why it matters. It’s in the past”—or it would be as soon as they moved on from this conversation—“and I’m over it.”

  Liar.

  She tacked on, “Aren’t you friends with Miss Mary?”

  Meme Elaine picked up her cocktail and downed half like it was Aquafina. “Miz Mary stole my fiancé, got herself knocked up, and then married him. I wouldn’t say that ‘friends’ is the proper term for our relationship.”

  “You were engaged to Arthur Taylor?” She tried to imagine her crazier-than-life grandmother married to the stoic patriarch of the Taylor family. Like a misplaced puzzle piece, the image just didn’t fit. “How much vodka have you had?”

  “Not enough.” Up went the glass again and down the rest of it went. Elaine Lawrence must have been a favorite at parties in her heyday. A keg-stand girl for sure. “Details don’t matter, cher. What matters is that I’ve already told Mary that you’re engaged. It’s high time that she realizes that the sun does not rise and set on her grandson’s behind.”

  Having seen Brady’s behind cupped tightly in a red dress just that afternoon, Shaelyn was tempted to argue that actually, yes, the sun did shine on Mary’s grandson. His behind, particularly.

  “It’s been twelve years. I doubt either Miss Mary or Brady have spared me a single thought.” Especially Brady. After their fallout, there had only been silence. Not that she’d reached out, but her silence had been justified, considering the circumstances.

  “Listen, Meme,” she tried again, “I’m sure you want to show Miss Mary that I’ve pulled my life together, but I don’t think lying about a fake engagement is doing me any favors.”

  One overly plucked eyebrow arched high behind the cat-eyed frames. “Oh, but you are.”

  “No . . . ” Shaelyn said slowly, “but I’m not.”

  “You are.” A sly grin lit her grandmother’s face and Shaelyn experienced an acute sense of dread slither down her spine. “His name is Benjamin Beveau, and I believe I just heard his car pull up outside.”

  2

  “It is so nice to see you, Shaelyn! And with a fiancé in tow? You know, we weren’t ever quite sure you’d come back on down to N’Orleans, baby, but it sure is nice to have you back—here, sweet tea?”

  A crystal glass was shoved into Shaelyn’s hand. Ben Beveau—her fiancé—placed a hand on her lower back.

  “Aren’t you Miss Popular around here,” Ben teased as he led her away from the refreshment table.

  She glanced over at him. Shaelyn wasn’t blind; Ben Beveau was a good catch. His hair was a light brown that burned a bronzed gold in the sun; his eyes were a very pale blue. He was tall, and quick to flash a white-toothed smile. He was a unicorn among men, and thanks to her grandmother, Shaelyn had the good fortune of being his fiancée.

  He was also getting paid five thousand dollars. Meme Elaine certainly knew how to strike a deal. It would be one thing if Ben were single and interested. He wasn’t. Mr. Beveau had a Mrs. Beveau, and two rascal twin Beveaus who enjoyed prodding Freckles with the pointy sticks they found in the backyard.

  “Are you sure your wife is okay with this?” Shaelyn stepped away from Ben’s touch, barely catching his reply about “paying a good deed forward” or something. Covertly she checked their immediate surroundings. The cloying scent of magnolia mixed with smoking charcoal hung in the stale August air, and she distracted herself with another glance around the mingling crowd.

  She hadn’t spotted Brady yet, but it was only a matter of time. Mary Taylor had made it no secret that her grandson would be stopping by the BBQ, and wouldn’t Shaelyn just love to catch up with him?

  She wanted to “catch up” with Brady Taylor about as much as she wanted a Pap smear and a root canal. On the same day.

  Shaelyn looked down at her sweet tea and wished it were alcoholic, but the Taylors were sticklers and had banned all hard liquor, as usual.

  They’d been that way when she and Brady were young, too. Mr. Arthur had always kept a secret stash of Jim Beam hidden in his study, only to be brought out on days when his wife went out with friends. Once, when Shaelyn and Brady were fifteen, Mr. Arthur had sat them down, warned them against overindulging, and proceeded to pour them each a shot.

  He’d tipped his chin up and tossed back the amber liquid. Brady and Shaelyn had exchanged nervous looks—was it a trap?

  “Go on now,” Mr. Arthur said, his shrewd gaze pinned to his grandson. “Pick somethin’ to drink to.”

  Brady’s hand tightened around the tumbler, his shoulders hunched. “To what?”

  “Anything, son.” Mr. Arthur settled back in his chair. “Go on and pick somethin’.”

  “To the Saints?”

  Mr. Arthur nodded with approval. “A New Orleans man should always throw one back for the black and gold.”

