But they didn’t lose. They whipped Kevin “Call me Kev” Blount’s Fort Wayne Rockets in Fort Wayne twenty-one to three. When Tasha stepped on the new team bus, the players let out a roar. She was so happy, she couldn’t find words. The roar turned to chants of “Tasha! Tasha!” and she had to force back her happy tears. Finally, when the noise died down, she said, “You made me so proud today. So proud. Next ass to be kicked—South Bend!”
The men roared their approval.
That night, lying next to Drew, she said, “I like winning.”
He chuckled.
She rolled over to look into his face. “But you know what I like even more?”
“What?”
She slid her hand beneath the sheet and took a gentle hold on his pride and joy and felt it rise in welcome.
“You are such an insatiable woman.”
“Yep, I am, so how about another round, Mr. GM?”
Laughing, he caught her by the waist. “Come here.”
* * *
For Halloween, Tasha threw a costume party for the team and their families at the mansion and everyone had a ball. With six weeks left in the season, no one expected the once-lowly Freighters to be in the hunt for the championship, but at the Thanksgiving break, their only losses were the two they’d suffered at the hands of the Lumberjacks.
Tony and Carmen were now officially engaged, and the two of them flew to Atlanta to share Thanksgiving with Carmen’s daughters and grandchildren. The weather was cold and for someone more accustomed to California temperatures, Tasha was not liking the onset of winter.
“I may have to move if it gets any colder,” she remarked as she and Drew shared Thanksgiving dinner together in his suite at the club.
“You’ll toughen up.”
“I don’t want to. I just want seventy-five degrees and sun. Sammy’s wife, Claudia, suggested long johns.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep you warm.”
“I need you to get on your job then. It’s freezing outside.”
He laughed. “I’ll work on it right after dessert.”
Tasha wondered what she’d do without him. They’d been having such an awesome time together these past five months and she didn’t want it to ever end. “You’re a good man, Drew Davis,” she said quietly.
He searched her face. “You said that so seriously.”
“Because I am. You’re one of the best people I know.”
He leaned over and kissed her. “You’re the bomb, too, Tasha Bloom.”
Filled with the love she felt for him she could hear her grandfather somewhere laughing. He’d been right. Drew was the man for her. Even if they split tomorrow, he’d always have her heart. She touched his face. “Can we go make love now?”
“You’re a mess. You haven’t even finished your dinner.”
“Got an appetite for something else.”
He stood and swung her up into his arms. “Okay, you twisted my arm, but I’m changing your name to Delilah.”
“Lead the way, my Samson.”
Drew drove her home afterward, and as she entered the quiet house, everything she felt for him seemed to come to a head. She loved him from head to toe and knew the time had come to make a decision. With her mind made up, she put on her sleep sweats, sat on the bed and called Monty to tell him what she wanted to do so he could get the ball rolling.
* * *
By mid-December the Freighters were still winning, and from the way things looked it would be them against the Lumberjacks for the championship. Tasha and her team were ecstatic.
One morning a few days before Christmas, Drew drove out to Woodlawn Cemetery. It was his mom’s birthday. Tooling slowly down the pathways leading to her resting place, he thought back on growing up under her love, their life together and how much he missed her. He visited her grave at least once a season and always made a special trip out to wish her a happy birthday.
Getting out of the truck, he made his way over the solemn grounds to her grave site. He used a gloved hand to brush away a few leaves before gently placing the dozen white roses he’d brought with him at the base of her headstone. They’d been her favorite. “Happy Birthday, Mom,” he whispered and felt his heart sadden as it always did. “Still missing you.”
For a few moments he simply stood there in the silence and let the grief rise. Even though she’d been gone six years and the pain of losing her had dulled somewhat, it still hurt, probably always would, he supposed. “Need to tell you about this lady I’m seeing. Her name’s Tasha and she’s rich as the old Rockefellers, but she’s kind, smart and so gorgeous my teeth ache just looking at her. There’s nothing I can give her that she doesn’t already have, except my love, so I’m hoping that’ll be enough for her to marry me.”
