The NOLA Heart Novels (Complete Series)

by Maria Luis

Only Mary Taylor could make fourth sound like he was dead last and crawling behind the pack by a mile with his hands and feet hogtied. “Third, actually,” he clipped out.

  He wasn’t happy about third either, but Gran had always been unfailingly able to make him feel worse than he should have. And the reality was that he was a thirty-year-old homicide detective, third in line for a ranked position. Compared to a lot of other cops his age, Brady was light-years ahead. In his grandmother’s eyes, though, Brady was nothing but a man who dirtied his hands as a cop.

  When he’d told her that he had transferred to the homicide department some years back, he might as well have told her he was a gravedigger.

  Brady didn’t like seeing death but he found pride in bringing closure to families who had been torn apart by senseless violence.

  His grandmother would never understand. She’d been coddled for most of her life. That was okay. He wouldn’t wish what he saw daily upon even his worst enemy. Would it hurt her, though, to just be a little proud of him?

  Shaelyn came back in with a plate and utensils in her left hand, while in her right she dangled two glasses from her fingers. She put the plate down and then effortlessly flipped the glasses around to set them right side up. He looked at her face and noticed that the blush was long gone. Regret slammed into him, and he was tempted to say something else just to rile her up again. He didn’t, but only because Miz Elaine was watching him way too closely and she was one person who truly scared the shit out of him.

  “Thank you, Shae,” he said.

  She gave a little shrug and reseated herself diagonally from him.

  By some miracle, Gran dropped the interrogation and his grandfather returned to the table. While he and the Taylor patriarch discussed the Saints’ upcoming season, Brady kept half of his attention on the women.

  “So sad to hear about your break up, Shaelyn. Are you desperately upset?” his grandmother asked.

  Brady rolled his eyes as he stuffed pasta salad in his mouth. Even if her engagement hadn’t been a total fraud, Shaelyn and Beveau’s chemistry had been more boring than watching paint dry—Brady would know. He’d been slowly painting his house over the last few months, though he never really progressed anywhere thanks to his busy schedule.

  “Not at all,” Shaelyn told his grandmother. “We’re two very different people. I don’t know why I thought it would work.”

  He flinched, like her words were actually aimed at him. They weren’t. He knew that. Plus, she had a valid point, if she was making a jab at him. What did they really have in common after all these years? They’d once been inseparable; aside for those few minutes at his kitchen table the other night, they’d done nothing but argue in the last few weeks.

  “You were blinded by lust, cher,” Miz Elaine said bluntly.

  Brady choked on a sweet roll. His grandfather pounded him on the back and told him to “pull it together.”

  There was nothing quite like Taylor family encouragement.

  “I’m good, Gramps.” He waved a hand at the older man and went for his glass of water. He had work to do at the station later and his one Irish Channel Stout at the bar earlier had been his limit. No doubt Danvers and Luke were still going at each other, arguing about God-knows-what as Luke tossed back more whiskey and Danvers sipped another dainty Sex on the Beach.

  “So, how’re you feeling about the promotion, son?”

  Brady eyed his grandfather. Et tu, Brute? “I don’t really feel like talking about it.” Slicing off a sliver of roasted chicken, he popped it into his mouth and concentrated on chewing. It tasted as bland as the rotisserie chicken he bought from the grocery store when he was too busy (and exhausted) to do anything but mechanically shovel food into his mouth.

  “I’m friends with Joe Gepano—”

  Brady gave up on the food and pushed his plate away. Stress tended to diminish his appetite. His family had the same effect on his food intake, probably because they stressed him out as much as his job did. He half hoped that Shaelyn was as miserable as he was right now.

  Scrubbing a hand over his face, he shook his head. “I don’t need the help, Gramps.”

  “But Gepano can get you the position.”

  “You’ve done work for him in the past, Gramps, and getting a hand-out from the police commissioner is not something I want attached to my name.”

