The Lady of Royale Street

by Thea de Salle

  “Don’t they have a TV?” Alex murmured beneath his breath. She’d asked the exact same thing of her mother many, many times, and she chortled as she rotated in her seat so she could lean in closer to him, her knees brushing his. Both of their glasses were empty, so she collected them and put them together beside the half-drunk bottle of scotch on the table.

  “Wasn’t anything good on those nights, I guess,” she said. “Ma said they did a lot of cuddling to keep warm.”

  “I guess so.”

  She smiled; he smiled.

  And their eyes met.

  They’d matched gazes a few times in their short acquaintance, both in anger and in commiseration, in frowns and in smiles, but this was different. This was thick and heavy and more. It wasn’t something tangible that she could put her finger on. She couldn’t really explain it beyond mutual attraction firing off at the exact right moment, but when his hand that had been toying with her curl moved up into the dense red tangle atop her head, cradling her skull and pulling her forward, she was already meeting him halfway. She smelled scotch and a subtle, masculine cologne as she neared him. She felt the heat of his body as her soft chest pressed to his much harder one. There was a moment of staring at each other, her nose a scant inch from his, before he jerked her forward. It wasn’t a gentle tug, but firm and powerful, which she was just fine with. Her lips mashed to his, her head tilted so she could better settle herself against him. Mouths met, collided really, and then all too easily nestled in, two parts of one whole.

  It was exhilarating, but it was also eerie in a way, because it was too easy to kiss and be kissed alike. The escalation happened fast, but it felt natural, too, and her pulse pounded and her hands roamed, latching on to his thick biceps and sweeping up over his shirt to grasp his wide shoulders. He was such a refrigerator of a man, so dense, and she marveled at his solidness as he nudged her lips open and tasted her, his tongue claiming hers not with gentle touches but with full, hot sweeps. It was confident and assured, like he knew exactly what she wanted and was going to give it to her, and she practically melted atop him like a pat of butter.

  She closed her eyes and gave herself over to the sweet-and-sour taste of scotch. It was probably wrong to undulate against him, to slither her tongue against his so invitingly, but she couldn’t help herself. She felt good all over, tingly and warm, and he pulled her whole body forward, arms dropping to her waist and positioning her so she could sprawl on top of him, using him like a fleshy mattress. It made the kisses more intense, to be aligned so perfectly, and she laced her fingers behind his neck, enjoying the feel of his muscles as he stole her breath away.

  She shivered. He rocked his hips up at her.

  Oh. Oh he’s . . .

  Wow.

  Hard. Alex was hard. It hadn’t taken him very long to get there, or maybe it had; she wasn’t sure how long they’d been going at it—a few seconds, a few minutes. It was organic, and she realized, much to her chagrin, she was as ready to go as he was. She was wet, could feel it between her legs as she squeezed her thighs together. He groaned beneath her, one of his hands back in her hair, the other sliding down to cup her ass and squeeze it. He tugged her against him, she humped back and moaned into his marauding mouth.

  Light-headed. Breathless. I want . . .

  “Fuck!” He ripped his head away from her, his pupils so large they practically hid his irises. She stilled immediately, trying to catch her breath and her wits, which had flown off to the hills, getting more and more distant with every kiss.

  “I’m sorry. I—” she started.

  “No, no. It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I’m so damned sorry. I . . . it’s just, I don’t . . . I don’t do casual. Or even not casual. It’s been a long time. ”

  “Same, and I get it. I don’t really do casual, either, being a practicing Catholic and all, so I know,” she said quietly, taking a deep breath to quell her pounding heart before she pushed herself up off him. Her legs were shaky, her nipples hard in their bra cups, but she managed to stand tall in front of him, her fingers raking through her hair. “We hardly know each other, anyway.”

  “I want—I don’t know what I want.” Alex sat up straighter on the couch, and very delicately—with as much dignity as he could muster—adjusted himself, his eyes not daring to meet hers. She couldn’t blame him for that, nor did she really trust herself if he managed to make eye contact. The way she felt, the way her body practically vibrated, one glance and it could be all over for both of them.