He got no reply, of course, but truthfully, now that he’d admitted his true feelings out loud, he knew what needed to be done. “Hope you’re resting well and staying out of trouble up there in heaven. Love you, lady.”
Giving the headstone a parting squeeze, he left the roses and returned to his truck, but instead of driving home he headed to the mall to pick out a ring.
* * *
On Christmas Eve, as he and Tasha sat in his suite at the club eating dinner and enjoying the vocalist on stage, she said, “I’m thinking about flipping the script on my life.”
He studied her for a silent moment. “Meaning?”
“Going to sell my firm and start a foundation.”
“When did you decide this?”
“A few weeks ago. Talked to Monty. He’s handling the paperwork. Talked to my staff about it already, too. I want to help kids and entrepreneurs and schools and whoever else might need all this money my grandfather left me.”
“Sounds great, but selling your firm? This is all pretty sudden.”
“Not really. I’ve been brooding on things for a while now, and this is what I want to do.”
Drew studied her and wondered what this meant for the two of them. “And the team?”
“No changes there. I’ll run the foundation and the team, with your help, of course.”
“Where are you going to be based?”
“Right here. I may take off during the winters after the season ends because I am so not liking this ice and snow, but the rest of the time, I’ll be in the D.”
“And us?”
“I would like to have you in my life for the rest of my life, even if we never commit.”
He watched her grab her purse and fish around for something inside. She pulled out a small black velvet box and said, “But in case you would like to commit—will you marry me?”
He chuckled softly at the ballsy Ms. Natasha Bloom.
“No? Sorry then.” Her lips were tight and she looked very unhappy.
He covered her hand before she could put the box back in her purse. “Hold on a minute. Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. The only reason I laughed was because of this—” He withdrew his own little black velvet box from the pocket of his coat and watched her eyes widen. “I planned to propose to you, but you being you, you’d, of course, try and beat me to the punch.”
There were now tears standing in her eyes.
“I love you, Natasha Bloom. Will you marry me?”
“Yes, I love you, too. Will you marry me, Drew Davis?”
“Yes.”
They exchanged rings and then spent a very long time trading celebratory kisses. When they finally came up for air, she said, “I want to get married New Year’s Day, right after we win the championship.”
He laughed. “Okay, you’re on.”
But on New Year’s Day, the Freighters lost the championship to Colonel Powell’s team fourteen to ten. Tasha didn’t care. After the game, they had a huge party at the mansion to celebrate the New Y
ear and the successful season, then she and Drew were married in the conference room that was transformed into a chapel. True to his word, Monty flew in to give her away but ended up sharing the honor with Tony. Carmen and the wives cried, the team raised glasses in a toast and the cheerleaders shook their silver pom-poms.
Later, lying in bed next to her sleeping husband, Tasha thought herself to be the luckiest woman in the world. She had a winning football team, the respect and admiration of her players and most importantly, she had the love of a good man. And she had her grandfather to thank. Who’d’ve thought on that day the will was read that he actually knew what he was talking about? She shook her head and whispered, “Thank you, Walker Bloom. Wherever you are, I love you.” And with that, she cuddled closer, closed her eyes and slept.
* * * * *
Be sure to check out
FRENCH QUARTER KISSES
by Zuri Day
Pierre LeBlanc is a celebrated chef, but journalist Rosalyn Arnaud sees only a spoiled playboy. Their attraction tells another story…until she uncovers a secret that could end their love affair in shattering betrayal…
Keep reading to get a glimpse of
FRENCH QUARTER KISSES.
CHAPTER 1
Few knew this, but on August 29, 2005, Hurricane Katrina swept Pierre LeBlanc away from New Orleans on a wave of destruction and despair. Today, more than a decade later, the entire city and, via television sometime later, the entire country, would witness his hometown return amid a flood of Bayou-styled fanfare, good wishes and well-deserved praise. It was the Fourth of July weekend, but the festivities felt more like February’s Mardi Gras. Drinks steadily flowed. Good times rolled. After experiencing unprecedented success at a Houston-based restaurant called New Orleans, Pierre had finally followed his mentor’s advice and opened up his own space. With its innovative take on traditional cuisine, his restaurant, Easy Creole Cuisine, was poised to become the new jewel in the crown of New Orleans’s famed French Quarter district. Along with being a new restaurant owner, the one-time shy, almost invisible outcast was now an internationally recognized Chow Channel star and a popular energy drink spokesperson who at the moment was seated on the back of a Rolls Royce convertible offering slow, easy waves to the throngs of zealous fans welcoming him home.