  Nepotism wasn’t unheard of in the New Orleans Police Department. But Brady’s pride wouldn’t let him accept his grandfather’s offer. Some might call him stupid for rejecting the opportunity—he didn’t give a damn. If he got that promotion, it would be on account of the fact that he was a hard worker and deserved it. It would be because he wanted to make sergeant more than he’d ever wanted anything else.

  Shaelyn’s subtle New Orleanian drawl drew his attention to her like a moth to a flame. She was explaining something, her hands fluttering enthusiastically. A black choker necklace encircled the delicate column of her neck. It enticed him to lean in close and hook his finger under the material so that he could kiss the pulse beating beneath it.

  As his grandfather lectured him on the nuances of maneuvering through the local government’s social ladder, Brady caught only snippets of Shaelyn’s conversation.

  “She’ll be inheriting this house soon,” Miz Elaine said. “Just has to sign on the dotted line.”

  “Do you want the house?” That was Gran.

  Hesitation on Shaelyn’s end stretched into a halted silence. “I hadn’t planned on staying long in New Orleans.”

  She hadn’t? Instinctively, he wanted to stand up and demand to know why she hadn’t told him that New Orleans was only a temporary fix for her. Except, it really wasn’t his business, was it?

  “Oh?” Gran murmured. “Do you have plans to return to New York, then?”

  “No!”

  The outburst was unexpected. Shaelyn must have realized it, too, because she drew back, a hand resting just below her diaphragm. “I mean, probably not. I haven’t given it too much thought.”

  The thought of Shaelyn heading back to New York City or anywhere else that wasn’t New Orleans left Brady feeling distinctively unsettled. Even the past few days without their constant bickering had felt oddly hollow. Brady didn’t think for one moment that he was in love with her, but he’d be lying if he didn’t say that he wanted her to stick around.

  He wanted to be the reason she frowned in annoyance and laughed in delight and moaned in pleasure.

  Brady could almost hear Luke’s voice now, yelling at him to “grow a pair.”

  Brady wasn’t salivating, but he figured he tipped the scale somewhere between Lust and Let’s Go Out on a Date. Not that he could imagine Shaelyn accepting an offer to go out, just the two of them.

  Just one more reason to get over this asinine crush he was sporting. Only an idiot held out hope for something that wasn’t going to happen—and Brady had stopped being an idiot a hell of a long time ago, at least where Shaelyn was concerned.

  “Why don’t the two of y’all pick up the dishes while us old folk camp out in the parlor?” Miz Elaine said as Brady pierced the last slice of roasted chicken on his plate.

  “What is this, the nineteenth century?” he teased.

  “She’s been watching too much Downton Abbey lately,” Shaelyn told him in a fake-hush-hush voice. “She’s getting ‘ideas.’” The last was said with air quotes. Brady could only imagine what sort of “ideas” had occurred to Elaine Lawrence over the years.

  Actually, he’d rather not know. Shaelyn’s grandmother seemed like the sort to have all sorts of secrets hidden in her closet, under the rug, and behind every closed door. Starting with her awful matchmaking.

  Miz Elaine proved his point when she said, “Ideas, conspiring—it all gets better with age, wouldn’t you agree, Mary?”

  “Couldn’t have said it better myself, Elaine,” Gran said as she stood with her champagne flute in hand. With one regal sip, she finished off her drink and placed the crystal glass on the
table. “I trust you and Shaelyn can pick up the dinner plates?”

  Brady had the distinct impression that somehow he’d just been had. “Do we have a choice?”

  “‘Choice’ isn’t a word your grandmother is familiar with, son.”

  Truer words had never been spoken, and considering that Arthur Taylor had spent the last forty-plus years married to the woman, Brady was positive that his grandfather spoke with full authority on the subject.

  Brady watched as his grandparents and Miz Elaine headed off in the direction of the parlor. Not a single one of them paused to look back. He thought Miz Elaine might have had a change of heart when she retraced her steps but, no, she only grabbed her glass and the vodka and wiggled her fingers in the air at them.

  For a moment, both he and Shaelyn sat in silence. Empty plates and half-eaten serving bowls littered the table.

  “Do you think they planned this?”

