by Virna DePaul
The man was flat-out sexy, and he wanted to buy me a drink at closing time, despite our rather clumsy introduction.
I grabbed a couple of long necks off an empty table and cast a glance over my shoulder at my uncle Daniel’s band, still churning out zydeco. Hot Guy played a mean bass. Uncle Daniel seemed to like him, smiling and grooving with him during a couple of hot bass solos, as did those listening to him, who clapped long and loud after each song.
Damn. I wished I could remember his name. He’d told me when we were lying there under the table, but I’d been so discombobulated by the events that had led us to being under the table in the first place that I’d promptly forgotten. Uncle Daniel had mumbled it into the mic before they’d started playing but Daniel wasn’t known for his enunciation.
Was it Corwin or Corbin? Cormack? I wanted a name to go along with my fantasies. He looked vaguely familiar but at the same time screamed pure out tourist to the south, let alone to bayou country.
Tourist or not, he was a hot one.
He was about six feet, with broad shoulders, soulful brown eyes, dark brown hair that was a little on the short side, and a short, well-trimmed beard. It was a nice, scruffy look. I’d never really been one for clean-shaven pretty boys. I was a bad-boy kinda gal, something I had to keep a tight rein on.
I loved my Uncle Daniel, but I knew exactly the type of guys he hung out with.
Yes, Mr. Corwin or Corbin or Cormack Something-or-Other was dangerous.
And damn if the boy didn’t know it.
The band was blaring as I made my way from table to table. After rolling around on the floor with Hot Guy I’d snuck out to my car and found a change of clothes—a requisite black t-shirt with Evangeline’s written in neon pink across the boobs and a pair of black cutoff shorts—and had washed my face and hands, then stifled enough yawns and downed enough cups of coffee to keep up with the crowd. Remy had tended bar at Evangeline’s for ages, but I’d slip behind to help him pour the easy ones when I wasn’t needed on the floor. I’d already served and cleared for the dinner crowd, and those who came for the music mostly wanted beer, sometimes Hurricanes (usually ordered by tourists who mistakenly think they’re still in New Orleans), and a whole lotta bourbon.
As I reached down to scoop up some wet napkins, I felt fingers pinch my ass. I turned around lightning fast, like a cobra, and grabbed the familiar arm. Pinning it behind the regular’s back was child’s play. Jimbo groaned even as his trucker’s hat fell to the floor.
“Aimee, baby,” he slurred, and I ignored the stench of Jim Beam on his breath. “How you gonna do a fella like that? You know you’re my everything.”
I shook my head and dropped his arm. He was lucky. Since I was a teen, I’d been helping my uncle with this place, taking over management when my grandmother Vivien died a few years back. Evangeline’s had started out as Vivien’s mother’s place—my great-grandmother Evangeline Harris had created a place in the bayou everyone raved about for generations, with her down-home cooking, zydeco music every week, and delicious desserts that people drove from miles around to eat. Learning self-defense had been Uncle Daniel’s number one caveat before I could work here. There was no way I was gonna let the old coot get away with pinching my ass, or the ass of any other girl who might walk into Evangeline’s.
“Jimbo, times they are a changin’,” I said lightly, but with a firmness in my tone. “You can’t grab a woman’s ass. I catch you touching any woman in this joint and you’ll be out. Don’t matter that you’re a major contributor to our rent each month, you’ll no longer be welcome.”
“You can’t talk to me that way, Missy.”
I snorted. “I can, I will, and I did. Now I suggest you head on home and sleep all this off before I call Sheriff Trudeau. He would be more than happy to make sure you sober up.”
Who I wouldn’t call would be Deputy Brad Lamell, the biggest ass this side of the Mississippi, and my (ugh) first boyfriend. I’d always sworn I’d never date a musician, but dating Brad right out of high school hadn’t been the wisest choice, either. The man had an ego that would sink the Titanic it was that large and heavy. He’d been dating Mireille Dubois for the last month, but she’d moved to New York and started a real estate company up there; since then, he’d given hints about wanting to rekindle things with me.
Not a chance.
“Darlin’ you’re breaking an old man’s heart,” Jimbo said, wiping the sweat drops off his bald spot.
