by Maria Luis
By the time they re-entered the room to get started, I was tucked beneath the sheets, and my date had done the same. The lights dimmed. The music started playing, a soft, wondrous tune that turned my limbs to jelly. I wondered if he could hear the uneven hitch in my breath every time that he opened his blue eyes and searched for me.
The longing was sharp.
The desire was instant.
And at the end of the night, when he walked me to my apartment, I said yes for another date.
5
“Are we out of milk?” Sawyer tipped her head to the side to stare at Julian in the driver’s seat. “I forgot to check before we left.”
With his blue eyes still locked on the road, his mouth ticked up in a grin. “You had one job, LeBlanc, just one.”
And she probably wouldn’t have failed epically if he hadn’t come waltzing out of the bathroom, a towel tucked around his lean waist and his skin still damp from his shower. Damp and glistening and impressively hard. Julian was all defined contours and irresistible ridges, and even now, over an hour later, she sucked in a heavy breath at the memory of his naked chest as she tore her gaze from his face to look out the window.
Except . . .
“You missed the turn.”
Julian hummed a noncommittal noise deep in his throat.
They passed one of the red streetcars of Canal Street, then her favorite barbeque joint. They were at least three intersections too far. “The turn,” she said, gesturing outside, “you missed it.”
“Did I?”
She turned to stare him down. “Either four years of living in Boston has wiped New Orleans from your brain or . . . Are we not going grocery shopping?”
“The milk can wait.”
“Are you kidnapping me?” she asked, forcing a prim note to her voice that she didn’t feel in the least.
Those wintry eyes slashed in her direction. “Are you objecting?”
“I don’t know. Do you plan to feed me at any point?”
“I don’t know, LeBlanc, you think you can handle what I’m planning on serving?”
Her jaw fell open.
Was he . . .? There was no way that he—
Julian reached over, his fingers curling loosely, and tucked them under her chin. Her teeth clacked together, just as he announced, “We’re going mini-golfing.”
And with that, he turned the beat-up Ford into City Park’s entrance. Trees sprouted up on either side of the grand drive, and immediately her focus zeroed in on the Palladian building opposite them. New Orleans Museum of Art was printed on a giant banner that swung in the breeze, and Sawyer couldn’t help but put down her window to breathe it all in.
The scent of jasmine that hung in the air.
The sounds of kids laughing and playing, as they dragged their parents toward the museum.
The sight of families lounging on the sprawling lawn that hugged the bayou off to their right.
“It’s beautiful,” she said quietly, fighting the urge to press her nose to the glass. She whipped her head around to stare at Jules, only to find him watching her silently as he waited for traffic to start moving again. “I can’t believe you grew up in a city like this.”
He nodded toward the embankment. “In the spring, all of that is covered in tulips.”
Her favorite flower because it had supposedly, according to her dad, anyway, been her mother’s favorite flower.
A soft smile pulled at her mouth. “I would love to see that next year.”
“I’ll bring you.”
He said it without complication, like her place in New Orleans was fated. God, she wanted that so badly. They’d lasted four years together in Boston, and she hoped they’d last another four here. At least.
As long as he didn’t get sick of her.
“People are always kayaking on the bayou,” he said, picking up a little speed as they moved past the museum to another tree-lined path, this one narrower and completely shaded. “Paddle-boarding, too. But I figured you’d bypass all of that for a chance to whip my ass at the world’s worst sport.”
Laughing, she rolled her eyes. “Just admit it, would you? You’re just bitter because you are, by far, the worst mini-golfer to ever exist.”
“You wound me, LeBlanc.” With a pained expression, he pointed to his chest, tapping his hard-as-a-rock pectoral muscle. “Right here, where it hurts the most.”
She pressed one hand to the center console as she leaned forward. “Did I draw blood?” She plucked his hand off his chest and flattened her palm there. “No blood and your heart is still beating. I think you’re doing just fine, you big baby.”
Except . . . except that, beneath her hand, his heart wasn’t just beating.
It was fluttering.
Rapid thuds that she felt like the rhythm of a drum echoing in her temples, in her veins. And then it was her heart beating double-time when he left one hand on the steering wheel and settled the other over hers.
She was barely aware of the car idling to a stop or the music going silent.
Blue eyes met hers, and she was ensnared.
Caught.
Forever altered.
He touched his tongue to the seam of his lips, his lean fingers playing with hers. “You gonna make me cry today?”
Breathe, Sawyer. Breathe!
She inhaled sharply, and if she didn’t know any better, she would say that something a whole lot like victory flared in his expression. “I don’t know,” she answered, “are you going to cheat like last time?”
“Whatever it takes, LeBlanc, whatever it takes.”
6
Julian cheated.
He tapped the tiny plastic ball with his tennis shoe whenever Sawyer looked away. He knocked hers out of line with an “oh shit, did I do that?” expression that had her threatening bloody murder. And by the time they made it halfway through the first course, he found himself solidly in first place with Sawyer trailing behind and cursing up a storm.
“You are awful,” she growled, lining up her shot with squared off hips and a look of pure determination on her face. “Do you hear me? Awful.”
