The NOLA Heart Novels (Complete Series)

by Maria Luis

  Sawyer wouldn’t be surprised if her damn head didn’t just explode. The sweat was rolling now—particularly, down the crevice of her lower spine, right into the back of her shorts—and the challenge of holding the wine coolers while also trying to hold it together was going to do her right in.

  She was an awful, awful liar.

  She knew it, her close friends knew it, and Anna O’Connor was clearly piecing it all together because the next words out of her mouth were earth-shatteringly astute:

  “I know you like my son, Sawyer.”

  Where was a hole to crawl into when she needed one?

  She licked her lips. Dropped her stare to the sweating wine coolers in her arms. Rocked onto the backs of her heels as she debated the merits of just coming clean.

  Hello, my name is Sawyer LeBlanc, and I am hopelessly, irrevocably, in love with your son.

  She suddenly felt the pressing need to puke.

  “I’m going to put this down,” she said, jostling the case.

  Taking pity, Anna motioned for Sawyer to pass it over. “Why don’t we take this conversation to the kitchen? We can pour a glass and talk it all out.”

  On a scale of Friends re-runs to a root canal, she’d put the offer solidly near the latter end: realizing the toilet paper was out and there was no one around to save you.

  Sawyer mustered up a grin. “That’d be great.”

  “Perfect!”

  Unfortunately, it was too late when she realized that she’d been waylaid.

  Anna’s best friends—and Julian’s aunts—were scattered through the kitchen.

  Shaelyn Taylor was perched on the kitchen counter, a glass of wine resting against her collarbone. Beside her, Jade Danvers was wrestling the corkscrew from a fresh bottle of wine. And seated at the table was Lizzie Harvey, who must have either brought her own booze or commandeered one from the O’Connors because she was currently drinking straight from the bottle.

  Sawyer was pretty sure Lizzie was her spirit animal.

  Shaelyn smile widened at the sight of them entering the kitchen. “You brought us Julian’s friend!”

  It was all Sawyer could do to smother a grimace.

  She was his friend, except that she—

  “The friend has a name,” Jade murmured, throwing a playful elbow at Shaelyn’s leg. She threw an apologetic glance over her shoulder, her eyes laser-focused on Sawyer. “I apologize for her. This one over here has mom brain.”

  Shaelyn didn’t even deny it. “My shining accomplishment this year is that I can sing Let It Go from Frozen in four different languages.”

  “I thought you were at three,” Anna said, setting down the wine coolers on the counter.

  Shaelyn downed the rest of her wine in one go. Then, looking pained, she whispered, “It was late, Brady and I wanted to . . . you know—”

  “Have sex,” Lizzie put in, throwing up her feet on the nearby chair. “Say the words with me, Shae—the kids aren’t around. You wanted to have. Sex.”

  “I hate you,” Shaelyn said, not sounding at all like she meant it, “just a little bit.”

  “Of course you do.” Lizzie motioned with the bottle. “Back to the sex that you were about to have.”

  “I’m a little scared to learn how Frozen ties in with all of this,” Jade interjected, finally having won her battle with the corkscrew. She took the seat opposite Lizzie, bottle and all. “Were y’all doing it in the hall closet again?”

  “That was one time.”

  “Brady broke the shoe rack,” Jade said.

  “Technically, we both broke the shoe rack but—” She cut off with a shake of her head. Then, apparently realizing that Sawyer still stood awkwardly in the doorway, she said, “You might as well get comfortable for this.”

  Without being told twice, Sawyer launched into motion, sliding into the empty seat between Jade and Lizzie. With a single finger, Jade pushed the wine bottle in her direction and indicated for Sawyer to take a drink.

  Apparently, they were bonding already, broken shoe racks and all.

  The chardonnay went down deliciously sweet.

  “So, there we are, right?” Shaelyn went on without further prompting. “He’s been working crazy hours, and this one over here”—she jerked her chin toward Anna, who was leaning against the cabinets—“has been working me to the bone.”

