The Lady of Royale Street

by Thea de Salle

  “How many sheets do we need?” He picked up a black-and-white-check pattern. Theresa took it from him, eyeballed it, and promptly put it back in favor of something with a decorative paisley.

  Don’t say to pick up those colors if you don’t mean pick up all of those colors, woman.

  He glowered at her. She smirked at him and reached for a pattern with roses.

  “Four hundred? In case of failure? I figure we’ll fuck up the first few, but maybe we’ll get into the swing of it. Or maybe we can enlist help. Cylan or . . . I don’t know.”

  “I bet Nash could do it,” Alex announced, selecting a thin pinstripe. Theresa glanced at it and tilted her head thoughtfully. He fully expected her to reject it, too, but she added it to her stack.

  “And Nash is who again?”

  “My brother. Sol’s twin. He isn’t coming in until Thursday, though.”

  “What, is he an origami expert?”

  Alex wasn’t sure how to answer that. Nash was Nash. A physical mirror of Sol, but with forty more pounds and an IQ through the roof. He was an academic and a student of many things—art, science, history. He had an annual membership to Chicago’s Civic Opera House and could, if the mood struck him, translate said operas, because he was fluent in five languages. If you were unlucky enough to sit in his box, he would do just that. Until you begged for mercy.

  “Nash has many interests. I believe he went to Kyoto to study Ikenobo ikebana a few summers ago. Origami wouldn’t be so far-fetched.”

  Theresa added another ream of paper to her decorative dead-tree collection before making her way to the cash registers. “What’s that?”

  “Japanese flower arranging.” Alex paused. “He said it was a spiritual experience.”

  Theresa’s lip twitched. “Well, that sounds . . . that’s. Nice.”

  Alex smirked and pulled out his credit card. “That’s Nash. Very nice.”

  One hundred dollars’ worth of paper later, they left the craft store, Theresa stopping in the parking lot to eyeball the Popeyes across the street. “I’m starving. Do you think we can not fight for another half hour so I can get some food?”

  The question shouldn’t have bothered Alex as much as it did. She wasn’t wrong to ask it; their introduction had been fraught with conflict, from the broken camera to his inability to function in the face of an annoying GPS, but ever since Darlene’s office, it’d been an amicable pairing. Pleasant, even. He liked how she sounded when she was happy. He liked how she tended to lift the left side of her lips but not the right when she smiled, so it was more of a smirk than not.

  He liked how she looked. Because he’d never met a woman so physically appealing in all his life.

  He didn’t like how the stock boy collecting shopping carts from the plaza eyeballed her like a pork chop. He glared at him hard enough the kid practically ran away in terror. Alex’s size had its benefits.

  “Food first. Then origami swans,” he announced.

  “Cranes. Swans look way harder,” Theresa corrected. “At least forty more folds.”

  Forty more folds.

  Right.

  This is an awful idea.

  “This is an awful idea.”

  Theresa’s declaration came on the heels of sixteen failed attempts at paper fowl. She sat on the floor of her hotel room, discarded birds lying forlornly at her feet. Her hair was tied back, she’d shucked the T-shirt in favor of a tank top, and her long legs were folded beneath her body. She’d started on the bed, then gone to the desk, and finally, lain out on her belly on the floor like the new perspective would help her grasp the art of folding paper. The YouTube tutorial played on repeat on her phone.

  Alex didn’t have her perseverance. He’d given up after three lopsided birds and a paper cut.

  “They look like poodles,” he announced, holding up her most recent attempt. “The long neck and the tail back here.”

  She frowned at both bird and man holding the bird. “Too bad there’s no market for origami poodles. I think I need a drink. Maybe I’ll fold better shit-faced.”

  A drink sounded marvelous, even if he wasn’t the one heroically attempting to save Rain’s wedding favors. He stood up and offered her a hand. She accepted, swaying on her feet before donning her flip-flops and shouldering into a button-down shirt she didn’t bother to fasten.

  “I don’t think I’m bar-ready, but I could go for a bottle and a glass and just . . . I’m not giving up yet. Almost, but not quite,” she said.

