The NOLA Heart Novels (Complete Series)

by Maria Luis

  Maybe she was asking for too much.

  More realistic hopes would be that he had all his teeth and no bad body odor.

  “What time is it for?”

  “Seven,” Anna said, moving to stand behind her chair. “We both leave work around the same time, and, honestly, if I go home, I might not have the strength to change out of my house pants.”

  Interest lightened his eyes. “House pants? Tell me more.”

  She felt her cheeks warm. “Sweatpants, Luke, my house pants are sweats.”

  He tipped his head to the side. “Yoga pants?” His tone was hopeful.

  There were days when Anna deeply regretted being born a blonde with fair skin . . . this was one of those days. Trying to grapple for control of the conversation, she said, “I thought you weren’t interested in dating? Doesn’t that include flirting, too?”

  He didn’t even have the grace to look ashamed. “I’m giving you practice.”

  “For what?”

  “Handling a man’s advances.”

  “Is this what you’d call a man’s ‘advances’?” she said, her hands moving to close over the back of the chair. “Though I’ll say that this conversation is more digestible than anything that happened last night.”

  His lips thinned. “Which is why I plan to meet up again with you tonight, just in case you need a hand.”

  The idea of Luke O’Connor watching her on yet another date wasn’t nearly as appealing as it had been last week when she’d drunkenly concocted the idea. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “I do.”

  “We’ll be in public,” Anna said, “there’s not much he can do.”

  “He can insult you.”

  She lifted a finger in the air. “Couldn’t the same be said about you?”

  Scowling, he muttered, “Not the same thing. You don’t know him.”

  “That’s true. But once again, do I really know you either?”

  His light green gaze met hers. “I know your name now. I know you own the hottest boutique in town. I know you have a son, Julian, who plays football. I know you came to Herbal Heaven for something other than perfume, but I haven’t figured out exactly what it was just yet.” He stood, straightening from the bench with a wince. “I’d say that we’ve moved on from being complete strangers.”

  “I remember you from high school.”

  The words were out before she could stop them, and she watched him freeze. “You went to De La Salle?”

  “I graduated the year before you.”

  His expression banked as he took her in, and Anna fought the urge to squirm under his heavy stare. When his chin tipped back, he planted the cane on the ground and loosely rested his wrists over the head. “You were a cheerleader. Homecoming Queen, am I right?”

  Sometimes she wished she hadn’t been such a debutante back then. Her mother had wanted that upper-class lifestyle for her only daughter; Anna had only liked it for the clothes. She’d always loved fashion. Licking her lips, she murmured, “Senior year, yes.”

  A small smile flirted with his lips. “I remember now—royal blue dress. All the boys were hot for you, Blondie.”

  Blondie.

  Unexpected delight warmed her, even as Anna’s insides felt all kinds of topsy-turvy. Luke O’Connor, the man who admitted that seduction wasn’t his M.O, and that his interest in women landed him in their bed and nothing more, was moment by moment leaving her more unsteady in her stilettos.

  If she were a smart woman, she’d cut off this dating challenge now before she got in too deep. She was too old for the unrequited love that plagued kids her son’s age, but unrequited lust might be just as bad when it came to her mental health.

  Anna watched him move to the door, his cane and bad hip throwing off what most likely would have been a long-gaited stride. She waited until his hand fell on the doorknob to say, “Take the night off. I’ll be fine with this Dev Smith guy.”

  Luke glanced over his shoulder, his gaze resting on her face. “I’ll be there at 1830 hours to get a good table.”

  “What, so you can watch the misery unfold?”

  He shook his head. “No, because you’re the same as you were back in high school. The men are still hot for you,” he said softly, “and this way I can see your face the entire time. If you need me, I’ll know in a heartbeat.”

  9

  “You’re overdoing it, O’Connor.”