  SEVEN

  WHY? WHY DID I do that?

  The obvious answers were scotch and the world’s most beautiful redhead within arm’s reach. But that shouldn’t have mattered. Alex wasn’t given to impulse. Alex was up every day at five to exercise and lift weights for an hour and a half before a twenty-minute shower, a veggie-laden egg-white omelet, and polishing his shoes. From there it was checking emails and texts while he drank green tea in his office, a ten- to twelve-hour workday, volunteerism, and the occasional game of tennis when he could convince Darren to go to the courts with him, which wasn’t happening anymore because Darren was gallivanting around the world with Sol’s ex-wife on her superyacht.

  Alex ate salad a lot. He liked protein shakes. He was in bed no later than nine every night barring hotel shenanigans, and he hadn’t missed Mass or his biweekly confession for nearly half a decade. His favorite show was Frasier, and that had been off the air for more than ten years.

  He was not the type of man to pull a woman onto him, kiss her senseless, and think about carrying her to bed and fucking her brains out. He just wasn’t.

  What the hell has gotten into me?

  “Again, I am so very sorry.” He was mortified, even more so because he was as hard as a rock and there was no way she didn’t know it, even if she was good enough not to look at his lap. He breathed deep, in through his nose, out through his mouth, in hopes of calming himself inside and out.

  “Forgive me?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. I wanted it as much as you did,” she said matter-of-factly.

  He groaned. Hearing that in no way helped his ardent pants problem. She was so lovely, and so flushed, and her nipples were hard against her shirt, and all he wanted to do was to grab her again and bury his face in her neck and appreciate the smell of vanilla and flowers.

  “Bed,” he said, and then quickly added, “I’m going to my own. In my room. Alone. And I’ll . . . tomorrow. See you tomorrow.” He practically lunged for the door, tearing himself from Theresa’s couch and crossing the room in four strides. He heard her mutter a goodbye behind him, he grunted a reply, and practically ran down the hall, praying to God the entire time Sol didn’t appear with his shitty smile to goad him about anything.

  His breathing. His coloring. His erection.

  Damn it.

  His hand was sweaty when he tried to use his key card on the room door. He felt like one of those people trying to use their car keys in horror movies—there was so much adrenaline his motor skills were compromised. Three tries later, he managed to get inside and started tearing off his clothes. He could have rubbed one out, sating his body’s need for all things redheaded, indulging the memory of Theresa’s soft skin, ample curves, and incredible taste, or he could stomp the desire demon right into the ground with a cold shower.

  He picked the shower. It pummeled his body and made him grit his teeth. It punished him for being so damned weak despite having promised himself he would save his carnal inclinations for the confines of marriage. When he was absolutely certain that he’d frozen any desire from his body—when he was so cold he wasn’t sure his dick would ever work again, never mind in that moment—he climbed from the stall and wrapped himself in a towel.

  And went to the living room and did fifty push-ups.

  He collapsed on the floor and stared up at the ceiling, hair wet, breath short. He could go to confessio
n Saturday. He’d do proper penance. It’d be over.

  That’s the right thing to do. Sol will understand.

  No, he wouldn’t, but Alex pretended he would as he found his feet, his pajamas, and his bed in that order. It probably should have occurred to him to drink some water before he fell asleep, but he was distracted. Thoughts of guilt, thoughts of girl competed for his attention, and he snarled into his pillow, tossing and turning for a good half hour before he hit on the idea of starting a Rosary. Halfway through, he drifted off, which meant when he woke to his alarm the next morning at five, his head pounded. His fingers found the center of his forehead and rubbed. It’d been a long time since Alex had done anything to excess, never mind indulged in a vice like alcohol, and he crawled out of his bed to guzzle water and Tylenol. The ache didn’t stop him from donning his gym clothes, though, and going down to The Seaside’s gym, nor did it stop him from a straight hour on the treadmill.