  “I admire your resolve. And the benefit to owning the hotel is that we can hit the back room instead of the bar. I can go for you if you’d like. Room service.”

  She smirked. “Nah, I need to stretch my legs.”

  “Same. So what’s your poison? Beer? Wine?”

  “Scotch,” she said.

  Alex’s brows lifted appreciatively. “Nice. I’m a Glenlivet man when left to my devices.”

  “The distillery is in Moray. My mother’s from Aberdeenshire, about an hour away.”

  The chatter was nice—simple—like the task. An elevator ride and a walk through the foyer later, they headed to Gustav’s and then into Gustav’s kitchen, navigating around the busy staff and toward the back, where a circular staircase led to the dry-goods pantry in the basement.

  Alex went first, Theresa followed him. He flipped on the switch and turned the corner.

  In time to hear the soft moan.

  It took him a minute to register what was going on before him, but then it’d been more than ten years since the last time he walked in on Sol fucking someone. That time had been Jenni in the pool house after one of Dad’s barbecues, which wouldn’t have been so awful except Jenni had been their housekeeper since Alex was a child and he’d never imagined seeing her breasts, never mind her breasts bouncing while Sol fucked a woman twenty years his senior.

  Now Rain was bent over a long wooden table, the previous food tenants of the tabletop strewn across the floor like they’d been thrown there in haste. Her sundress was tossed up over her back, exposing pale, wobbly flanks with a distinctive red handprint on one asscheek. Her panties dangled from a bare foot, which wasn’t quite touching the floor, because Sol had her pinned with his body, one of his hands holding both of hers to the small of her back.

  He thrust, and thrust, and thrust, his body slapping at Rain’s. Not once did he notice that Alex was there beholding their ungodliest deed.

  “Holy shit,” Theresa said.

  Rain squealed, and Sol jerked his face toward the stairs. Instead of looking ashamed of being caught, he just looked annoyed, which only served to irritate Alex more. Every health inspector in the world would have shut Sol down for getting cum on or near the very same flour they used to make their famous honey wheat bread.

  Why is he so disgusting?

  “What are you doing?” Alex spat, his temper rising mostly out of embarrassment. It was bad enough he had to see it, but Theresa, too? Unacceptable. “This is unsanitary.”

  “That’s what I said,” Rain rasped.

  Sol looked from Alex to Rain. He released her wrists and reached for the dress, adjusting it so it covered her ass and prevented any accidental dick sightings thanks to their precarious position.

  “I was overcome,” Sol said simply. “You should try it sometime.”

  “You can’t do that here! What if the staff came down?”

  “That’s part of the fun, honestly. And I’d ask them to shut the door behind them. If you would, by the by. Shut the door.”

  “I can’t . . .” Alex tried to maneuver around the anger, but it was like chewing through tar. The words got lodged in his throat like a chicken bone, his blood pressure skyrocketing, but then Theresa was there. She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. It wasn’t magical, but it might as well have been, because instead of imploding in an inferno of rage, he stille
d. Everything went quiet like she’d pulled the plug preexplosion. Was he still irritated? Oh yes, because this was bad business, but he could suddenly see the ridiculousness of the situation, too.

  Rain’s flustered expression. Sol standing there with his pants around his ankles. The discarded oranges littering the floor.

  Why is he like this?

  Alex struggled with what to do next. Turning around and pretending he’d seen nothing was likely the best option, but his feet were glued to the floor. A blur of red swept past his peripheral vision. Theresa ducked around him and into the aisle to their right to crouch before one of the lower shelves.

  “What are you doing?” he managed.

  “I thought we wanted scotch.”

  “You still want scotch? After this?”

  “Don’t you? If nothing else we can use it to burn out our eyes.”

  He laughed. He didn’t expect to laugh. Worse, Sol laughed, and Rain, too, both of them sniggering as the intruders poached some of The Seaside’s booze.

  Both of them waiting patiently for Alex and Theresa to go so they could finish their rut.