  “What should a New Orleans woman drink to?” Shaelyn asked. She liked football well enough, but she certainly didn’t want her first toast going to a stupid sport.

  Mr. Arthur drummed his fingers on the chair’s armrest. “First loves,” he finally drawled. “The kind that stays with you until you’re old and gray like me.”

  Her cheeks burned at the suggestion and she tried not to look at Brady. She tried so, so hard not to let him see that she had a crush on him, except that Shaelyn wasn’t all that good of a liar and Brady knew her better than anyone. They’d been best friends since diapers.

  “Y’all ready?”

  Shaelyn heard Brady audibly swallow.

  “Bottom’s up!”

  She and Brady had started dating six months later.

  Now, as she looked up at her fake fiancé, Shaelyn had to wonder if Mr. Arthur hadn’t been referring to his own first love. Because she was pretty sure that if Meme Elaine hadn’t had a bone to cross with Mr. Arthur’s wife, Shaelyn wouldn’t be faking an engagement right now. She didn’t need a man to make her happy, and she definitely didn’t need a man to prove her desirability to an ex. Despite the fact that the ex was hot as hell, even while wearing a dress.

  “Code red.”

  Shaelyn cut a sharp glance to Ben. “What?”

  “Code. Red.”

  “You see him?” She’d barely turned to scour the crowd for Brady before Ben caught her by the waist and hauled her up against his side.

  And then, right after he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “five grand,” he leaned down and laid one on her.

  3

  Something twisted in the pit of Brady Taylor’s gut at the sight of his ex-girlfriend kissing a stranger. It wasn’t jealousy—Brady didn’t do jealous—but maybe he could call it awareness. Made sense. It was only natural that he’d feel some sort of weird knee-jerk reaction to seeing her with somebody else.

  Although from what his grandmother had told him, Shaelyn wasn’t just involved with the guy. She was engaged.

  He halted a few feet from the scene and cleared his throat. Loudly. The pair broke apart, rewarding Brady with his first glimpse of his ex since she’d fled Louisiana when they were eighteen. He was surprised to find that she didn’t look all that different: same curly, chestnut hair, same hazel eyes, same cool smirk on her red lips that had always spelled Trouble for him. On closer inspection he noticed that her frame was curvier. Her waist flared into full hips that begged to be gripped and—

  Brady shook his head to dispel the image. He purposely didn’t look in Shaelyn’s direction when he said, “I hear congratulations are in order.”

  “Congratulations?”

  Brady’s gaze flicked from the fiancé to Shaelyn. “Your engagement?”

  “Right! Our engagement!” The fiancé flung his right arm around Shaelyn’s shoulders and squeezed. “We’re so lucky to have found each other. Right, cupcake?”

  Even if Brady hadn’t been a cop for the New Orleans Police Department for eight years, and a homicide detective for the last five of those, there was no way he could have missed Shaelyn’s pained expression. Problem was
, he couldn’t tell if her pursed lips were on account of having to talk to him or because she disliked the pet name. Brady studied her. Those hazel eyes of hers said it all: if she could skewer him where he stood, he’d be served to the rest of his grandparents’ guests like a kabob.

  “Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself.” Brady slid his gaze to Shaelyn. Waited to see if she might actually do the honors herself. When it was clear she had no intentions of playing nice, he said, “I’m Brady Taylor. Shae and I go way back.”

  Back so far that there was an old picture of the two of them naked in a bathtub together. They’d been three and you couldn’t go much further back than that.

  “Ben Beveau.” The man stuck out his left hand, and the gold band on his ring finger didn’t escape Brady’s notice. His gaze flicked to Shaelyn, focusing on the left hand wrapped tightly around a glass of sweet tea. Saw clearly that while her fiancé’s ring finger bore an expensive, shiny gold ring, hers remained unadorned.

  Jesus. How had Shaelyn gotten herself involved in one of those pansy relationships? Call him old-fashioned, but Brady was a firm believer in the tradition of certain things. When it came down to a marriage proposal between a man and a woman, the man did the asking.

  Brady reached up to readjust his ball cap, then slid his hand into the front pocket of his Levi’s. “I’m sure the proposal was memorable.”

  Beveau squeezed Shaelyn’s shoulder again. “Very memorable. Right, cupcake?”

  Shaelyn’s expression pinched. “Very.”

  Brady didn’t like the way the sound of her husky voice teased sensations of hot, wet kisses to the forefront of his memory. Didn’t like the way he could so easily recall her whispering naughty things in his ear. “Tell me all about it,” he said, mainly in an effort to distract himself from memories of them together in bed.