  Luke opened his eyes at the sound of the physical therapist’s shoes hitting the tiled floor. “How exactly am I overdoing it when I’m strapped to a machine?” He wasn’t exactly strapped, but it felt that way. Square, gel-based pads were suctioned to his bad hip like stickers. Wires ran from the pads to the machine, which then, from Luke’s understanding of it all, pumped electrical currents into his hip to lessen the pain. “I’m getting massaged, for fuck’s sake.”

  The therapist, Robb, flicked a switch and the gentle humming of the machine quieted. “You’re already three months into therapy. For someone your age and body type, we should have progressed past the pool and electrode stimulation.”

  For weeks now, Luke had suspected that he’d been falling behind schedule. Instead of growing more limber, it’d become harder to walk, harder to stand after sitting. Luke didn’t scare easily, but seeing the strength in his body deteriorate was enough to keep him up with night terrors.

  Night terrors that had nothing to do with Trinket the Hip-killing Asshole, and everything to do with missions gone wrong and the victims of war whose faces were emblazoned in his memory.

  The constant dose of pain was wearing on him and tearing down his defenses.

  “I’ve done exactly what I’ve been told,” Luke said, back on the conversation of his bum hip. “Short of never moving from my bed again I haven’t been stupid.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Shit.

  “Can we get me unhooked here? Maybe sit me upright?” Luke placed his hands on either sides of his hips and attempted to shift upward. It didn’t work. The electrode pads tugged at his skin, and his hip refused to kick into gear and function.

  Robb settled on a squat chair to Luke’s right. He crossed one leg over the other at the ankle, linking his hands together over his knee. “Want to know why I don’t believe you?”

  “Not particularly.”

  The therapist continued, unfazed. “Your sister called the other day. Let me know that her older brother has been going out at the crack of dawn for longer walks than he’s allotted.”

  Of course Amy would be the rat. He narrowed his gaze on Robb. “You ever think it’s weird that you still talk to your ex-girlfriend all the time?”

  Robb and Amy had dated since college. Their on-again, off-again relationship had always driven Luke batty because he hated to see Amy cry. Apparently, the fact that Robb Hampton, one of the leading physical therapists in the city, was now Luke’s physical therapist, was enough cause for them to strike up conversation again.

  Luke didn’t know whether to be pissed off or to accept that Amy and Robb’s relationship was none of his business.

  Most of the time, he remained the ticked-off older brother.

  “My relationship with your sister is not up for discussion,” Robb said.

  Luke rose onto his elbows so he could look the other man in the eye. “So, you admit that the relationship is on, right now.”

  “Not up for discussion.”

  “It’s always up for discussion.”

  Robb rolled his eyes. “Listen, O’Connor, you’ve been in the army for how long?”

  Through gritted teeth, he bit out, “Thirteen years.”

  “Right. Correct me if I’m wrong, but after thirteen years of being practically nowhere in sight . . . do you really think you have a say in my relationship?”

  Luke had always been his sister’s champion. He’d been the man of the family, thanks to his own father dipping out when he’d been just a kid, and he’d done what had been needed to support Amy and their
mother. Throughout most of his childhood, Moira’s dream of opening her own shop had been just that: a dream. She’d toiled away hours at the local supermarket, planning and designing a business that she’d hoped would one day feed her family.

  But with no extra money to be found, Moira’s dream existed only in the countless notebooks she filled with inventory items and sketches of store layouts.

  It had been Luke’s first, non-taxed deployment check that had provided the income for the glass bottles for oils and the plastic bags for the tea blends. It had been a good majority of his salary that had allowed Moira to find a location in the French Quarter and put down the 3% down-payment to call it hers. His non-taxed second deployment income had paved the way for Amy to pick the university of her choosing while not finding herself swaddled in debt.

  For thirteen years, Luke had put his hopes and dreams on the backburner for the sake of his family’s happiness. And now, thirteen years and two months later to the day, he was no longer a soldier and, quite honestly, not sure he had any personal dreams left.