“Pierre! Over here!”
“Hey, Easy!”
The nickname was one of only a few items that had followed him to Houston. The hometown crowd instantly matched Pierre’s laid-back demeanor with the word that appeared on his restaurant’s marquee.
“Glad you’re back, Easy!”
“Welcome home, Pierre!”
Pierre nodded, waved and offered up his megawatt smile to the fans and photographers shouting his name. Designer shades covered deep hazel eyes, hiding the merest hint of a long-time hurt that never quite went away. Eyes continually surveying, searching, slightly saddened… His sister, Lisette, would meet him at the restaurant. She’d be the only family member on hand to celebrate the big occasion. The other woman who was once in his life, the one that for years he’d searched for online and in the faces of every crowd, had been achingly absent during more than a decade of his life experiences and achieved milestones. His mother, Alana. The woman who’d put her fifteen-year-old son and eleven-year-old daughter on a bus bound for Houston, Texas, promised to meet them there in a week, and disappeared.
The two-car caravan, followed by a small but energetic brass band, reached the restaurant. It was a totally renovated and hugely transformed building originally erected in 1879. The word Easy was scrawled across the side and continued upward into the sky in big cursive letters that would light up at night, with the rest of the name, Creole Cuisine, in block letters beneath. That sign and the group of people standing beneath it brought out Pierre’s first genuine smile all morning. Hard to believe that the dream he’d held since becoming a line cook and peeling more shrimp than he thought the ocean could hold had finally come true. And that the people who mattered most, well, almost all of them, were here to cheer him on.
Pierre swung a pair of long, lean legs over the side of the car, slid down and waded through a sea of people to hug Lisette, his mentor, Marc Fisher, his second mom, Miss Pat, his network publicist and his newly-hired manager, who’d flown down from New York. Then he walked over to greet the mayor and other city officials standing near the front entrance, just beyond the red ribbon and large bow stretched and waiting to be cut, a symbolic gesture signaling the official opening of Pierre’s dream.
“This is a happy day for our city,” the mayor said, each word from his booming voice absorbed by the attentive, enamored crowd. “Pierre could have chosen any major city in the country to open his restaurant. We are happy and proud that he has chosen the Big Easy to open Easy Creole Cuisine.”
With elaborate fanfare, the mayor was handed a framed proclamation that he read aloud. For the last line, he turned and spoke to Pierre directly. “By the powers vested in me as mayor of New Orleans, I declare this day to be Pierre “Easy” LeBlanc Day in the city of New Orleans!”
The crowd cheered and began to chant. “Easy! Easy!” And then, “Speech! Speech! Speech!”
Pierre strolled to the microphone and held up his hand to silence the crowd. “Thank you, Mr. Mayor. Thanks to all of the city officials and other public servants who have come out today to lend me your support. I really appreciate it.”
Some city officials nodded. Others clapped. The mayor bowed as if to say it was his pleasure as Pierre turned to the crowd.
“And you, the beautiful people of New Orleans! I…” His words were drowned out by the cheering crowd. Pierre waited, then motioned awkwardly for them to calm back down. “This is really incredible. Even though some consider me a celebrity because I’m on the Chow Channel and a product spokesperson for Intensity Energy drinks, I’m still pretty much a regular guy, not much for the spotlight. I usually let my food do the talking, if you know what I’m saying.”