  “What can I say,” Anna murmured, sounding not the least bit ashamed, “you don’t stay the country’s number one lingerie boutique by spending all your time having sex in a closet.”

  “That’s a low blow,” Shaelyn quipped, even though she did so with a grin. “Anyway, it’s going to happen. The sex. The orgasms. And then I heard it.” Clutching the wine glass to her chest, her gaze flickered from Jade to Anna, then Sawyer to Lizzie. “Just one note, that’s all I needed to hear from the girls’ room. Brady, he stops moving completely, and I swear he looked down at me with straight panic in his eyes.”

  “This is starting to sound like something out of a soap opera,” Lizzie said, taking another swig of her wine. “Please tell me that he burst into tears.”

  “Worse.”

  Jade arched a brow, seemingly impressed. “Go on.”

  “He couldn’t even stop himself,” Shaelyn said, “he started singing.”

  Sawyer choked on the wine.

  Anna actually turned around, giving them all her back, and pressed a hand to her mouth.

  Jade’s jaw fell open.

  And Lizzie bluntly said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Shaelyn made the sign of the cross over her chest with the bottle. “In Russian,” she deadpanned. “He started singing Let It Go in Russian while he was”—she gestured at her lap—“and I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry, and then suddenly I was doing both.”

  “Did you come?” Lizzie asked.

  Shaelyn’s gaze shot to Sawyer before returning to her friend. “What type of question is that? You know he’d never leave me hanging.”

  “See,” Jade said, turning to Sawyer, “this is what you get to look forward to with marriage.”

  Sawyer barely managed to wrangle in a grin. “How many kids do you have again?”

  “Oh, just five. I like to joke that Nathan is the most fertile man on this side of the Mississippi.”

  Lizzie dry-heaved into the wine. “Please don’t ever mention my brother and the word fertile in the same sentence again.”

  Jade only laughed, even as she held Sawyer’s gaze. “You think she’d get over the fact that I married her brother years ago.”

  “I do. I have,” Lizzie said, “and then you tell me you’re pregnant again, and I’m forced to accept that you aren’t just miraculously reproducing.”

  “Speaking of reproducing,” Anna cut in, swiping Lizzie’s feet out of the way, so she could sit down at the table, “Sawyer here tells me that Julian’s socks are always reproducing.”

  Heat rose to her cheeks as four pairs of eyes all turned to her in unison.

  Lizzie dropped her chin to an uplifted hand, her brows lifting with obvious interest. “Are they now?”

  Somehow, she managed to make the question sound both innocent and raunchy, all at the same time. And Sawyer was definitely not naïve enough to think that they were only talking about socks.

  The four of them were leaning in, eyes wide with something that looked a lot like hope, and Sawyer was pretty sure Julian’s mom was on the verge of happy tears.

  Sawyer swallowed. “Sort of? Yes.”

  “Multiplying like rabbits, you mean?” Shaelyn asked, to which a decidedly masculine voice echoed, “What’s multiplying like rabbits?”

  Julian.

  With her heart in her throat, Sawyer whipped around, only to find him standing just inside the kitchen with a beach towel slung over one shoulder and a pair of dark shades perched on the bridge of his nose. He offered her a slow, knowing smile. “Are you talking about the socks again?”

  If “socks” were now a euphemism for her feelings fo
r him, then absolutely.

  “They’re a problem,” she told him, because, really, what else could she say with his mother and aunts watching on?

  She really could use more wine, but when she made a grab for Jade’s bottle, the other woman slid it just out of reach.

  “You ever try to follow where they lead?” Jules drawled, plucking the sunglasses off his face. He hooked one plastic arm over the loose collar of his T-shirt. “Maybe it’s my version of the yellow brick road.”

  She opened her mouth, then clamped it shut.

  Swung her gaze to the women seated at the table and finally managed a choked, “Pretty sure I was taught in D.A.R.E to never follow anyone’s yellow brick road.”