  He felt like human garbage, almost threw up once or twice during the workout, but when it was all over he was oddly satisfied that he’d prevailed. The headache was still there, through the shower and ensuing dressing, but that’d go away with time, and he could take with him the valuable reminder that moderation was key to everything.

  He was repeating that to himself when he read the text message from Sol telling him he was waiting at Gustav’s with a fresh pile of beignets.

  The last person Alex wanted to see when he was grouchy with a hangover was his brother, but he’d driven from Dallas to help with the wedding, and that’s what he would do. He headed for the elevator and descended to the ground floor. He was normally a tea man, but by the time he’d reached the double doors of the restaurant, he’d determined he’d be ordering his own carafe of black coffee. It was a good plan, a solid plan, especially when his first view of his brother was Sol in his perfectly tailored brown suit playing with two misshapen origami cranes.

  He made them collide midair like jets and then made pathetic warbling sounds as the cranes plummeted to the table.

  It’s going to be a long day.

  Alex sighed and beelined for the kitchen to retrieve a carafe of coffee. He got a shifty eye from one of the sous chefs for treading in their sacred chrome-plated realm, but Alex ignored him and kept right on pouring; experience told him all chefs were territorial. Experience also told him that hotel managers generally didn’t give much of a shit about a sous chef’s feelings.

  He headed back to the dining room.

  “Alex!” Sol called. “Theresa will be right back. She’s a bit under the weather and had to dash to the ladies’ room. Since you look terrible, I’m assuming you both have a mutual case of Glenlivet-itis?”

  “Shut up, please.” Alex sat across from him in the booth, brusquely shoving the vase of flowers with the pretty pink roses and ivy between them to the side so they could see each other. Sol beamed. Alex groused. All was working as intended.

  “I have to give you both credit. These cranes make terrible wedding favors, but they’re fantastic for other things. I’m not sure what those other things are, but you gave it the old college try for kitten’s sake. I appreciate that.”

  “Theresa did all the work.” Alex poured himself a first cup of coffee, drank half of it despite the burn, and topped off the mug to go at it again. “I gave up after a couple, but she stuck with it. She’s determined Rain will have a good day. Where is she anyway? Rain, not Theresa.”

  His eyes strayed to the ladies’ room door.

  I want to see her almost as much as I want to crawl under the table and hide from her. This is awkward.

  “In bed still. She’s exhausted, the poor thing.”

  Considering what Alex saw in the pantry the night before, he had a pretty good notion of why she was tired, and he pursed his lips, refusing to rise to the occasion, which delighted Sol even more, if the resulting smile oozing across his face was any indication. Fortunately, he was spared any smarmy nonsense by Theresa’s timely arrival. He didn’t think it was possible for a girl the color of moonlight to look pale, but somehow she managed it. The blue of her sundress was the same shade as the spidery veins around her eyes.

  Her hangover was worse than his, the poor thing.

  “Too much of a good thing,” Theresa said in greeting. He nodded but said nothing, mostly because he was admiring her. Sure, she had bags under her eyes the color of plum pudding, and sure, her hair and clothes were ragged, and yes, she was dabbing at the sides of her mouth like she might have just vomited. But she made it all look so good.

  I am far too attracted to this woman.

  Coffee. Look at your coffee.

  He did just that.

  Sol picked up another crane and examined it before perching it on top of one of the roses in the vase so it loomed over them like a lopsided false god. “It’s obvious you spent time on these, and I feel terrible suggesting that they won’t work, but—”

  “But they’re awful,” Theresa said, gingerly sipping from the glass of water in front of her. “I know that. We need another plan.”

  Sol nodded. “How bad were the swans? Decimated or . . . ?”

  “Seventy-three broken out of three hundred,” Alex said. “Almost a third.”

  Sol tipped his head thoughtfully. A waitress stopped by with fresh beignets, the powdered donuts golden brown and perfect. On any other day, Alex would have refused them in lieu of healthier fare, but hungover with a bellyful of poison, he snagged one, hoping the grease could counter it.