“Then I’m doing my job,” I said, handing him his ticket and twisting so I could find a way to stare up at the stage. I managed to catch a moment when the new guy was grinning from ear to ear, bobbing up and down on his feet in time to the music as my uncle brought up the tempo. Yes, I was drooling just a bit. “We’ll be open tomorrow like always. You just sober on up and when you can hold a civil, hands-free conversation, you know we’ll be ready.”
“Mebbe I jus’ won’t come back,” Jimbo whined.
“Yeah, right. I make the best pie in the state and my uncle makes the hottest music. You know you can’t resist either,” I said. “And so long as you pay your tab and keep those paws to yourself, you’re welcome here. Now get on home before you do something else stupid.”
I strode away, made change for another table and then delivered some cold Budweiser to a third. Everything was typical, outside of the new brown-eyed stranger who was playing the bass with skill and finesse that old Lawrence could have only dreamed of. Hot Guy was sending my pulse way up high but I told myself for the hundredth time I shouldn’t accept his offer of a drink.
My mother’s biggest mistake had been having that first drink with my biological father, whomever he might be. All I knew was he’d been a musician my mom met on the road, when she was seventeen. She didn’t even know his name. She’d flung herself at him, he’d taken her up on her offer. As the story goes, the condom broke, my bio dad left town without telling my mom his name and boom—nine months later, I’d arrived.
My mother.
My chest tightened at the thought of her. I wasn’t sure where she was right now, truth be told. Even Uncle Daniel, who often paid for her bail when she went totally off the wall, claimed to be out of contact with her for the last few months. Not like she’d been around much throughout my life, anyway. Seemed like every time Mom got her act together and came home for a while, she’d find yet another guitarist or drummer or lead singer and would go off into the wide blue yonder, “following true love.” In truth, she was nothing but a desperate groupie, and I hated her for that. Hated her for not giving me a regular home life with bologna sandwiches and apples in brown paper bags, new shoes at the start of the school year, a dress for prom… If it hadn’t been for my dear departed Grandma Vivien and my uncle, then I really wouldn’t have had a hope of making a life at all. The reality of life in Pontmaison was just like the swamps it lay near—pretty on the surface, but underneath it all the alligators would chomp right through you.
I made my way behind the bar and poured a couple of cold ones for the couple there, keeping one eye on the stage, admiring how Hot Guy’s ass looked in his tight jeans as he moved to the beat of the music. Suddenly I heard my name called.
“You know, those were some mighty fine reflexes there with Jimbo,” the familiar and annoying voice added.
I groaned and turned on my heels to see Brad. He was tall and loved to lord that over me, and maybe some girls fell for that sandy blond hair and that wide grin, but I had no interest in the deputy even if he’d been sniffing after me like a bloodhound since I was sixteen. I’d finally given in to his pestering for a date right out of high school, and we’d gone out for six long, miserable months before I’d had enough. I’d been firm in the break up—clear as a bell, as in, “I no longer am in a relationship with you, it’s over”—but Brad wasn’t one to have a girl break up with him. Oh no, his precious ego couldn’t stand for that, which was likely the only reason he’d set his sights on me once again now that Mireille had left.
“I hear you, but if you were my gal, you wouldn’t need to make ends meet being in this shithole.”
The comment stung a little—Evangeline’s wasn’t the Ritz, but it also wasn’t a shithole by any means. I gave him a one-shouldered shrug as I rinsed off glasses behind the bar. “Yeah, well, you don’t want me. Not really. You just want a woman barefoot and pregnant in your kitchen.”
He grinned and I was sure there was some woman out there who wouldn’t have her skin crawl seeing those dimples, but I wasn’t one of them.
“But you’re so good in the kitchen,” he said smarmily. He opened his mouth—presumably to keep flirting—but I cut him off.
“You here on pleasure or business, Brad? Should I get you a drink?”
He seemed to get the message. “Pleasure, and yes to the drink.”
I poured him a double of bourbon, slid the drink down the bar to his waiting hand. Before I could turn to go, Brad started talking to me again.
“You know Tallulah’s getting married on Saturday.”
