by Tricia Lynne
There was so much sensuality to be had in tracing the curve of a soft thigh or the flair of a hip where it narrows into the waist. Willowy, delicate-framed women, like Kat had once been, were perfect for magazine covers and coveted by men and women alike, including myself, but what did a man cling to when his orgasm barreled down on him? There were no hips to squeeze, no shoulders to pull against….How did a man cut himself loose if it looked like a beautiful girl might shatter taking the weight of him?
It was a cruel joke played by competing senses.
I’d just finished drying my hair when Kat whipped open my bathroom door. “Why in the name of the Almighty herself would you keep hair like that pulled up all the time? You know women pay hundreds for that shit, right? I don’t know why you hide it.”
“I’m leaving it down tonight.” I strolled from the bathroom to get underwear.
I slipped into a black bra and those cotton hipsters Kat hated so much, put on some black mascara, my favorite lip stain, and the all-important blush. My face was heart-shaped and pretty, if a bit chubby, but my high cheekbones remained relatively hidden without it.
“What took you so long? I expected you to be ready for me to dress you when I got here. Did you deadbolt the door and paddle the pink canoe thinking about Declan?”
Kat pulled clothes from the closet while I finished up. She looked chic as ever in skintight black denim and peep-toe Jimmy Choos. She’d swapped the leather jacket for an off-the-shoulder top with black-and-white stripes running the length of the chiffon back and had a white clutch with brass knuckles in place of a clasp.
I shot her the duh look. “I didn’t even get my hand in my pants before you called, but the man is definitely spank bank material.”
Her answering smile was enormous as she laid out my tightest jeans, the black wifebeater I slept in, and a short-sleeve, Chanel-esque jacket that I hadn’t packed. “So, about tomorrow. You and I are going to do some shopping,” she warned. “And you’re not going to bitch about it, or bail. Promise me you will at least try on what I ask you to and buy what we both agree on. Without whining about prices. You with me?” Kat had grown up with money. I hadn’t, and though I was more than comfortable with my six-figure salary, deep down I was still the blue-collar girl who went to school on scholarships and financial aid.
I buttoned my jeans and slipped on my tank. “I cannot wear those shoes all night. I don’t know why you stuck ’em in my suitcase.” I nodded at the nude Louboutins that Kat placed next to my jacket on the bed. They were an impulse purchase at a sample sale, which I still regretted.
She held out her rose gold skull earrings but refused to let go when I reached for them, looking at me expectantly.
“I fucking promise.”
With a smirk she tried to hide, she dropped them in my palm and I slipped them in. No way are you getting these back. I slid over my head a rose gold necklace that held a spike draped directly between my breasts. Subtle, Kat.
“Damn, you’re grumpy. You sooo need to get laid. I’ve seen neutered dogs less sexually frustrated than you, sweetie.”
My phone pinged with a new email and Kat rolled her eyes. I’d check it in the cab, but there were always fires to put out at work, even on vacation. I grabbed my black clutch and sighed, hating how accurate her observation about my sex life was. Sometimes a girl just needed a nice hard bang. After sliding into my ridiculously expensive heels, I muttered, “Ain’t that the truth,” pulling the door shut.
* * *
—
Kat and I shared a taxi that dropped me at an unmarked red door at the mouth of an alley a few blocks from the hotel that the tourists seemed to ignore.
I rang the doorbell and a well-built, African American man opened the door, exchanging a wave with her before the car pulled away. He led the way through an arched brick hall with uneven pavers underfoot as he spoke in a smooth, deep baritone. “Kat called ahead. Your table is ready and your date has already arrived.”
We emerged into a small dining room with exposed brick walls and maybe fifteen tables with red-and-white draping and mismatched place settings. Declan eyed the family photos and looked completely edible. Dressed head-to-toe in black, he still had his Vans on, but had changed into a fitted, black, V-neck T-shirt that showed off the lines of his biceps, the curve of his solid chest, and the magnificent tattoos that crept up his arms and neck.