  Julian threw his head back with a raspy laugh that sent a tendril of heat through her. “Yeah,” he murmured, cutting the distance between them, until he stood directly beside her, “you’re definitely right for that.” He swept his blue eyes over his aunts, then his mom. “Luke said that the burgers are ready for whoever’s hungry.”

  He didn’t need to tell them twice.

  With hugs to Sawyer, and kisses pressed to Julian’s cheek, the women vacated the kitchen with more speed than burgers probably warranted.

  And when Anna threw a knowing look her way, just before darting out, Sawyer had her answer: they were all playing matchmaker.

  She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or blush.

  Ultimately, the blush won out—though luck was on her side, because Julian had already turned away to grab two wine coolers from the case. He cracked the tabs open, then returned, setting one down in front of her and taking the other for himself.

  He sat with all lazy grace of a lion comfortable in his own skin, his long legs sprawling out, one arm propped on the table. “I dare you to a game,” he announced, removing the towel from his shoulder to drape over the back of Jade’s abandoned chair.

  Feeling the weight of his gaze, Sawyer shifted in her seat. “What sort of game?”

  “Truth or Truth.”

  Laughter stuck in her throat. “I’m pretty sure it’s Truth or Dare, O’Connor.”

  “I’m pretty sure I don’t let rules put me in a box, LeBlanc.” The corner of his mouth ticked upward, and it was all she could do not to swoon, right then and there. “Truth or Truth.” His blue eyes dropped to her mouth, lingering there for a beat that felt like an eternity. “I dare you to play.”

  Her brows arched. “And no rules at all?”

  “The only rule is that the question has to push boundaries.”

  This time when she went to speak, the words dried right on up. They were there, right there—wondering what his end game was, wondering if he still felt just a little off-kilter from their game of mini golf last week, wondering if he couldn’t sleep, just the same way she couldn’t—but nothing came out.

  “Cat got your tongue, LeBlanc?” Jules said, his voice low and bemused.

  Her pulse thrummed.

  Her heart raced.

  The words finally emerged on a husky rasp: “What are the stakes?”

  Instead of answering right away, he only circled the rim of the wine cooler with his index finger, round and round. And he watched her, studied her, those wintry eyes somehow hot and calm, all at once, when he said, “Sometimes I think the truth is the steepest stake of all.”

  And wasn’t that the truth?

  In some way or another, Sawyer had spent her entire life skirting away from revealing it all.

  Oh, she didn’t lie for the sake of lying, and she definitely never led anyone astray.

  She meant what she said, and she said what she meant.

  But the truth would entail telling her dad that, yes, she’d moved halfway across the country for a guy she wasn’t dating, but whom she loved with all her heart, and yes, she didn’t care if that disappointed him.

  Sawyer would find her way here in New Orleans, whether that meant sticking it out at Good Morning, New Orleans for a little longer or taking up another job somewhere else in the city. She’d do it because failing wasn’t an option, and her dreams—those dreams of hers that had nothing to do with Julian and everything to with her own ambition—wouldn’t be stifled, just because she loved a man.

  She could do both.

  She would do both.

  So, she leaned forward, tucking the wine cooler between her palms, and offered her first truth: “There’s no one else who makes me smile the way you do.”

  9

  She tossed out the words like she was welcoming him onto the battlefield.

  Her dark eyes glittered with challenge . . . and gleamed with a soft vulnerability that had Julian setting aside his drink, shifting his legs, and wrapping both hands around one of the wooden legs of her chair.

  He pulled.

  She squeaked.

  Julian didn’t bother stifling the grin working its way onto his face.

  “Jules—”

  “I want you closer,” he said, dragging her chair so close to his, that she was forced to swing her legs over his right thigh, “and that’s my truth for this round.”

  “That’s a demand, not a truth.”

  He met her gaze. “Can’t it be both?”

  “I guess it has to be,” she replied, “since you said we aren’t operating under any rules for this game.”

  Good, she was catching on.

  And, because for no other reason than that he wanted to, he dropped one hand over her bare knee, just to see what she might do.

  She didn’t disappoint.

