The NOLA Heart Novels (Complete Series)

by Maria Luis

  “I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

  Carla giggled. Or maybe it was supposed to be a giggle. It sounded like a foghorn on steroids. “You see, sugar, I need you back where you belong—here.”

  A loud thundering in her ears silenced her ex-boss’s country drawl. Her skin tightened like a rash was coming on, even as sweat beaded on her forehead and her hands grew clammy.

  In . . . Out . . . In . . . Out.

  She had to go. Where, she wasn’t sure. But she had to get off the phone, had to leave Brady’s house.

  Brady, oh God—

  Her eyes flew to where he stood on the opposite side of the room. She hadn’t even heard him enter, but that wasn’t much of a surprise. He held himself as still as a statue cut from the finest marble. At some point since she’d gotten on the phone, he’d pulled on a black T-shirt. His feet were still bare.

  Was he wondering who was on the other line? Had he heard everything? She dropped her gaze to her lavender-painted toenails, anything to keep from looking at him.

  “Now Shaelyn Magnolia, I know you’re determined to stay in New Orleenz, but it’s best if you come back home. What else, really, you got any qualifications for? Come back to New York, darlin’, and I’ll give you a raise.”

  What else, really, you got any qualifications for?

  It was the same thought that had kept her tied to Carla for already too long—the fear that she wasn’t good for anything else. The fear that she’d been permanently stained by the deeds she’d done to survive. For years she’d feared that she wasn’t the type of person who could amount to anything moderately important. To hear her former employer say the same thing . . . . Well, insecurities were lovely, weren’t they?

  “I have to go,” she told Carla.

  “Sugar, now I know you’re upset, but don’t blame me for a bunch of quitters. You’ve never been a quitter, Shaelyn Magnolia, and I want you back on our team.”

  So she could resume feeling worthless? No, thank you.

  “I’m not coming back to y’all.”

  “Don’t be sayin’ y’all like you aren’t one of the family. You’re one of my girls, Shaelyn Magnolia.”

  Shaelyn swallowed past the lump in her throat long enough to whisper, “not anymore,” before she ended the call. She dropped the cell into her purse, and strived to keep herself in the present. Only, the present included Brady, who had yet to say a single word.

  This is why you don’t do relationships. She’d learned that the hard way when she’d started working for Carla. Men didn’t understand what her job had entailed.

  Are you a stripper?

  So, you prostitute yourself?

  Is it just for the money, because if so, I’ve got a lot of that, honey.

  Shaelyn had never been a stripper, a prostitute, a call girl or an escort—or whatever other insulting name had been hurled her way.

  Desperation had led her to Craigslist five years ago. Behind on rent—waitressing at two different restaurants had not brought in enough income—her landlord had slapped a yellow Post-It note on her front door: You have until the end of the week to pay or you’re out.

  The smiley face drawn in red Sharpie at the bottom had felt less like encouragement and more like a threat.

  So, she’d done what she had to do.

  She found an Ad listing off basic qualifications: Do you have a good personality; are you punctual; can you act; are you outgoing? Shaelyn figured that possessing three out of four skills wasn’t that bad. In the end, Carla Ritter had taken one look at Shaelyn and hired her on the spot.

  You’ve got that girl-next-door appeal that people will love, sugar, Carla had said.

  Shaelyn suspected that her subtle New Orleans drawl hadn’t hurt, either.

  The premise of Carla’s Girls (because Carla was nothing if not egocentric) was relatively simple: if a person thought their significant other was cheating, one of the girls was brought in to a pre-organized situation to act as a decoy. If the client’s significant other fell for the staged flirtation, footage was recorded and provided for the client as proof of infidelity.

  It was Cheaters in real life and, honestly, a lot more depressing.

  Sometimes the client wanted to be present for the gig, hiding in the background so they could have a bird’s eye view of the crazy sauce that was about to go down. Namely, learning if their significant other was willing to cheat.

  In those situations, things got Jerry Springer wild.

