The NOLA Heart Novels (Complete Series)

by Maria Luis

  “Uhh . . .” There was the sound of rustling, and then quiet murmuring as though Jade had placed her hand over the phone.

  Sisterly disgust swirled around in her belly. “Please tell me that I didn’t interrupt you having sex with my brother.”

  “Well, I mean—”

  “Oh, man, I did.” Lizzie stared down at her feet strapped into a pair of thin, pretty stilettos. “I’m sorry. I mean, are you allowed to have sex at this stage of your pregnancy? Actually, don’t answer that. Go do all the . . . things. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  Jade laughed, and Lizzie nearly threw up in her mouth. No matter how much she loved her friend/sister-in-law, it was still weird to think of her and Danny doing bedtime activities.

  “Okay”—more giggling from the other end of the line—“love YOU!”

  Lizzie was pretty sure her friend hadn’t meant to hit a crescendo on the last bit. Not without a little prompting from her husband, at any rate.

  Pulling the phone away from her ear, Lizzie closed her eyes. This was the problem with having friends who were all hitched. She could call Anna or Anna’s cousin, Shaelyn, two women who Lizzie was also friends with, but both were married. Shaelyn had a newborn girl, and Anna had a teenage son.

  Neither could toss aside their families for a night out on the town.

  It was times like these when she saw quite clearly that living her life online did not benefit her in the “real” world. And while she could certainly kick off her heels and help herself to the boxed wine in her kitchen, that just didn’t hold the same appeal as cutting loose.

  Ping!

  Spine stiffening, she swiped open the direct message.

  I think I missed your well wishes, but Stephanie and I just want to give our thanks. We met because of you and now we’re gonna get hitched! You understand why you won’t be getting an invite though? #MansoniteGaming

  Her nostrils flared at Scott’s message, and his idiotic sign-off hashtag.

  Oh, she so wanted to reply with something cutting. Something angry. Something with middle fingers and four-letter words and angry emojis.

  “Don’t,” she whispered to herself, “don’t sink to his level.”

  Ping!

  Dammit.

  Her thumb hovered only a moment before opening the message: By the way, not surprised at all that you’ve stooped to slumming it with the locals. No one could compare to me. I hope your new bf knows he’s only going to disappoint you. #MansoniteGaming

  Fury snapped her teeth together, and before she knew what she was about, she’d sent him a message.

  The fact that he lasts longer than two minutes is enough to satisfy me forever. #ScrewYou

  Well. Now she had even more of a reason to go out—and she knew the exact man to accompany her.

  He shouldn’t have said yes.

  As Gage stood outside the club, a red-neon sign blinking above his head, that was the only thought he had on repeat. He shouldn’t have agreed to meet Lizzie tonight. For one, they hadn’t even spoken since the other day at her studio. Second, she hadn’t brought up her channel once when she’d issued the invitation over the phone.

  Tonight wasn’t about ThatMakeupGirl or about saving face.

  And that terrified Gage more than he wanted to admit.

  Why had she asked him of all people? He didn’t believe that the popular Lizzie Danvers could be friendless. It didn’t compute with the knowledge he had of her. Which meant that she’d sought him out specifically . . . even after claiming she could do without him and his dick.

  Unlikely.

  But there was one question he couldn’t shake—why had he said yes?

  “Hey, man,” the bouncer barked from his stool. “You comin’ in or what? Get your ass in gear or get out of the line.”

  Gage’s lip curled, but he stepped forward and withdrew his wallet. “What’s the cover?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  His hand stilled. “What the hell? Twenty-five?”

  The bouncer raised a bottle to his lips and spat out a wad of dip. “Yup.”

  “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  “Nope.”

  Gage’s eyes narrowed. “Last time I came here, the cover was five bucks. Tops.”

  Another lazy spit into the bottle and an even slower once over. “When was that? Ten years ago?”

  Damn. Had it been that long? He did the math in his head, and came out feeling older than he had thirty seconds earlier. A quick glance to the line behind him was further proof that Gage might as well be grandpa status. Young twenty-somethings bopped this way and that to the music, and even the neon lighting couldn’t hide what he knew was there.