He looked me over, and I honestly didn’t know if he liked what he saw or not. By the time my eyes had traveled back to his face, he was staring at my shoe choice, his mouth in a grim line.
“Glad to see the ankle’s okay.” His voice was soft, and that raspy bass of his was such a turn-on that I couldn’t control the bit of shiver that ran over my shoulders.
The host led us toward French doors at the back of the room and I nearly came on the spot when a warm palm covered my lower back. My gaze cut quickly to the side, finding a touch of amusement on Declan’s face.
The scents of jasmine and home cooking hung heavy in the air as the courtyard came into view and flowers exploded in colors running the entire artist’s palette along stone paths. As we moved through, I saw small tables tucked into the rioting blooms and couples sharing quiet moments while the soft notes of a guitar danced in playful spins and twists around our ears.
We climbed a set of stairs at the back of the garden to a lone table overlooking the courtyard. The host pulled out my chair, told us to enjoy, and took his leave as a server swept in with cocktails we hadn’t ordered. I laid my phone on the edge of the table, setting it on silent.
Declan glanced at it, his brow furrowed, but quickly smoothed over. Yes, it was rude, but I couldn’t avoid it.
“How did your friend get reservations here?” His voice washed over me as he leaned back in his chair and extended his legs, crossing them at the ankles all casual-like, as if he took strange women out to dinner every night. Shit. He probably did. Still, an ache started to bloom in my belly. It was going to be a long night.
“Kat went to grad school at Tulane. She has connections.” I glossed over her, hoping he wouldn’t pump me for info, and willed myself to relax. I had no reason to be anxious about a friendly dinner, because I seriously couldn’t see this guy being interested in me. “Have you been here before? It’s beautiful.” I eyed the scar that cut through his eyebrow.
He brushed it with a finger. “No. But there’s a first time for everything,” he said with that sexy half grin. Declan sat forward, fingered his drink. “Actually, this place is an urban legend. You hear stories from a friend of a friend only because it’s that hard to get in.” He took a sip and met my eyes. The gaslight danced in his, making me see things I knew weren’t there. “Rumor is, the chef is the great-great however many times granddaughter of Marie Laveau, and her recipes are laced with a touch of voodoo. This your first time in New Orleans?”
“Yeah. It’s…different.”
He chuckled and the sound worked its way over my shoulders and down my spine.
“What’s with the cocktails we didn’t order?”
He quirked a scarred brow, grinned. “Don’t know. Most locals don’t even know about this place, though. Strange people and odd shit are this city’s bread and butter, Avery. It’s usually best if you just accept and absorb without trying to make too much sense of it.”
“Good evenin’, folks. I’m Geneviève Lafitte.” The chef was wearing the requisite stained white coat and a pair of pink Crocs. She was short, round, dark-skinned, and had the same smile as the host. Her long dreadlocks were caught back in a pink scarf and her rich brown eyes danced in the gaslight above plump cheeks. “You’re Kat’s friend, Avery…”
“Barrows,” I finished, taking her hand.
“She called me to let me know she was giving the reservation to a friend. Love that girl, wish I’d get to see her while she’s here. So, who’s this one?” She
sent me an approving wink.
“Declan McGinn.” Declan offered his hand. Geneviève took it, appraising him and taking the span of a few heartbeats before she turned him loose. Declan didn’t bat an eye. “Your first visit to my place, Declan?”
“Yes, but I’m in the best company.” He tipped his chin to me and I fought a hugely idiotic smile.
“Since neither of you have been here before, I should explain. In order for Kat to get the chef’s table, she left you at my mercy.” Mischief played over Geneviève’s face. “I plan every aspect of your dinner, from drinks to desserts, and you’ll eat what I put in front of you exactly how I cook it. Are there any allergies or is that going to be an issue for either of you?” Geneviève turned her lovely, warm smile between us.
“Sounds amazing.” I smiled in return.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Declan sent her a wink.
“No, you wouldn’t, handsome. Not and eat here again.” She chuckled.