  Shaelyn had never given a man—or a woman—more than a kiss in the name of the job. Sometimes she’d had to wear revealing clothing for the sake of the setup, but in her work bag had always been a pair of jeans and a comfy T-shirt.

  That Carla thought Shaelyn would ever come back? Not even when pigs learned to fly. Shaelyn had struggled for too many years to climb out of that dingy hellhole to slither back now, for any reason.

  As for Brady . . . . She finally looked his way. They had no chance for a relationship, now or ever. She’d learned that men saw only what they wanted to, and when she admitted to her less-than-stellar past, her status as potential girlfriend switched to secret side-girl. No more, and certainly not with the one man who had already hurt her more than she would ever admit.

  This . . . session had been a mistake, a mistake she didn’t plan on repeating.

  Planting her hands on the thighs of her jeans, she pushed up from the couch and swung her purse onto her shoulder. No matter what, she would not let Brady see that she was on the verge of falling apart. It was best for them both if she created some distance.

  She flashed Brady a wide, fake smile. “Sorry about that! It was one of my girlfriends from New York. She’s going through some tough times. Anyway, I should be heading out.”

  He blew out a breath of frustration. “You’re not going to even discuss the fact that you just sat on the phone for ten minutes and didn’t once look at me? After what we just did?” He paused, drawing out the silence. “You’re still not even looking at me.”

  He was right. Fear of him learning about her past kept her eyes down, and Shaelyn threw herself into self-preservation mode. “I think we’re done here.”

  “Done?” His tone was incredulous. “We didn’t even start.”

  “That’s probably for the best.” Pursuing a relationship with him would only lead to more hurt, and she was dreadfully tired of feeling like the scum at the bottom of a barrel. “I’m sorry,” she added to soften the blow. If there was a blow to be softened. It wasn’t like he’d hinted at wanting anything more than just sex from her anyway.

  She sidestepped the coffee table and made for the front door.

  “Is the fact that I had my hand on your pussy for the best, too?”

  The closeness—and the vulgarity—from which he’d uttered the words were like iron anchors on her stilettos. She swiveled around, intending to put him in his place, only to find that he was less than two feet away.

  “I had my jeans on,” she said lamely. Really, girl? Way to go for the obvious.

  “Are you really going to use that as an excuse?” he demanded. “We both know that if your phone hadn’t rung, I would have had your jeans off within the next thirty seconds.”

  He leaned down as he spoke, putting them at eye level. The undercurrent of sexual tension was still there, still heating the air up between them. Shaelyn grappled for control, even as she resisted the urge to ask him for a hug.

  For reassurance that all would be okay.

  In the end, all she said was, “It was a mistake.”

  Brady tossed his head back with a harsh laugh. “Oh come off it, Shae. Don’t embarrass yourself by using that stupid line. You had ample time to tell me to stop, but you know what? You didn’t.” His voice turned gruff when he added, “I’m sorry, let me rephrase myself—you asked for more.”

  Oh God.

  She shouldn’t have expected Brady to play nice. There was a simmering anger in his gaze that set her back on her heels. But whether th
at anger was directed at her or at himself, she didn’t know. Brady was a smart guy, and she knew that he’d interpret her rejection as yet another round of her being a tease. It was better this way, she decided. Better than him knowing the truth, which was that his ex-girlfriend had pawned herself for easy cash.

  Not for easy cash, her conscious whispered, for survival.

  Her fingers involuntarily tightened around the strap of her purse. “I know,” she whispered.

  Running his fingers through his hair, Brady fell back a step. His eyes squeezed shut like he couldn’t even bear the sight of her. Sometimes she couldn’t bear the sight of herself either.

  “Jesus, Shae.”

  Shaelyn kept her elbows locked to her side to keep from reaching for him and begging him to understand. “Brady—”

  “If this is some ultimate revenge scheme you’ve concocted, keep it to yourself.”