  He glanced in Shaelyn’s direction and dropped his gaze to the pink shirt she wore. Her arms were completely exposed and the tight elasticity of the fabric hugged her curves deliciously. “If you mean letting us pick up after them? Yeah, I think they did. They might even be hoping that . . . ”

  He tore his gaze away from her. Probably best not to go down that road.

  Shaelyn wouldn’t be deterred. “What were you going to say?” she pressed.

  “That they might want to see us back together.”

  She blushed. “They’re probably just taking bets on which one of us will die first.”

  Brady offered a tight smile. “Guess you won’t have to worry about inheriting this house, then.”

  The house thing was obviously a sore subject because her brows furrowed and her teeth dug into her full bottom lip. Rising from her chair, she started stacking dirty plates. He followed suit, gathering dirty utensils and empty glasses.

  She didn’t answer until they’d stationed themselves at the sink, with Shaelyn washing the dirty dishes and him on drying duty. When he went to open the dishwasher, she lifted one hand to click the dishwasher door shut. A single, quick glimpse inside was enough to see that the machine was full of mold.

  All right, hand drying it was then.

  After what felt like an eternity, she finally spoke. “So, you were eavesdropping?”

  “Nah,” he said with a shake of his head, “Eavesdropping is only when you listen to a private conversation. What I did was purely legal.”

  “Says the police officer,” she deadpanned.

  “Yup.” He accepted the wet dish she handed him and toweled it dry. “So, the house?”

  Over the running water, he heard her sharp inhale. “Meme has decided that I’m it.”

  “Do you not want to be ‘it’?” he asked, as he put the plate on the counter.

  “This place is huge.”

  He knew that without even having to glance around. The Italianate Revival was massive, although it was one of many just like it in the neighborhood. For someone with ample income, it could have been a beauty. Hell, it was beautiful. But much like the broken dishwasher, the house was no longer as pristine as he remembered from his childhood. The kitchen was a 1970s throwback; the parlor’s crown molding, he’d noticed on his way to the dining room, needed heavy conservation. As a hobby, he dabbled in house restoration. Elaine Lawrence’s mansion would take him years to freshen up, at the pace he currently worked.

  “Four thousand square feet too much for you?” he teased in an attempt to pull a smile out of her.

  Shaelyn didn’t look his way. “Closer to six or seven thousand square feet, actually.”

  From the quiet way she said it, he knew that she wasn’t boasting. He whistled. “Man, that’s big.”

  This time she did turn to him, but her hazel eyes were brown and anxious. “Do you know how much a place like this costs to upkeep? Way more than I would make in a years’ time.”

  There was something about the way she spoke that hinted that money was an excuse she used often. Except that it was just that—an excuse. Relying solely on instinct, and the fact that he once knew this woman better than he’d even known himself, he gently bumped the side of her hips with his.

  The yellow and green sponge dropped into the stainless steel sink as she grabbed for the wine glass just before it splintered.

  “Brady!”

  “Sorry, sorry!” He wasn’t sorry at all, and he laughed as he nudged her hips again. Just because he could. “Loosen up, Shae.”

  Grumbling something under her breath, she looked up at him, eyes wide. “I’m being a worrywart, aren’t I?”

  Brady held up the towel in his right hand like a white flag. “I plead the fifth.”

  The look she leveled him with said it all, but as she rinsed the wine glass of any suds, she leaned to the side just enough to bump his hips. He bit back a smile. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, there was a small smile playing on her lips too.

  16

  Doing the dishes with Brady felt a lot like husband-and-wife status, like Shaelyn was one unborn child away from wearing a kitchen apron and trading in her stilettos for neon-colored crocks. Surprisingly, she didn’t want to run away. She was even—dare she say it—enjoying him. Just a little.

  Probably because, for once, they weren’t tearing at each other’s throats.

  But their temporary stalemate didn’t explain why she tapped her hips to his, smiled like a fool, and blurted, “I keep waiting for a spark, like I’m exactly where I belong.”

  “And you don’t feel it?” His voice was curious.