  Julian glanced up in time to see the way her tongue flicked out to touch the inner seam of her lips. He knew this woman—he knew her fears and he knew her dreams, and hell, now he could say that he knew how she looked when she was turned on, too.

  Like a cat, her leg stretched under his palm, her toes flexing in the rubber-soled sandals she wore.

  “Your turn,” he said.

  “Quickest round ever,” she retorted, briefly skating her eyes over where he held her.

  “Fast isn’t always bad.” With her stare still locked on his hand, he brushed his thumb over her skin. Slow, with just enough pressure to prompt a tiny gasp from her lips. Fuck, that sound. “Just depends on how thorough you are.”

  Her cheeks turned pink. “You’re bad.”

  “Or just really, really good.”

  “You’ve never been a good flirt—”

  Julian winced. “I know.”

  “—at least,” she continued, watching him carefully, “not with me.”

  And that, right there, was the total truth laid bare before them both.

  Beyond the door to the kitchen, he could hear his family outside. The music blaring; all his nieces and nephews screaming with innocent, giddy delight; as well as the low, easy laughter of his parents chatting with their best friends.

  His best friend was practically sprawled across his lap, her expression revealing a hesitation he never saw with her. In all aspects of her life, Sawyer was a wrecking ball—she plundered, she bulldozed. Hell, it was often Julian who had to reel her back in with a reminder to analyze all her options before diving in headfirst.

  That’s where he went wrong, that very first night they’d met.

  The first night of college.

  The first party either of them had ever attended.

  First, first, first.

  The friendzone waited for no one, least of all eighteen-year-olds trying to do the right thing. His mom had raised him to be a gentleman. Luke had raised him to be a gentleman.

  The problem with being a gentleman, though, was that it was too fucking easy to realize that you’d completely missed your chance with the one person you wanted more than life itself.

  “I wanted to kiss you.”

  The words were soft and just a little desperate as they flew out of him, and he saw their twin echo in the way Sawyer sat up taller—but didn’t remove her legs from his lap.

  “When you knocked into me,” he said, “and then spun yourself into my arm
s, I wanted to kiss the hell out of you.”

  Her dark eyes widened with the admission. “I danced on your feet and then called them floatation devices.”

  “It made me laugh.”

  “It made you curse.”

  “You weren’t exactly soft on the toes.”

  Her sudden bark of laughter sent warmth flitting through his veins. “Jules,” she said, “you’re supposed to tell me that I’m a delicate flower.”

  He swallowed, tightly, then looked her dead in the eye. “I’d be lying, then, wouldn’t I? And we’re trading truths.”

  She studied him, quietly.

  “Say something,” he rasped, unable to take her anymore of her silence, “say whatever the hell you want and I’ll listen.”

  “I haven’t kissed anyone since the summer before freshmen year.”

  Every muscle in his body strung tight as a wire on the verge of snapping clean. The bald honesty dripped from her tongue, shone in her eyes, and Julian didn’t stop to rethink his next move: he moved his hand from her knee to her hip, then dragged her onto his lap.

  They both groaned.

  Fuck, she was so soft on him like this.

  Her legs straddling his, her hands perched loosely on his shoulders, her mouth only inches away from his own.

  Julian’s head fell back, his lids lowering as he swept a hand to the center of her back and pressed her closer, until her chest brushed his and her fingers tangled in his hair.

  Utter fucking bliss.

  “I haven’t even looked at anyone else since we met,” he confessed.

  “Four years,” she whispered, glancing down at where she sat on him.

  Four years of him and his right fist and his vivid as hell imagination. Four years of watching and wanting and reprimanding himself, over and over again, for not making a move.

  Before he could speak, she hastily said, “I’m not a virgin.”

  “You mentioned that before—a few years ago.”

  “It wasn’t that great . . . and it was over with pretty fast.”

  At the awkwardness clinging to her voice, Julian wanted nothing more than to cheer her up. Offering a half-grin, he tipped his face up to meet hers, and said, “Looks like someone didn’t bother to be very thorough.”