  His words were a slap to the face that she wholly deserved. What reason had she given him to think that she hadn’t planned a little revenge? Little did he know that from the moment he’d pressed his lips to hers, payback had been the last thing on her mind.

  There was no way Brady would believe a single word she said in her defense. And since Shaelyn couldn’t see herself being honest with him about Carla, there wasn’t much hope for a future with him.

  Disgusted with herself, Shaelyn stepped back, the sharp point of her favorite heels echoing loudly as it made contact with the dark wood floor. “I should go.”

  He opened his eyes and crossed his muscular arms over an equally muscular chest that she wanted to rest her head against. “You’re not even going to deny it?”

  Her hand found purchase on the round doorknob. “I’m sorry, Brady.”

  Just as she twisted the knob, one of Brady’s hands covered hers. The other planted flat on the door to prevent her from leaving. His big frame crowded her from behind, as the unevenness of his breath rustled the curls at the nape of her neck.

  To anyone watching, they might have looked like a couple about to jump into bed and get it on. Shaelyn knew better. She should have felt calmer, knowing that her secret was safe. But if it was even possible after the conversation she’d just had with Carla, Shaelyn felt shittier than she had ten minutes ago.

  Brady lowered his head so that his face brushed hers. From her peripheral vision, she could see the slope of his nose, the hollows of his cheeks. His closeness was as dangerous as it was tempting.

  Tipping his head, his lips came perilously close to brushing the column of her throat. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not coming after you again.” She watched his fingers scrape against the wooden door as he curled his hand into a fist. “And, before you ask, I’ll get Anthony Mardeaux’s info but I’ll contact Anna. Me and you? You’re right, it was a mistake, but only because I don’t play games. Not even if they’re yours.”

  The pounding in her ears was back, loud enough to impress the sensation that she was moving through a fog, yet soft enough that she could still hear every single word leaving his mouth.

  Cold. He sounded so damn cold, and it tore at her to know that she had done this to him. Except that . . . he couldn’t honestly care about her, could he? He’d given no indication that he was interested in anything besides sex. It had to be about male pride, then. Brady Taylor didn’t seem like the type to ever be rejected, and she’d done so twice in the span of a week.

  She forced herself to resist the temptation to sink back into the comfort of his strong chest. With an aloofness she didn’t feel, she asked, “Is that all?”

  The hand that had balled into a fist on the door came down like a band around her waist, tugging her back against his front. Warmth immediately seeped into her body, heating her up from the inside out. With his fingers splayed against the center of her belly, Brady released a low growl. “If you walk out that door, just remember that I’m not coming after you. You change your mind about what you want? You’ll have to come to me next time.”

  “I came to you both times, technically,” she felt inclined to point out.

  His arm tightened around her waist. “You know exactly what I mean.”

  He released her, his arm falling back to his side as his other hand dropped away from the doorknob. Wrenching open the door, Shaelyn made it as far as the first step leading off of the porch when his voice rang through the night.

  “Shaelyn?”

  Shoulders stiffening, Shaelyn held her ground. She refused to turn back and look at him. If she did, who knew what she would end up doing?

  You’d jump his bones. Ask him for forgiveness. Bare your soul.

  “Remember that I like it when you beg.”

  Despite the fact that his words elicited a warm tingling coursing through her limbs, Shaelyn didn’t reply. She hightailed it to her car, sidestepping the monstrosity of all potholes, as she reached for her keys to unlock the driver’s side door. She entered in one smooth movement, slamming the door as soon as her butt connected with the leather seat.

  A quick peek in the rearview mirror as she drove off showed her that he’d stayed on his front porch. Had he stayed out there because he cared about her safety, or because he was just—

  Shaelyn reached for radio volume and turned it up to the max. Some country song about slicing the tires of your cheating lover’s car. Grimacing, she shut off the radio and stewed in silence all the way back to Meme Elaine’s house. She focused on everything that was not Brady Taylor, even though her eyes stung with what felt suspiciously like tears.