  Potential underagers.

  Definite acne.

  Jesus. Digging in his wallet, he pulled out thirty and slapped it on the bouncer’s outstretched hand. “Keep the change.”

  The club was dark as he entered, and Gage’s senses went on high alert. He couldn’t help it, not when his job focused primarily on seeing the worst in everyone. Here, in the club, there were a lot of “everyone’s.” Bodies clustered together on the dance floor. Beams of light swung this way and that, illuminating couples making out, dancing, fist-pumping the air as the grind of the beat throbbed beneath his shoes.

  He was way too old for this.

  Too old and too jaded.

  Pulling out his cell phone from his back pocket, he created a new text to Lizzie. Where are you? Just walked in.

  Then he looked up.

  And it was though the fates had worked in his favor because there she was.

  She stood at the bar, her caramel hair tied on the top of her head in a ponytail. A short, tight red dress sheathed her body and hugged her curves. Matching red, fuck-me heels completed the look, and Gage felt done for.

  It didn’t make sense, and it sure as hell felt too permanent for his liking, but in that very moment, it was all he had.

  She looked good, too good.

  Good enough, apparently, that the guy next to her grabbed her hand and dragged her out onto the dance floor.

  Screw that.

  Before he realized that he’d moved at all, he was at her side, clamping an arm around her waist, settling his hand on the curve of her ass. The ass that he’d tattooed.

  Mine.

  Almost lethargically, she arched her neck to glance back at him, as though she’d known it was him all along.

  Maybe she recognized your touch.

  He shouldn’t like the thought as much as he did.

  “Princess,” he greeted curtly.

  Under the dancing lights, Lizzie’s blue eyes glittered with the reflection of his mean mug. A flirty smile played at her lips. “Pumpkin pie!” she exclaimed, throwing an arm around his middle. “Oh, I’m so glad you made it.”

  Pumpkin pie?

  Gage shifted his attention to the guy who’d tried to dance with her, and dropped a possessive kiss to the top of her head. “Just for you.”

  Literally.

  Lizzie’s red-painted lips widened. “You’re too sweet! Jake here was just telling me how much he loves to dance.” Her smile dropped and she touched a hand to the guy’s arm. “But his boyfriend couldn’t make it tonight, so I offered to act as a stand-in!”

  Boyfriend?

  Gage met the other man’s gaze, not at all surprised to find that he looked every degree of guilty. Oldest trick in the book. With a shake of his head, Gage tugged Lizzie closer, nestling her up against his side. He dropped his mouth to her ear to murmur, “That man is as gay as I am. And considering you invited me tonight, I’m not interested in sharing.”

  “Oh.” White teeth clamped down on her plump lower lip. “Pumpkin pie?”

  His fingers tightened over her rear. “Yeah, princess?”

  “You didn’t kiss me hello.”

  Gage felt his mouth hitch upward. Damn, she was good. Smooth. Unfortunately for her, he’d kiss her when she was begging for it and not a single moment before. “If I’m going t
o be here, I need a drink in my hand. You ready for another?”

  Her smile was all he needed to move her away from Jake the Dick and to an empty spot along the bar. The lights were dimmer here but the music remained just as loud. Keeping Lizzie next to him, Gage dropped his elbow to the bar and then flagged down a bartender. He went for a beer, and he didn’t even blink an eye when the sexy woman at his side requested a Cosmopolitan.

  It was just like her. Fruity. Feminine. Sweet.

  Although . . . he glanced down at her, appreciating her dress all over again. It cut off at mid-thigh, and if he’d been his twenty-two-year-old self, he would have already planned a way to get it up around her hips before the night was over.

  Now Gage only shifted ever-so-slightly, pressing his front to her back so that the short ride of the dress’s hem was for him and him only.

  The bartender delivered their drinks, and after paying and leaving a tip, Gage asked, “Should we address the elephant in the room and get it out of the way?”

  His question caught her mid-sip, and she came up spluttering. “You really have no interest in sugar-coating anything, do you?”