  Sol followed suit, biting into the corner and wiping sugar off his lip. “Realistically, only a third of the swans are broken. Can we get more? Obviously not the same type, but something similar?”

  Alex wasn’t sure where they’d get glass birds so close to the wire, but Theresa pulled out her phone and started typing. “Swarovski,” she said moments before producing a too-bright phone screen and shoving it beneath his nose. “Swarovski crystal. You’ll find the stores in malls a lot. They’re also carried in jewelry stores. I’m wondering if we couldn’t get some swans from them.”

  Alex was just blinking the store logo into focus when Sol snatched the phone from Theresa’s hand. He swiped a few times, tutting when he got beignet grease on her smartphone, before gasping with delight. “They do have swans in their collection.”

  Theresa glanced at Alex. Alex glanced back.

  “Looks like we’re going on an adventure,” she said.

  Oh goody.

  “What do you mean you only have one? You said you had six on the phone,” Alex demanded of the girl at the counter, who couldn’t have been more than twenty and appeared terrified of him. Between Alex’s two hundred and thirty pounds of muscle and the throbbing vein in his temple, he probably looked like the embodiment of rage. He was vaguely aware that Theresa was scowling at him from her position by his elbow, but what was he supposed to do? Pretend to be happy that the girl had misread the inventory screen when they’d called? He’d been steadily losing patience as they’d traveled around the city from shop to shop looking for swans and coming up short.

  Having the foresight to call first was supposed to spare them the time, but now . . . this.

  How hard is it to count them? Just go to your shelf, look, and then tell me so I don’t waste a trip.

  “I’m sorry,” the girl reiterated, her cheeks flushed. “I can order more, but it’ll take a week—”

  “We’ll take the one,” Alex said, slapping his credit card down on the counter. He flinched and cleared his throat. “Pardon. I’m . . . mmm. We’re running low on time is all. Next week isn’t soon enough. The wedding is in a few days. So thank you. For this. One. Swan.”

  The clerk eyed him like he’d gone feral before scampering over to her register.

  He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth so maybe—just maybe—he’d stop turning red. He could feel the heat in his
cheeks, and he knew what that meant.

  The Swarovski employee said nothing the rest of the time he was there, not as she rang his transaction, not as she packaged his swan. Theresa was just as quiet as they left the store. She climbed back into the car, her arms crossed in front of her stomach as if she was trying to hold her vomit inside.

  Which would have been a change from the previous hour. It’d been a harrowing adventure, thanks to scotch and bad life choices.

  “Well, I hope you’re happy. That girl’s half your age and half your size and probably shitting herself right now,” Theresa spat. “She’s terrified.”

  “I apologized! But that’s six swans in two hours. We’re running out of options,” Alex replied, his hands clenched on the wheel as he drove out of the parking lot. “We’ll be dead before we have them all.”

  “Those are just the New Orleans shops! You heard the lady at the jewelry store—they have more out in Metairie.”

  “And it will take us two hours to get through the Metairie stores.”

  Alex guided the Porsche onto the highway with a grimace on his face. Five shops in New Orleans carried Swarovski, but none of them had more than two swans in stock, with no hope of getting more before the wedding. Theresa had even called the company directly, but the swans were backordered until further notice.

  “Might take us four hours, but we’ll still do it, won’t we? Unless you’ve got any other bright ideas on where to get glass swans in bulk?” Theresa shot back. “If not, how about we stop our bitching, be nice to people making minimum wage, and keep driving?”

  Alex bit his tongue so he wouldn’t escalate the situation. Neither he nor Theresa were feeling well. They’d been in the car awhile and it looked like they’d continue to be in the car together until the end of time. To add insult to injury, Troy from the garage texted him, and Alex’s SUV needed a part they had to order, so the earliest he’d get his own car back was the Monday after the wedding. The roads were busy, the traffic annoying, the success rate of their venture anything but guaranteed.