Geneviève turned to me then, pinning me with a warm look as she set a hand on my shoulder. When our eyes met, it felt as if she could see the very substance of my soul. I was laid bare by her dark brown gaze as it traveled over me, focusing on everything and nothing all at once. It wasn’t obtrusive, mind you, but as warm and inviting as an evening breeze in summer. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, she was done; the connection was gone and her smile returned.
“Hmm. Interesting. Well, I’ve got what I need to get started on your supper.” She slapped her hands together. “Prepare to be dazzled. Y’all get started on them cocktails.”
When she was gone, Declan raised his glass. “To the late Marie Laveau, Voodoo Queen of New Orleans.”
“Sláinte,” I replied, tapping my glass to his. His eyes widened and I smirked around the mouth of my glass.
“You don’t look Celtic.” His gaze roamed over me, lingering on my mouth and dipping lower before meeting my eyes.
I nodded, met his hypnotic green gaze. “I take after my mom. She was Italian and Cuban. My dad is Irish, several generations back.”
The first course arrived with a wine pairing and we dug in.
“Well, that explains the temper and the mouth. You were screwed from the very beginning, weren’t you, sweetness?” Declan winked, but his eyes dropped to my mouth again and my cheeks heated. I was starting to wonder if I had food on my face. I swiped at the corner of my lips with the tip of my tongue and his nostrils flared.
“Listen, I’m sorry about biting your head off. My temper gets away from me almost as often as my mouth.”
Finally, his eyes returned to mine. “No worries. I like that mouth…and that temper of yours. You said was; your mom was Italian and Cuban.”
I nodded. “I was fourteen. Heart attack. It’s one of the things that made Kat and I so close. She lost her mom when we were roommates in college and I knew what she was going through.”
“I lost my mom young, too. So, where’d you come from, Avery Barrows?”
“I live in Dallas, but I grew up outside St. Louis.” I watched his throat work as he swallowed. Fuck. I had to force myself to look away, took a deep swig from my wineglass, and thought I caught him hiding a grin with a bite of food.
“You two missed the party by a week or so. What brings you to NOLA now?”
“Just needed to get away and have some fun. Kat insisted we wait until after Mardi Gras.”
“Good call.”
“You don’t sound like you’re from Louisiana. Where’d you come from?”
“Enniskerry, Ireland.”
Eyes flaring wide, I took in his subtle smirk.
“What? The name didn’t give it away?”
“You don’t have an accent.”
He nodded. “I was six when we moved stateside. Got rid of it so they’d stop teasing me in school. My mom was American. But I’ve been in NOLA only for about six years now.”
“Why the hotel if you live here?”
“My place is outside the city. When I need to be in town the hotel is convenient. How long are you visiting for?”
Conversation came easy, though polite as hell, and although I enjoyed talking with Declan McGinn, he was beginning to confirm my suspicions—he wasn’t interested. He’d placed me firmly in the friend zone, just a decent guy who felt bad for hurting me. And I hated the flicker of disappointment I felt in my chest, so when my phone vibrated the table, I felt less like a dick for looking at the screen, knowing it wasn’t a date.
Over dinner, I learned Declan had turned thirty this year, same as me, and had a birthday three days before mine. He was smart, cagey, and he slipped my question about what he did for a living—but so had I. He didn’t have siblings; his dad lived in Boston and he’d moved all over the States, but loved New Orleans more than anywhere else. The man was seriously good at verbal acrobatics.
Meanwhile, Geneviève’s food was a study in self-indulgence and nothing short of a union with heaven. Each dish arrived with a new wine pairing. I didn’t know what I ate or drank, nor could I tell you most of the ingredients—Declan said it was probably for the best—but I did know that Geneviève’s food was more than the sum of ingredients; it was a sensory experience that left my heart light and head fuzzy.
“What’s the one place I should visit while I’m here?”
Declan reached back and swiped his scalp as we finished dessert, then shook his head as if he was debating his answer.