  “It’s not in my DNA,” he drawled, taking a pull of his beer. “We’ll do it the way my sergeant enforces when anyone in the platoon gets out of hand.”

  Glancing over her shoulder at him, her blue eyes burned with suspicion. “I’m not letting you handcuff me.”

  A husky chuckle escaped him. “How many cop pornos have you watched, princess?”

  “What?” Flushing, she flicked her ponytail back, nearly clipping him in the jaw with the strands. “I’ll have you know that I absolutely, positively do not watch—”

  “I’m guessing you’re in the five to ten range.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “It was like . . . two, maybe. I like a guy in uniform—sue me.”

  Gage opened his mouth, only for her to clamp her free hand over it.

  “Don’t,” she said, loudly enough to be heard over the rip of a guitar playing, “don’t do that super cliché guy thing where you give a recycled one-liner. Be original or don’t bother.”

  Damn, but the claws were out tonight. Call him crazy, but it turned him on.

  When her hand fell away, he lifted the beer bottle to his mouth, pausing long enough to say, “There’s a reason why guys go for the cliché, Lizzie. Because it works.”

  Brows furrowing, she twisted her body around, pressing her back to the bar, giving him the full opportunity to admire the front of her red dress. Deep V. Side cut-outs. She looked like the cherry he wouldn’t mind plucking.

  Another ponytail flick, and then, “Don’t be such a—”

  “Bad boy?” Gage grinned, lifting his gaze back up to her face. “Pretty sure that’s why you hired me.”

  “The word ‘hire’ makes it sound like I’m paying you.”

  She’d walked right into that one. Wiggling his brows, he dropped his palms to the bar on either side of her, beer bottle still clutched in his right hand. “Now, princess, technically we did agree upon a . . .”

  “Finish that sentence and I swear I will knee you where it hurts, Harvey.”

  Gage dropped his head and laughed. He laughed so hard that his abdomen clenched, and the people on either side of them started murmuring behind the shields of their hands. He didn’t care. Not at all. Because Lizzie Danvers did that for him—stripped away everyone who wasn’t her.

  This woman. She was just . . .

  With his arms still caging her in, he lifted his head and met her eyes. “You’re gorgeous when you’re spittin’ fire, you know that?”

  “Well, I mean, I don’t . . .” She downed what remained of her cocktail, and then set it on the bar beside his hand. “Thank you.” A little nod, and then she smoothed down the front of her dress. “Also, in reference to your elephant question, you ticked me off when you shoved that rod up your butt.”

  The couple to their right gaped and then sidled a little farther away.

  Lizzie wasn’t done. “I understand you don’t want complications, but it’s my life. Naked You, ThatMakeupGirl—all of that is me, Gage. You don’t get to pick and choose which side of me you accept, and you certainly don’t get the luxury of telling me what to do.”

  Then why did he get the feeling that she wanted to pick and choose what side of herself she showed the world? “You’re right,” he said after a lengthy pause, “I overreacted.”

  She tapped him on the chest. “Understatement of the year.”

  Gage swallowed a laugh. “You want me to apologize or not?”

  “Well, not with that attitude.”

  “Careful, princess. I’m willing to apologize, even more willing to realize that I stepped out of line. But don’t take advantage of the olive branch.”

  13

  Gage’s proximity made it hard for Lizzie to breathe.

  Or maybe it was that her dress, at least five years old, was snug around . . . well, all over.

  Whether it was the Cosmo or the glass of wine she’d had before he’d arrived, her tongue felt loose and her thoughts a little sluggish, and so it came as a bit of a surprise when she saw her fingers hook around the belt loops of his pants.

  His bracketing arms tensed, and Lizzie allowed her gaze to slowly climb the smart, gray vest he wore. On anyone else, it would have looked ridiculous. On Gage, it was downright sinful. Charlie Hunnam, sinful; Tom Hardy, sinful. Beneath the vest, he wore a black button-down, the sleeves rolled casually up to his elbows. His five o’ clock shadow was in full force tonight, maybe more like a six, but even his nearly black attire couldn’t match the darkness of his eyes.