  It cut him that Amy had never relayed any of this to her boyfriend, but he only had himself to blame for that. He hadn’t wanted his younger sister to know how much of her opportunities could be placed at his feet. It was one thing to think that their mother had provided the money and co-signed the loans, quite another thing to realize that Luke had single-handedly put Amy through four years of college.

  A college where she’d met this prick.

  Glaring up at the ceiling, he muttered, “Let’s just get this over with. Tell me whatever it is that’s keeping you up at night.”

  If he felt at all pleased by the chance to air his grievances, Robb didn’t show it. “You want to get better? Then stop pretending you’re G.I. Joe.” Robb crossed his arms over his chest. “You aren’t a soldier—not anymore. No more extended walking, no more foregoing your cane when you’re at your house.”

  “Fuck that. Now listen here—”

  Robb cut him off with a lifted hand. “Don’t even bother lying, O’Connor. Amy’s told me that she’s caught you without the cane three times now.”

  “I was getting the goddamn milk out of the fridge,” he grunted, not even bothering to pretend otherwise. Though he and Amy were going to have a nice long talk about keeping certain things in the family. He knew she only meant well and worried over his recovery, but Jesus, sometimes a man liked to pretend he wasn’t one second away from crumpling to the floor.

  “So get a dog and train it to get the milk for you,” was Robb’s no-nonsense response. “At least you’ll be occupied.”

  “Thought I wasn’t supposed to be going out for extended walks?”

  “Hell, I don’t know, O’Connor. Hire a dog walker. Make friends with something that isn’t your TV, your couch, or your right hand.”

  Luke dropped his head back against the pillow. “Amy ever tell you that you’re a shit motivational speaker?”

  “Guess it’s a good thing I don’t get paid to motivate people.”

  “What do you call being someone’s therapist?”

  Robb walked over to the electrode machine and flicked the switch. Almost instantaneously, the hammering pain in Luke’s hip eased as the electrical current worked its magic. He fought back a moan of relief.

  “I’ll be back in ten after another cycle,” Robb said, heading to the door. “And O’Connor?”

  Luke didn’t even bother to reply. He cranked one eye open and stared at his sister’s boyfriend.

  “If you don’t cool it with the overexertion, I’m going to put you back on the walker.”

  And with that, Robb Hampton walked out of the room. The bastard.

  10

  “Amy’s dating the dick-bag again,” Luke said into his beer as his best friend, Brady Taylor, turned on the Saints game. “Also, he told me to get a dog.”

  Cracking the aluminum cap off a beer, Brady settled back in his chair and muted the TV. “You should get a dog.”

  He and Brady had been friends for longer than Luke could remember. Somewhere in his mother’s attic, there were photos of the two of them at Little League Baseball games and birthday parties. Luke and Brady hadn’t ever attended the same school, thanks to the differences in their financial situations growing up. While the O’Connors had lived paycheck to paycheck, Brady’s grandparents (and guardians) had enough wealth to feed a starving nation.

  Brady’s only saving grace was that he was down to earth and, after leaving the nest at eighteen, had never requested another penny from his family. That fact made it slightly easier to digest all the times Brady’s old clothes had been passed off to Luke or when Mary and Arthur Taylor had invited the O’Connor family for holidays, loading them up with clothes and household items that tided them over until the next thin paycheck arrived.

  Luke swallowed a healthy dose of his beer. “I don’t want a dog.”

  Brady didn’t even look at him. “Maybe a dog would improve your shitty disposition, seeing as how you’ve sworn off all women.”

  This is what he got for being open with his best friend—trash talk, and a kick to the nuts when he was already down for the count. Although, maybe Robb and Brady were right. Maybe a dog would do him some good; just because he wasn’t in the mood for human companionship didn’t mean a four-legged friend wouldn’t be . . . nice. Dogs were man’s best friend, right? Not that he’d ever had a dog to really know. Luke frowned. “I told you, I’m taking some time for myself.”

  Brady pointed the bottle at him. “You’re wallowing in self-pity.”