  Theresa swiped a bottle of eighteen-year-old Glenlivet off the shelf and headed for the stairs.

  “Talk to you lot tomorrow,” she said without turning around.

  “Of course! Good to see you,” Sol called after her, still inside of his fiancée.

  “Bye!” Rain echoed.

  Alex shook his head in horrified disbelief and scampered up after the seemingly unflappable redhead. At the top of the stairs, he called for her, and without looking, she reached behind her to take his hand, her fingers twining in his to guide him from the kitchen.

  SIX

  IF PRE-SCOTCH ORIGAMI cranes looked like poodles, post-scotch origami cranes looked like mutated poodles from Mars. Theresa eyed her work, all dozen additional attempts at paper folding stacked before her, and then she eyed her drink.

  “This is officially not working,” she announced. Alex peered at her over his own glass of scotch, a V of a worry line etched into his brow.

  “I may have mentioned that six or eight or twenty cranes ago.”

  “Yes, well. When Rain loses her mind that she has no wedding favors, I can present these as proof that I gave it my all.”

  “That you did.” Alex drained his glass, set it on a coaster on the coffee table, and leaned back in the tufted leather couch, his body so wide it took up more than half the cushion. He really was enormous, which didn’t bother her in the slightest—she was a tall woman, broad through the shoulders. It was rare that she felt small next to someone.

  And yet.

  He’s a good-looking bastard, I’ll give him that.

  “I’m sorry about what happened in the storeroom,” he said, reaching for one of her winged paper atrocities, lifting it before his nose, and staring. “Sol’s always been like this, though. I hope Rain’s ready for it.”

  “Don’t apologize! You didn’t do anything, and it’s obvious they’re having fun together, even if their idea of fun isn’t my cup of tea.” She smirked and flicked at the paper bird in his hand. “This thing is hideous.”

  “You’re getting better! This one’s only sort of lopsided. Two or three more, you’ll probably have it.”

  “Except I already want to light them all on fire, so that’s out of the question. Thanks, though, prick.”

  Immediately, the V in his brow was twice as deep as it had been the moment before. “I didn’t mean—that’s to say I was teasing, so—”

  She put up her hand and smiled. “I know! I was teasing back. It’s fine, Alex. Just trying to bring some levity, considering the cranes and the wedding and the”—she paused to sip her drink, a coy smile playing around her lips—“interlude we witnessed downstairs.”

  “Sol can be such a pig.” As soon as the words left this mouth, he winced and cleared his throat, a faint flush coloring his cheekbones. “Pardon. I don’t mean that. My brother’s a man driven to impulse, is all. He always has been. Rain seems receptive, though, and that’s all that matters, I suppose.” He put the crane back with the others, his fingertip poking through the pile. He pulled out a black-and-white-striped one and tipped it upside down. “This one looks like a dinosaur if you turn it this way. Would she like dinosaur origami favors?”

  Theresa plucked it from his grasp. “Excuse me. Blood, sweat, and tears went into every pterodactyl.”

  “Raptor,” he corrected. “They have tiny arms.”

  She was laughing as she threw herself onto the couch beside him. She poured herself another glass of scotch, topped off his glass, and propped her legs on the coffee table, crossing her left foot over her right, her eyes skimming the room. It was opulent; the wallpaper was gold damask print that shone like silk in the overhead brass chandelier. The velvet curtains adorning the window were royal purple with gold tiebacks and matched the purple and green comforter stretched over the king-size bed. Two bureaus, matching cherry pieces with a bevy of antique knickknacks on top, flanked the bed. The bathroom door was tucked into the corner of the room next to a hamper. She could see into the bathroom from her seat, the walls, floor, and countertops all gold-toned marble, the sink fixtures and wall lamps equally as gilded. The tub was deep enough she could swim in it. The bidet was something she’d ignore; after an awkward misfire in France last year, she’d forever sworn off bum squirts.