  Smoothed over, polished onyx.

  If she had to pick a gemstone to represent the hue of his gaze, that would be it.

  And if she had to select an eye shadow color . . . Midnight Passion.

  No other shadow held as much pigment; no other shadow possessed such a pure absence of any other hue.

  She licked her bottom lip, tasting the sweet flavor of her lipstick, and watched with a small shiver and a lot of delight as those black-as-night eyes surrendered to lust. Midnight Passion, indeed.

  “Is this our first fight?” she asked, infusing just enough dryness into her tone so he knew she was only teasing him, trying to poke light back into the conversation. “Which one of us is going to storm off and get wasted?”

  His cheeks hollowed with a gruff chuckle. “We’re not fighting. We’re just . . .”

  “Having a disagreement?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A horse with no name is still a horse.”

  Shifting his weight, he pulled one hand away from the bar and shoved it deep into the front pocket of his jeans. Debonair. It was the perfect word for him. Debonair and . . . enticing. What would he do if she used her finger in his belt loop to tug him closer? Lizzie didn’t have any personal experience on the topic, but she’d heard from friends that makeup sex was the best type of sex.

  “You know that makes no sense, right?” He shook his head, a smile lightening his naturally broody features. “Where did you even come up with that?”

  A small shrug of her shoulders. “Half-song, half-natural creativity. If you thought about it, you’d realize it does make sense. Disagreements and fighting are practically synonyms in this context, so, really—”

  “What am I going to do with you, princess?”

  Kiss me.

  Not that she said that.

  She’d already reached her daily quota for kiss-begging.

  Lizzie studied his rugged face. “You could buy me another drink.”

  “I could.”

  Heat swept over her as he moved in, his big body eating up the space between them. Lizzie wasn’t short by any means, but compared to Gage? She felt tiny, delicate, especially when he withdrew his hand from his pocket and settled it on the curve of her waist.

  She wanted to blame the unevenness of her breathing on the dress, on the too-tight straps and the even tighter bodice. All lies. I
t was him, Gage, who had her panting like she’d run a half-marathon or like she’d had an hour-long sex marathon. Gage who backed her up flush against the bar, and dropped his face to the place where her neck and shoulder met. Gage who made her question everything—life, sex, nothing at all—as her thoughts emptied like a sieve and left her with only one last thing.

  Desire.

  A deep inhale through her nose did nothing to abate the pulse between her legs or the heavier tempo of her heart.

  Could he hear it?

  Her heart beating?

  The music changed, switched over to the next track, and the song that emerged could only be labeled as one thing: a sex song.

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, because as the couples on the dance floor set the club on fire, Lizzie was burning up—and except for that one hand on her waist, Gage wasn’t even touching her.

  Then he did.

  With the blunt tip of his finger, he moved the strap of her dress to the side. The polyester skimmed her skin, calling goose bumps to her flesh, and then his mouth pressed down. Teeth grazing her skin in a soft, taunting nip. Tongue swiping out to soothe the sting. Lips brushing the tender spot with barely-there pressure.

  Lizzie’s head fell back, and Gage took advantage, delivering the same attention to her neck. Slower, though. It was sensual and seductive and it was nothing at all like the frantic sex sessions—the frantic two-minute sessions—she’d had in the past with her exes.

  “Gage,” she whispered, desperate fingers grasping his corded forearms. Pushing him away, pulling him closer; in that moment, it was all the same.

  He pressed his cheek to hers, and whispered in her ear, “Dance with me, princess.”

  “Now?”

  “You know of a better time?”

  “Valid point.” Unwilling to give him the upper hand, Lizzie sauntered past him, stopping only to link her hand with his, and then pulled him to the dance floor.

  The strobe lights were blinding, a little nauseating, and Lizzie centered her attention on the sexy-as-hell man in front of her instead.

  As did every other female in their general area.

  Gage commanded attention; it was simply the best way to put it. There were no awkward dance moves for him. Instead, he flashed her a wink and a grin, and proceeded to show her that if she wanted to keep up, she’d have to work hard.