  Biting out a half-curse, half-laugh, Luke shook his head. “Want to remind me again why you invited me over?”

  “I wanted to watch the Saints play.”

  “You could have done that on your own time, maybe call Danvers and have him put up with your sweet talk.”

  “He’ll be over in about an hour.”

  Luke had met Nathan Danvers just before deploying a year ago. The guy was enormous—more mountain than man—but with a quick-witted humor that Luke appreciated. Helped that the guy was a former marine, so they had the military in common.

  Hooah.

  “Where’s Shae?” Luke asked.

  “At the boutique. They’re hosting a party today.”

  Mention of La Parisienne immediately brought forth a visual of Anna. The last time he’d seen her, three days earlier, had been at Tuck’s. For three days, Luke had put a mental block on that night. But now he couldn’t help but recall the weird feeling in his gut as he’d sat in their booth and watched her flirt with Dev Smith, or whatever the fuck his name had been.

  Unlike her date with Mr. Twat, the two hours Anna had spent in Dev’s company had been . . . good, Luke guessed. She hadn’t looked Luke’s way, not for the entire time that he’d sat there, beer clasped in hand as he waited for any kind of signal.

  The signal had never arrived.

  Dev Smith had been a complete gentleman, paying for her drink, making her laugh. They’d exchanged stories of their pasts, and Luke had learned that Anna Bryce was a woman with much to offer.

  That, he’d already known.

  What he hadn’t known was the fact that she donated five percent of La Parisienne’s monthly profits to various local charities. He hadn’t known that she’d once booked a flight to New York City when Julian was five, simply because she’d wanted to see what the world outside New Orleans had to offer.

  Luke had traveled all over. Hell, he’d been stationed in Germany and Hawaii, in addition to serving deployments in other parts of the world. He recalled her flippant comment about harboring a fascination with British TV, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she watched it so religiously because she wanted to know something other than New Orleans.

  But even as he’d sat in that booth drinking his beer, he’d acknowledged that he hadn’t been privy to all the information about her personal life. It hadn’t been Luke O’Connor she’d told, but a guy named Dev Smith who dressed like a wannabe hipster and wo
re nonprescription glasses like an asshole.

  Meanwhile, Luke wore sweats because jeans were still too constricting on his already limited mobility. His T-shirts were a generic Wal-Mart brand because he’d never given too much thought into what made a Wal-Mart T-shirt any different than a designer T-shirt, aside from the price tag.

  If Dev Smith was Anna’s “type,” then Luke never would be.

  Why do you even care?

  Right. Luke drained half his beer, doing his best to forget the moment when Blondie’s date had dropped a kiss to her lips and she’d returned the favor without hesitation.

  On the TV, the Saints scored a touchdown—miraculously. All New Orleanians knew that the NFL had made a bad call when it came to naming the team; historically, saints were martyrs, and the Saints NFL team made a point to be historically accurate every season. Brady thrust a fist up in the air, shouting, “Hell, yes!” even as Luke raised his beer in salute to the football gods for their hand-delivered miracle.

  For the first quarter, they did nothing but watch the game, bitching about badly called penalties and commiserating on the team’s inability to set up a proper defensive line. When the game turned to a commercial, Brady stood up and announced, “I have to show you something,” and then reached for his sweats.

  Luke shaded his eyes. “Please, for fuck’s sake, do not whip out your dick. I’ve seen it before and I’m still not impressed.”

  “Worried that you’re going to feel like a lesser man?”

  “I’m worried that I’m going to see your shortcomings up close.”

  “I see I came at just the right moment,” said a voice to the right. “Pun intended, by the way.”

  The front door closed behind Danvers, and he held up a six-pack. “I come bearing gifts,” he said. “But I’m only giving them up if you promise to keep the snake in your pants, Sarg.”

  “Jesus Christ, y’all,” Brady snapped, glaring at his two friends. “I’m not showing anyone the goods.”