“Oh, now I’ve got to know. What? You’re not going to say a titty bar, are you?”
His shoulders rolled on a laugh. “See, dammit. I’ve been a perfect gentleman all night. Then you go and say something like that. I’m not quite sure how to take you, Avery Barrows. You’re all polite and civilized, reserved even. Then something slips out of your mouth that sounds more at home coming from a trucker. It’s cute as hell. But now I’m not sure how to answer your question.”
I tilted my head. “Why is that?”
“Because I have two answers. One is appropriate for the lovely, yet somewhat reserved, woman I just had dinner with.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“That would be that you have to take in some music on Frenchman Street. Be it jazz or blues or whatever strikes you as you’re walking by, get away from the touristy shit and see NOLA how the locals do.”
“Okay, simple enough. What’s the other answer?”
“That answer is for the sharp-tongued chick who tried to pick her teeth with my nuts in the lobby of a busy hotel, and just said the words ‘titty bar’ loud enough for everyone in the restaurant to hear.”
“Give it to me, baby.”
Declan’s eyes dropped away from mine as he twirled the stem of his wineglass between his fingers. “My bed.”
My fork hit the plate with a clatter as he lifted his glass, polished off the rest of his wine, and then rolled his tongue over that plump bottom lip.
Ohhh. The dark part of me I’d buried deep sat up and purred.
“How’d we do? Did you enjoy it?” Geneviève slid a chair over.
I rushed to clear my throat and recover from the mental image while Declan continued to watch me. “Geneviève, that was the most amazing meal I’ve ever had.”
“Agreed. The view’s pretty great, too,” he added, eyes on me.
“Well, thank you. I’d like to think that Grand’Mère would approve of my skills.” Our server reappeared with three well-worn shot glasses and a brown jug that looked like a relic from the 1800s, complete with cork and hand-carved label.
“See, it’s important that I meet the people I feed. I have to get a feel for them before I know what to cook, what flavors will speak to their soul. I meet everyone who dines in my garden and make up the menu as I go. So, by nature, we keep this place small and unknown, even for the locals. If the secret got out the experience would have to ch
ange, and I don’t think my grandmother would approve.”
“Well, I feel as though I was given a special treat.” I sipped the last of my rosé, eyes skipping to the man still watching me.
“Speakin’ of treats.” Geneviève nodded at the bottle. “This is something that I bring out less often than a blood moon.”
She uncorked the jug, pouring chestnut-colored liquid into the shot glasses. “It doesn’t have to be for a special occasion, but it does have to be for special people. I don’t decide who drinks it, see. The rum chooses, calling to me as I cook for someone. Tonight, it spoke to me while I cooked for you, Avery. It was most insistent, too.” Her eyebrows shot up as she gave a soft chuckle. “Handsome, you and I are just lucky to be along for the ride.”
As she filled my glass last, I cut a quick glance at Declan, whose eyes sparkled with mischief. Geneviève’s wheel was turning, but the hamster had fallen off.
“The contents were handmade by some of my more notorious ancestors over two hundred years ago, and the rum unlocks potential. Whatever that potential is, it’s different for everybody, but when the opportunity knocks, it’s up to you to embrace it. I got all my crayons, cher.” She sent me a sideways glance. “This, my friends, is the rum that gave birth to the phrase, ‘liquid courage.’ ”
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t possib—”
She shot me a sharp look. “The rum chooses, cher. Don’t go messin’ with Fate, girl. You won’t like the consequences.”
I looked up at Declan, whose eyebrow quirked up as he swept up his glass and wisely kept his mouth shut. Geneviève mumbled a toast in a language I didn’t understand; we shot it back and I savored the burn.
She slapped the table with a laugh. “Ha. Tastes different every time. Tonight, it was melted caramels.” Geneviève turned to Declan. “Last time it was dark chocolate. I went home to my husband and he rocked my world. Bet you know somethin’ about how to do that, don’t ya, handsome?”
I didn’t miss the little tip of her chin in my direction.