  She had no reason to cry. None. She had told him it was a mistake. She was the one with issues that she couldn’t shake. She was the one who had ultimately walked away. Again.

  She told herself all of these things during the ten-minute drive home. And yet one single question kept shoving through all of the rest: if this was for the best, then why did she feel just as devastated and confused as she had twelve years ago?

  That single question kept her tossing and turning all throughout the night, and by the next morning, she was still no closer to figuring it out.

  15

  “Why are we here again?”

  Ignoring Brady’s question, Luke reached for the tumbler of whiskey that the female bartender slid across the bar’s steel counter.

  The bartender hesitated, one finger working a strand of her long blond hair as she eyed Luke like he was a cocktail she wouldn’t mind sampling. She propped her elbows on the bar, giving both men a view down her shirt. “You want me to put that on your tab?”

  Brady could practically hear panties hitting the floor when Luke mirrored her stance and gave a slow, practiced smile.

  “Naw, honey,” Luke told her with an exaggerated drawl. “Put it on this guy’s tab”—he clapped a hand on Brady’s shoulder—“he’s the reason I’m here tonight.”

  Rolling his eyes, Brady took a drink of his beer. “You dragged me here.”

  Luke cupped his hand around his mouth like he had a secret to confess. Like clockwork, the bartender giggled and pressed her ear to Luke’s hand, giggling when he said, “Don’t mind him; he’s on his period.”

  Another girlish giggle. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Brady narrowed his eyes and swung an arm around his friend. He glanced at the blonde, offering her a sympathetic smile. “Thanks. But I’ve got to tell you, I’d rather take on PMS than an STD—right, buddy?”

  The hair fiddling skidded to a stop as the hungry expression on her face gave way to awkwardness. “Uh . . . ”

  Luke’s hand found Brady’s wrist and squeezed, but Brady was having too much fun at his friend’s expense. As the bartender inched farther away, he hollered, “Don’t worry! He’s been taking his meds. Too bad his fetish for blow-up dolls can’t be cured as fast as the clap.”

  The bartender threw a horrified look at Luke before bolting for the employee’s only section. Some of the patrons turned to stare, but between Luke’s formidable scowl and Brady’s wide grin, it was pretty clear that a p
rank had just been pulled. The older men seated at the bar high-fived Brady and then wished Luke the best of luck with his “infliction.”

  “I hate you,” Luke grunted after he’d downed his whiskey. “She was cute.”

  Brady lifted his dark stout in salute. “Yeah, if you like them college-aged.” Which Brady didn’t. He preferred curvy women with short curly hair, about the age of thirty. “Aren’t you too old to be cradle-robbing?”

  “We can’t all have the honor of being obsessed with our ex-girlfriends.”

  Clearly, Brady had made a mistake in telling his best friend about his and Shaelyn’s confrontation. He’d omitted the hot-as-hell foreplay session, mainly because he wasn’t interested in hand-delivering Luke more ammunition. Also because that moment between him and Shaelyn had been . . . private.

  “At least I have an ex-girlfriend.” Brady swiped a finger over the condensation on his glass. Actually, if he was counting, he’d had three girlfriends. Number two and three had been short-lived, mainly involving beds and flat surfaces. In other words, unsatisfying to anything but his cock.

  Luke drummed his fingers on the bar. “I’ve had a girlfriend.”

  Pointing his stout in his friend’s direction, Brady challenged, “Name one.”

  “Cherry, Diamond, Chastity—”

  “I’ve got the feeling that ‘Chastity’ isn’t what’s written on her birth certificate.”

  Luke flashed a grin. “We met at a strip club.”

  “Somehow I’m not surprised,” Brady muttered into his beer.

  Luke dropped his gaze to his empty glass, leaving Brady to wonder if there wasn’t more to the story. Pushing wasn’t his style, so they settled into comfortable silence.

  He tried to keep his attention on the flat-screen TV above the bottles of alcohol, except that golf had never really been his thing and Brady found his thoughts involuntarily returning to Shaelyn.