  The left side of the room was a full-size sitting area complete with the couch they occupied, two armchairs with brocade fabric and silk throw pillows, and the glass-top coffee table. Before them was a mahogany TV cabinet that might have been a wardrobe at one point. The front was carved with roses and vines and looked like something torn from the set of Beauty and the Beast. Ornate carpets, oil paintings of flower arrangements, some black-and-white photos of turn-of-the-twentieth-century New Orleans—it was a slice of decadent yesteryear on the third floor of The Seaside. The effect was completed with French doors that led out onto a terrace with a hanging swing bench, flower buckets, and wrought-iron railings. She had a fantastic view of the courtyard below with the water fountain and the paths that curved around back to the indoor pool.

  “This place is beautiful,” she murmured, appreciating the burn of the Glenlivet on her tongue. “Rain said in her emails that it was one of the loveliest places she’d ever been, but I couldn’t have imagined.”

  “It wasn’t so lovely when we first moved in,” Alex replied. He reached for his own glass and slumped into the couch, his legs spreading, his arm draped across the back. His fingers brushed a lock of her red hair, his finger curling in it mindlessly and tugging it straight.

  Don’t say anything. He’d be embarrassed.

  She did smile, though.

  “I was nine when we moved here from Dallas,” he continued. “It wasn’t much to look at. It’d been a Confederate hospital originally, and then it was a storage facility for years before it was abandoned. We lived on the top floor while my father renovated it. It came out so nice we ended up staying until us boys graduated high school. Sol never really left; he went to Yale and came right back to The Seaside, but the rest of us moved back to Dallas just before Dad died. This was always my father’s favorite hotel, though. I miss it sometimes, but I’m content enough at The Diamond. My mother lives nearby and she likes having at least one of her sons around.”

  “Ahhhh. Well, more reason to visit your brother then, aye?” she asked, extending her leg to nudge his knee with her foot.

  He’d been lifting his glass to his mouth but paused, his brow furrowing, his shoulders tensing. “Hmm? Oh. I should visit more than I do.”

  Alex DuMont didn’t strike her as the type to open up, and yet there he was, conversational as anything—probably because the scotch had loosened his tongue. “Like I said, Sol and I are different. We’re opposites—physically, personality-wise. I could never be as laissez-faire as
him, and he could never be as regimented as I am. He’s more like my mother, and I’m more like my father. And Nash, we’re not sure where the hell he came from.” He paused. “Pardon my language.”

  Just like Rain’s “pardon my French” every time she cusses.

  It’s cute, in a way.

  “Pardoned.” She winked at him and his eyebrows lifted, nearly grazing his hairline before he smiled, a few fine lines appearing around his very blue eyes. Sol had green, she recalled, but not Alex. Alex’s eyes were an icy shade that reminded her of winter skies.

  They’re nice eyes.

  In a nice face.

  On top of a nice body.

  “Funny that twins can be so similar in some ways and so different in others,” she said, hoping she wasn’t croaking it out, but she really was far too aware of the physical appeal of the man next to her and it was doing things to her. Weird things. Her voice was a little huskier, her posture a little sloppy. Maybe it was the scotch.

  Or maybe I have a thing for surly giants and hadn’t realized it until now.

  Alex turned his body on the couch so he was facing her, his gaze fixing on her face and then . . . dipping. Hovering. Appreciating her curves for an illicit moment. He’d done something similar when he’d caught her fresh from the shower yesterday, too. She hadn’t wanted him to notice her then, as angry as she was, but now? Well, a little flirting wasn’t a bad thing, was it?

  If he’s flirting. I’m not sure.

  “Nash is a nerd. I say that with fondness, of course,” he said, jerking his attention away from her body and back to her face. A flush rose on his cheeks, up to the edges of golden hair above his ears. “I love him. He’s just very Nash. I think you’ll see what I mean when you meet him.”

  “It’s interesting. You boys all sound so different. I have five sisters—”

  “Wait, five sisters?” Alex interrupted.

  Theresa laughed. “Aye! And three brothers. My parents are very Catholic and never quite figured out the rhythm method. I’m the oldest of the bunch. The youngest is my brother Aiden. He’s four.”