Julian rested his weight on the club, eyeing her form. “You sound bitter about losing, LeBlanc.”
“I wouldn’t be losing if you could just play by the rules.”
“I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about. My game has been clean all the way through.”
Her expression darkened. “The worst.”
He smothered a grin.
It wasn’t even that he hated mini golf because he didn’t. It was just that he enjoyed—more than anything else in the world—pushing Sawyer’s buttons. Nothing could rattle her more than a poorly played game of mini golf. Her (mostly) sweet nature turned bloodthirsty and her laidback attitude was shoved to the side with a need to win.
Her fingers regrasped the club, and just as she would have swung, he cleared his throat.
Her shoulders tensed. She readjusted her stance.
Julian cleared his throat again.
There was no mistaking the growl that escaped her lips. Slowly, she lifted her head to meet his gaze. “Yes?”
The word was bit out from behind clenched teeth.
He smiled, wide and toothy. “You’re supposed to start about”—he cocked his to the side, pretending to consider the green—“oh, maybe two inches to your right.”
Her dark brown eyes dipped to the ball, then to the tiny stream to her right that she’d accidentally landed in on the last stroke. “The rules say I can start six inches away from an obstacle.”
Playfully, he swung his club over his shoulder and ambled toward her. “You’re at a solid nine, LeBlanc.”
“What? There’s no way—”
“Maybe an eight,” he murmured, tucking his body behind hers. With his hands locked on the club, still perched across his shoulders, he leaned down so that his mouth grazed her ear. “You have a ruler in that bag you haul around everywhere? We could measure it out.”
T
here was a moment where she stayed absolutely still, as though debating where to go from here.
Where they would go from here.
It was a game of cat and mouse, and honestly, Julian wasn’t even sure which role he played. Did he care when it would hopefully all lead to the same place in the end? Not at all. He wanted Sawyer in all the ways he’d had her a million times over—their talks, their honesty, their friendship—and all the ways he’d only ever dreamed of.
Her dark hair brushing his naked chest as he woke her up in the morning.
Her fingers finding his amidst tangled blankets and sweaty sheets.
The words “I love you” tripping off her tongue.
Today. Tomorrow. Always.
And then she sucked the air straight from his chest by leaning back, letting her weight sink into his, and oh, fuck. His cock, the damned thing, leapt to attention, straining against the zipper of his khaki shorts.
“No ruler in my purse,” she said, turning her head so she could glance up at him, “and, unfortunately, taking out your ruler would land you straight in jail. We’ll just have to let bygones be bygones, Jules.”
Holy hell.
She hadn’t just—
But she had.
Challenge burned her eyes as she swiveled her hips, just once, then stepped to the side, expertly swept back her club, and tapped the ball.
It was a clean stroke.
The ball circled the hole, once, twice, and then fell inside.
Hook, line, and sinker.
He shifted his weight. “Well.”
Sawyer flicked back her hair, then circled the club in the air like she was Julie Andrews and about to levitate, à la Mary Poppins. “Well,” she said, her tone saucy with success, “what do you have to say for yourself, Mr. O’Connor?”
“Besides the fact that you gave yourself an extra two inches, you mean?”
“You—”
His tone was pure innocence when he replied, “Yes, me?”
Whatever insult she was about to hurl his way didn’t come to fruition. Her nose scrunched and her eyes pinned him in place, and then she was striding toward him, hips swaying enticingly, a smile smoothing her features.
Warily, he eyed the club in her hands. “You know, it’s against the rules of mini golf to threaten bodily harm.”
“I’m not going to hit you, Jules.”
“No?” He stared down at her beautiful face, noting the glint of something in her gaze. “Because you’re looking a little . . . evil.”
“Is it evil if I just want to help you get rid of your green-eyed monster?”
The green-eyed monster . . .?
He barely had time to register the fact that she’d set her club down, snagged his from his grasp, and then sauntered around to stand behind him. His breath caught as he felt her arms wind around his waist and hold his club out before him.
Except that when he glanced down, it wasn’t the club he envisioned her holding, but her fingers undoing the button of his shorts, drawing down the zipper, before slipping her small hands inside his briefs.
A shudder tore down his spine.
“Are you cold?” she asked, her breath warm against his shoulder blades.
Cold? No. Burning hot? Absolutely hell yeah.
“Sawyer . . .”
“Put your hands on mine, Jules.”
He did as she ordered.
Moved into place as she ordered.
Swung the club to gently tap the ball as she ordered.
And still she didn’t let him go. It was heaven, it was hell, it was everything he’d ever wanted and still not enough.
Good Morning, New Orleans
“Putty In My Hands” by Sawyer LeBlanc
To be honest, dear reader, I wasn’t all that sure what to expect on a second date when our first consisted of getting really damn close to being naked.
(By the way, all of your responses to last week’s column put a massive smile on my face. The idea that I can pave the way to you discovering your inner boldness, confidence, and happiness made all the nerves leading up to Massage Night worth it).
Back to business, of course.
For our second date, we didn’t strip down. Not physically, at any rate.
He took me mini golfing, which is, by far, my most favorite activity in the world.