Pierre chuckled, a shy, almost self-depreciating sound that came off as especially sexy to the mostly female crowd. They hung on his every word. Smiled when he smiled. Joined him in laughter. If he were the band leader, they were his orchestra. If he were the quarterback, they were his team. Clearly, he had those around him in the palm of his hand. Several people noticed and weren’t surprised. Marc, for instance. His sister, Lisette. Miss Pat. Groupies familiar with his television charisma, who’d helped launch him to superstardom, were even more impressed with his in-person charm. And one woman, a television reporter, seemed prepared to do anything to get the story…and the man.
“I guess the only thing left for me to say is thank you,” Pierre finished, his voice soft and sincere. “The next time you’re hungry, come on over and get something to eat.”
Amid the laughter and applause, Pierre’s publicist, Cathy Weiss, a smart, capable young woman working in one of New York’s top-notch firms, stepped forward. “We have time for a few questions.”
Several reporters asked relevant questions, eliciting sometimes serious, sometimes entertaining answers.
“Eating good food has always been one of my favorite pastimes. But working in a restaurant, New Orleans in Houston, was the first time I considered cooking as a career.”
“My inspiration? Definitely my mentor, Marc Fisher, the executive chef at New Orleans. A culinary school and drill sergeant rolled into one. He took me under his wing and encouraged, motivated and threatened my ass into being the best possible chef I could be.”
“Other than a chef? I grew up wanting to be an athlete, basketball. And a superhero, when I was five.”
The crowd loved listening to Pierre speak from the heart. Clearly, they could have stayed there all day. Just as Cathy walked over to end the questions, a vivacious redhead emerged out of the crowd with microphone in hand.
“Tell me, Pierre,” she drawled with an accent that was part Southern and part seduction. “Is there anything on the menu that is as tasty looking
as you?”
“A perfect segue into what’s next,” Cathy glibly countered, as the crowd reacted, letting Pierre off the hook. “Mayor, if you’ll do the honors.”
The mayor cut the ribbon. Shortly afterward, eighty lucky diners and eighteen VIP guests sauntered into Easy to put the redhead’s unanswered question to the test.
* * *
“Oh my God, could she be any more blatant and unprofessional?”
“You act surprised.” Rosalyn “Roz” Arnaud didn’t look away from her computer screen as she answered Ginny, her coworker at NO Beat, a small yet notable New Orleans weekly newspaper.
“Not really. The whole town knows that girl loves men and money.”
“That girl” was Roz’s former colleague and nemesis, a woman named Brooke who’d worked for years at the city’s biggest newspaper. She covered everything from entertainment to sports and considered herself the company’s “it” girl. When Roz landed a job there fresh out of college, quickly impressing the higher-ups with her knack for putting an interesting spin on ordinary stories, Brooke had viewed her as competition and tried to make her life there a living hell.
A year into the madness an article Roz had written caught the eye of a guy starting a weekly publication with a focus on local news. He’d offered her a job as senior writer, and the freedom to cover topics she felt passionate about. Roz quit the more established, popular paper, took a salary cut and attached her star to the start-up. A year and a few awards later, NO Beat had a small but dedicated staff, national recognition, major advertisers and a solid core of dedicated readers. Turns out Brooke did Roz a favor. Working at NO Beat was the best professional decision she could have made.
“Look at him, though,” Ginny said dreamily, chin in hand as she gazed at the television. “That bod, those eyes.”
Roz gave the screen a cursory glance. Pierre stood at the entrance to his new restaurant, looking the way he had the first time she saw him on an energy drink commercial. Six feet plus of raw sexuality, muscles rippling beneath a tight white shirt as he wrestled a steak off a fiery grill, then reached for a bottle of Intense Energy to refresh him. She remembered being annoyed at how good he looked, and that her body had reacted as though she was a love-starved teen. Truth of the matter was she could use a round of horizontal aerobics, but why tempt fate? It had taken almost a year to get over Delano, her last heartbreak. Today she was in a really good space. She had a job that she loved, covering topics that mattered, a restored twentieth century bungalow, and a terrier named Banner who every day welcomed her home more enthusiastically than any lover ever could. The last thing Roz needed was a pretty boy problem. Especially one that would cause a ten-year journalism vet who knew better to make a comment that bordered on harassment, and reduce sensible women like her coworker Ginny to fantastical would-be nymphs.
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