  “Not nearly as much as I’d hoped.” Except that the elusive spark was suddenly, inconveniently, sparking to life right now. Just as it had when she’d been laid out on the table under his hard body.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

  She gave him her best I’m-all-good smile. And she was, mostly. His gaze locked on hers, and his expression compelled her to go on. “I think my problem is that the house doesn’t remind me of my family. Not anymore.”

  “What does it remind you of, then?”

  “My guilt.”

  To his credit, he didn’t tell her that she was stupid. His only response was a gentle touch to her wrist, a subtle prompt to let her know that he was listening, if she wanted. She inhaled sharply, passed him the last dirty dish, and then shut the faucet. Her hands still dripping wet, she folded them over the lip of the sink.

  “When I was told my parents had passed, I didn’t know what to think. I was angry, heartbroken. I bet they fought each other to the very last breath.” She laughed hollowly. “Mama wanted to stay for coffee after Sunday Mass, and Dad wasn’t up for it. I’m guessing they must have been arguing real bad because my dad was always a careful driver but he—” She broke off, swallowing hard. “He ran a red light.”

  They’d been hit on the passenger’s side. Doctors said that Charlotte Lawrence had died upon impact, and her father had lasted until EMS was just two blocks away from University Hospital.

  Silence tickled by one heartbeat at a time before Brady said, “I looked for you at the funeral.”

  Her gaze jerked to him. “You were there?”

  “Of course,” he said, though there was no of course about it. At the time of her parents’ accident, she and Brady had been strangers. He must have realized that he’d shown too much because he busied himself with drying his hands.

  Shaelyn tried not to read between the lines, searching for something that wasn’t there. “I spent most of the time with Meme Elaine, who was beyond herself.”

  “And you weren’t?” he asked.

  “I wasn’t what?”

  “Beyond yourself?”

  With only those two words, Brady returned the conversation full-circle. Back to why she didn’t want the house on Coliseum Street. “I’m not sure how much your grandparents have told you . . . . My parents . . . I think it’s safe to say that there weren’t open arms waiting for me back home.”

  He mimicked her stance and curled his hands over the
edge of the sink. They both stared at the window. It was dark out—nearly eleven—and the glass might as well have doubled as a mirror. Her reflection watched her, as did Brady’s. Shaelyn struggled to keep her eyes off the man beside her.

  “Mama was furious after I left, you know, back then. I’d try to come home for a visit, and I was handfed excuse after excuse as to why it was never a good time. Until the excuses wore out and all I was left with was ‘no, Shaelyn.’”

  His reflection winced.

  Shaelyn’s nails scratched the sink as she fisted her hands. It wasn’t any secret that her mother had been mighty unforgiving. While she may have praised the Lord daily, Charlotte Lawrence had not been a woman without faults.

  Unintentionally, Shaelyn had developed a habit of pressing her mother right over the edge. Forgiving Brady way back when would have been the right thing to do in Charlotte’s eyes. Except that Shaelyn hadn’t done so—heartbroken and alone, forgiving the boy who’d caused the heartbreak had been the very last thing on her mind as she hopped on a Megabus destined for Jacksonville.

  “Twelve years is a long time to stay away, Shae,” Brady said, yanking her from the painful memories.

  “Yeah, well, when your mother informs you that you are her biggest disappointment, you sort of make it a point to never cross state lines again.”

  Cursing under his breath, Brady took hold of her right elbow and turned her to look at him. “Is this all because of me?”

  “Egotistical, much?”

  His large hands slipped up to her biceps. “Seriously, Shaelyn. Did your mom lose her shit because we broke up?”

  It was the first time since they’d parted ways that Shaelyn’s constant companion, Burning Resentment, wasn’t bubbling beneath the surface. It felt strange to be able to stare up at his face and not see red clouding her vision.

  Finally, she said, “In part, maybe. Mostly she hated that I never amounted to anything. I’m not a doctor like they wanted or a lawyer or anything particular noteworthy. I spent the last decade just . . . drifting.”

  His Destin-blue eyes searched her face. “Were you happy?”