I didn’t plan to go easy on him because what would be the fun in that?
And it seems he felt the same way.
He competed with me from start to end, challenging my strokes, the rules, and anything and everything he could think of to throw me off my game.
If he had been anyone else, I would have demanded a re-do. But there was something . . . intriguing about letting him have the upper hand, if only to lull him into complacency. I’ve never been that bold girl. I’ve never been the woman who takes what she wants, regardless of the consequences.
But something about going toe-to-toe with him broke me out in a completely different sort of sweat. I quickly discovered that I loved the push and pull—the push of him keeping me questioning his next move, the pull of me recognizing the heat in his eyes and the fact that he lingered longer with every touch.
If you were to ask me if I thought mini golf has the ability to bring a new couple down to their knees, I would have laughed in your face. (Politely, of course!) Except that there’s no denying how I felt in the moment when I knocked him firmly off course and took a chance on the foggy unknown.
And he, this big brawny guy with kindness in his heart and a twinkle of savagery in his eye . . . he melted.
Melted into me.
8
The O’Connors never did anything halfway, and apparently, that went for their family barbeques too.
Everywhere Sawyer looked, there was total (and delightful) chaos.
Kids sprinted across the lawn, launching themselves deep into the pool and paddling around on inflatable dinosaurs that looked big enough to hold an entire kindergarten class. Music blared from a set of speakers on the patio, where a couple sat with a little boy, the father’s tattooed fingers clutched in the boy’s hand as he kept his son from face-planting.
Near the grill, she spotted Julian’s stepdad, Luke, flipping burgers and chatting with the group of guys she’d met when she first moved to New Orleans. They were Julian’s uncles—or as close to uncles as he said he had—and their boisterous voices pitched over the music. Brady Taylor punched Luke in the arm, and the lot of them burst out into laughter.
Where the hell was Julian?
Clutching a case of wine coolers to her chest, Sawyer moved to set the case down, only to be bowled over by a pair of slender arms.
“Sawyer, sweetheart,” Anna O’Connor greeted, squeezing her tightly before stepping back with a wide grin. “Did you wrangle my son here with you?”
“If by wrangling you mean tearing him away from his office, then definitely not.”
Anna threw her head back with a soft laugh. “I swear, he’s been like that since he was small.”
Sawyer lifted a brow. “Ruthlessly focused, you mean?”
“In love with video games,” Anna said, grinning while she gestured at her plain white tank top. “He used to have this Zelda T-shirt. God, he was obsessed with it. I’m not exaggerating when I say that I had to beg him to let me wash it.”
The thought of Julian O’Connor—wintry blue eyes and all—refusing to let his mom wash a favorite shirt was too good to pass up. “You know, I’m pretty sure that he hasn’t changed at all.”
Anna’s blue eyes, a clear match for Julian’s, widened with delight. “Don’t tell me he still can’t be bothered to do his laundry. You’d think that at twenty-one, he’d finally—”
“Well,” Sawyer drew out, shifting the case of wine coolers in her arms, “I wouldn’t say he can’t be bothered exactly.”
While Sawyer was eyeballing her basket and wondering if it was acceptable to wear bikini bottoms as underwear—the answer: always yes in a pinch—Jules power-loaded laund
ry like it was his side gig. He never missed a week, and by the time she gathered the gumption to just do the thing already, he was offering to start on hers too.
A gentleman and a frigging modern-day hero.
Was it any wonder that Julian was one-of-a-kind?
“It’s his socks,” she heard herself say.
Anna stared. “His . . . socks?”
It was impossible to wave a dismissive hand and carry booze, all at the same time, so Sawyer settled with nodding enthusiastically. “They multiply. You find one tucked under the sofa, and then you get down to look, and there are thousands of them.”
“That’s—”
“And he steals mine, too. I think he thinks that they’re his, but one day I have all mine lined up, and the next, there are at least ten pairs that are triple the size of my foot. Triple, Anna. I could shove my entire forearm inside and still not reach the toes.”
The wince that crossed Anna’s face was all motherly exasperation. “He does have big feet.”
Oh, Sawyer knew.
She knew that particular fact all too well.
And it honestly couldn’t be helped: over the years, she’d wondered (more frequently than she would ever admit) if Julian’s big feet correlated to other big appendages of his. If there was a god, the answer would be yes.
“Sweetheart,” Anna said, tilting her head to study her with what Sawyer imagined was all-seeing mom vision, “are you feeling all right?”
Imaginary visuals of big appendages aside, she was doing just fine.
But before she had the chance to say anything, Anna swept in: “You’re looking a little red.”
At that pronouncement, Sawyer could have sworn she felt a trickle of sweat creep down her spine. “Red?” she echoed, wishing it wouldn’t look suspicious at all if she hurled herself into the pool, “No, no! I’m fine. It’s just the sun.”
And your son. No pun intended.
Anna did not look like she believed a word coming out of Sawyer’s mouth. “The sun,” she said simply, without a single hint of inflection. “Julian never mentioned that you sunburned quite so”—blue eyes assessed her with all the quickness of a parent who’d attended to years of scrapes and bruises—“profusely.”