I knew. Brad’s younger sister had sent me an invitation. She’d also asked me to bake the wedding cake. “I’m glad for her. Dizzy’s a good guy. He’ll make a nice husband.” Dizzy Galliston and I had been in the same class at school. His name was actually Desmond, but none of us called him by his real name since that time he’d spun around on the tire swing in the school yard so many times he’d upchucked on the playground. He was a nice guy, cute in an egghead sort of way. I’d never been attracted to him but Tallulah was smitten. And I absolutely adored Tallulah. She couldn’t help her brother was an A-hole.
“I’d like you to be my date to the wedding.”
Brad’s statement took me by surprise. I was just about to tell him I’d be his date when hell froze over (maybe a little more politely than that if I could manage it) when his father Elmer Lamell walked into Evangeline’s. Elmer was a regular. After his wife left him years before and moved to New York, he’d come in daily for some home cooking and a slice of cake.
“Hey, Mr. Lamell,” I said. “A little late for supper, but might I get you a drink? Or cake?” I glanced over at the tray of desserts. The cake wasn’t to be seen. I turned back to Elmer and gave him a rueful grin. “Sorry. Seems the cake was popular tonight, but there’s cheesecake left, or my chocolate truffles.”
“Darlin’, you know the way to a man’s heart. I’ll take a slice of your cheesecake. And gimme a few of them truffles to go.” He patted his son on the shoulder, then gave me a dopey grin. “Speaking of hearts, did Brad here ask you a certain question yet?”
I frowned. So Elmer knew Brad was going to ask me to be his date to Tallulah’s wedding? And the way Elmer was grinning up at me said quite clearly he expected me to accept his son’s invitation.
Was Elmer hoping Brad and I would get back together?
Nervous tension ate at my belly, then dread made my limbs grow heavy. If Elmer was expecting me to get back together with Brad but that didn’t happen, would my bank loan be in jeopardy?
Could I lose my shot at my bake shop if I didn’t go out with Brad?
CHAPTER FOUR
Aimee
Luckily, just as Elmer and Brad were waiting for me to answer, Remy interrupted us and started a conversation, allowing me to give a quick smile and escape. Still worrying about my loan being pulled out from under me, I served a few more tables then scanned the room. Elmer had taken a seat, but Brad leaned against the bar staring at me, and it seemed obvious he planned on waiting me out to finish our conversation.
Shit. I quickly looked away just as I heard my uncle announce that the band was going to play its last song. Turning, I glanced at the stage, my breath catching when I saw Hot Guy looking at me. Then he winked at me in the cutest most adorable way, and that’s when I made my decision.
I hustled to get Elmer his pie, dropped it off real quick like so he didn’t have time to ask me anything about Brad’s wedding invitation, then as soon as the band finished their song, I made a bee line for Corwin-Corbin-Whatever and smiled at him. “Awesome set!” I said, then blushed at how lame I sounded, like some groupie or something.
But Hot Guy just smiled, which of course made warmth flare in my belly. Mental sirens went off, with words of warning: I can look, but so long as he’s a musician, don’t flip out over this guy. That’s what Mom does, and I’m not her.
“Really?” he asked, a boyish expression on his face, as if he was eager to believe my compliment. “I’ve never played zydeco before I met the band in Austin. It’s exciting music. I hope I did it justice.”
“I’d say. Daniel only lets people who can feel the music play with him, and he seemed to be loving what you were playing up there.”
“Good. So, did you decide it’s a yes on that drink?” he asked, and damn if he didn’t have a cute smirk.
Danger! Danger! Red lights flashed inside my head. Then I caught sight of Brad heading toward us and I moved forward with my plan. I linked my arm through Hot Guy’s elbow and said, “I’d love to have a drink with you.”
I practically dragged him to the other end of the bar and I nodded toward Remy to push a few brews our way.
“So,” I said, glancing up at the gorgeous, soulful eyes of the bad boy in front of me. “Your name is ‘Corwin?’”
He tilted his head and grinned huge. “Actually it’s Corbin.”
“Sorry. I was a bit flustered when you introduced yourself. You know, on account of being all tangled in chairs and lying on the ground.”
“That’s not normally how I introduce myself, but it worked.” His grin was infectious, and I found myself smiling dopily up at him before he added, “And I suck at names, anyway. I’m still trying to remember half the band’s names. Cindy and Daniel I have down, but I can’t remember the guy with the beehive for a beard or the guy with the trumpet.”
“Zeke has the beard, Jimmy plays brass, and Aga is the older woman with the long grey hair. They all come and go. Sometimes Uncle Daniel plays things bare bones and sometimes, like tonight, he goes all hog wild and brings in the brass too. It’s a roller coaster to get used to.” I gestured around the slowly emptying roadhouse. “But that roller coaster keeps Evangeline’s in the green.”
Corbin took a long draw off his beer, gazing at me quizzically. I was about to ask him if I had something on my nose when he said, “I thought you ran this place. But you also wait tables?”
Remy, who’d been washing glasses behind the bar, piped up. “Yep, she does both. And she serves as a swamp tour guide out at Gator Ventures. Plus, she makes all the desserts we serve at Evangeline’s. Besides the music, Evangeline’s known for what our girl here can do with sugar or chocolate.”
“Wait,” Corbin exclaimed, “you’re the one who baked that amazing pie? One of the band members gave me a slice during our break. That was the best damned pie I’ve ever tasted.”
“Thank you. That was my huckleberry pie. One of the town’s favorites.”
“You try any of her other goodies?” Remy asked.
When Corbin slid his gaze to me, his eyelids half lowered and a sparkle dancing in his eyes, I felt myself blush. “Uh, no,” Corbin said slowly, his smile widening, “but I hope to.”
Heat radiated through me, sending me off-kilter, and in a good way. No! Corbin was sexy, sensual, good looking, and in actuality quite sweet, but I didn’t need a musician in my life.
But what about in my bed? Just temporarily? After all, he’d said he was only in town for a week.
But that’s how trouble started. I needed to be smart.
Even though being smart all the time was boring.
Gah. I couldn’t seem to stop arguing both sides where Corbin was concerned.
Suddenly, I realized Corbin and Remy were both staring at me. My mind scrambled to remember what we’d just been talking about. Oh right. M
y other goodies and how Corbin wanted to try them.
“I also made cheesecake, cookies, chocolate truffles, and baked a cake,” I said, and Remy rolled his eyes and walked away.
Corbin whistled. “You baked all that? Today?”
“Sure.” I shrugged. “Although technically, truffles aren’t baked.”
“How did you make all that stuff and manage Evangeline’s? And wait tables?”
Despite the fact I was enjoying my time with Corbin, I suddenly fought back a yawn. Seems like I’d been doing that all night, but for good reason. “I got in here at five thirty this morning. Baked all the goodies, got the ganache for the truffles going, then worked on Evangeline’s accounting and scheduling until mid-afternoon, formed and coated the truffles, then waited tables until, well, until now.”
Corbin glanced up at the clock hanging behind the bar, which showed a quarter to two in the morning. A furrow dug into his brow. “But that’s…that’s over a twenty-hour shift. Damn, girl, your uncle was right: you need some sleep.”
“It’s been an unusual day. I don’t usually work the night shift, but our regular waitress called in sick. Someone had to cover.”
“Do you bake every day?”
Excitement buzzed around in my veins, the way it did every time I talked about my desserts. “I do for Evangeline’s weekdays except for Wednesdays—that’s when I do the tours on the bayou—and sometimes I come in on weekends to use the kitchen if I have a special order. People order birthday or wedding cakes, or desserts for dinner parties, that sort of thing.”
His gaze softened. “You love it, don’t you?”
I nodded, excitedly. “There’s nothing like it. Not for me, anyway. That sensation of kneading bread to make dinner rolls, or the taste of frosting I sneak when I’m decorating cakes, how chocolate glistens when heated to the perfect temperature. Rolling out pie dough. That scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies…” It took me a moment to realize I’d closed my eyes, dreaming of all my pastries. I flicked my eyes open to see Corbin staring at me with the same intense expression he’d had when we were looking at each other after crashing to the floor.