The Lady of Royale Street

by Thea de Salle

  “Alex,” Sol said.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you listening to me?”

  No.

  “Of course I am. Royale Street.”

  Lying’s a sin.

  You’ve got a lot of talking to God to do, self. Confession later? If not today, tomorrow? I’ll check the schedule later.

  “Okay, good, because this next part is important. I talked to Vaughan this morning. You’re going to want to keep an eye on Theresa. I know you’ve been ‘keeping an eye on her,’ wink-wink, nudge-nudge, but Mitchell and she have a history. Mitchell’s the shitty Barrington brother. He hit on her and got handsy and Vaughan hit him, which . . . what is it with everyone hitting people around here? Doesn’t anyone use words anymore?”

  Alex had been in a fantastic mood until Sol dropped that little bomb. The idea of someone getting handsy with Theresa, who’d been gracious even in the face of Alex’s various missteps, made his jaw clench.

  What kind of asshole . . .

  “I hope he’s been warned,” Alex said. “I won’t brook that. If he does anything, I’ll—”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. Irritation was thick in his mouth, and he couldn’t seem to make himself talk around it.

  “Don’t worry too much about it, Alex. Vaughan promised to snap off Mitchell’s legs if he misbehaves. I’d just rather keep you in the loop than not.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Alex pulled on his watch and moved the phone to the other ear. “Well, thank you for that. I should probably get going. I have to get some breakfast in me and then go see Tara. If I have to do the florist gauntlet . . .”

  “Oh, does that mean you and Theresa aren’t joining us for brunch?” Sol’s voice was so even-keeled, so very placid, that Alex knew he was needling. Again.

  Because he was a jerk.

  “I’m going now,” Alex said.

  “Oh, fine, you poop. Maddy says hello, by the way. She’s here rolling around on the floor with Freckles and Doodle.”

  “Hello, Maddy,” Alex sighed into the phone.

  In the background, Alex heard Maddy yelling, “Ask Theresa about Murphy!”

  Sol and Maddy are two peas in a very annoying pod.

  “Goodbye, you two. I’ll text you after I get the list of florists.”

  He ended the call, not going straight to Theresa’s room, but instead down to the foyer and out through the front double doors.

  It was a mistake.

  The press was in a dither so close to the wedding, and upon seeing Alex, they unleashed their wrath on him, screaming for wedding details, shoving microphones into his face and demanding inside tips. Alex slowly retreated to the safety of the hotel, where two large men in black T-shirts, sunglasses, and black pants slid in front of him to facilitate his escape.

  The doors closed, the cacophony of paparazzi somewhat dulled.

  Behind him, a voice said, “It’s safe to go out the back door of the garage.”

  Alex turned. Standing midfoyer, looking like he’d stepped out of the pages of a J.Crew catalog, was a Barrington brother he’d yet to meet in person. He was handsome, Darren-level handsome, but in a different, more polished way, with the signature Barrington golden hair and blue eyes. Beneath a narrow nose, he had a day’s worth of stubble on his chin, worn that way on purpose, no doubt. Slim-fitting khakis, a white polo, a sweater draped across his shoulders. Alex would have sworn he was the pretty boy bad guy from every eighties teen dramedy.

  Is this Mitchell?

  Alex’s expression must have darkened, because Yachting Barrington lifted his eyebrows as he took a sip of his coffee. “Have we met?”

  Manners, Alex. There are six Barrington boys. You’ve only met two.

  “Alex DuMont. The groom’s my brother. You must be one of Rain’s brothers?”

  He offered his hand for a shake. The other man took it.

  “Carlton. The poorly behaved one.” He said it without much care, a bright white smear of a smile appearing as he squeezed Alex’s fingers. “The press is outside the kitchen exit, too. I caught the short, angry chef dragging a hose over from the sink and aiming cold water at the stoop as a warning. I like that man. Gustav?”

  Alex smirked. “Yes, Gustav. He’s been with the family for years.”

  The tension eased from his shoulders and his grip relaxed. Carlton was not Mitchell, thus he was okay.

  Carlton whirled and pointed behind him, at the hallway that lead to the garage. “That’s how I snuck in and out. Had to get my Starbucks. I know it’s indulgent and stupid, but I have a weakness.”

  “I won’t judge you for your coffee choices,” Alex said.

  Well, that’s another lie.

  “You’re the exception to the rule then. Nice to meet you. Good luck escaping.” Carlton lifted his cup Alex’s way in a faux toast before heading to the glass elevator. Alex watched him go, trying to remember which brother was which. Richard was the heir—bachelor party, good guy for the most part. Mitchell was the asshole. Vaughan was also an asshole but in a goodish way as far as Alex could tell. Desmond was a Protestant minister, and Tommy was, by Sol’s account, a sweet, simple creature.

  Which left Carlton, the . . .

  Ladies’ man.

  That’s right. He had the two illegitimate children, one with a pop star, one with some swimsuit model, each born within a year of each other.

  So he’s not Mitchell bad, but not my cup of tea, either.

  He’d been nice enough to tell Alex how to best avoid the press, though, and Alex was able to get out of The Seaside through a back gate in the garage. The press were so busy watching the cars leaving, they hadn’t clued into the opposite side gate escape. Alex was able to sneak out and dart up the street to a vendor, paying far too much money for a fresh bouquet of peach roses. For good measure, he grabbed a white bouquet, too, and sprinted back to the hotel, the morning temperature hot enough that he had sweat on his neck by the time he got back inside.

  He arrived at Theresa’s room just as room service was pushing a cart down the hall.

  Perfect.

  Alex gave the staff member a hefty tip before stealing the cart away. After laying out the flowers on either side of their covered plates, he wheeled breakfast inside, only to discover Theresa stretched out on top of the blankets, bare. He couldn’t help but notice her still wearing the evidence of their night together. Her climbing on him, riding him, using him, turned into a second, later tryst that was far more tender, him spooning her from behind, her cooing out her pleasure as he worked her body.

  He was suddenly keenly aware of his dick hardening in his pants.

  Control yourself.

  You’re not seventeen.

  “I brought you breakfast,” he said quietly.

  She cracked open a single brown eye and stretched. She was so tall that her toes touched the end of the bed and her hands touched the headboard. Her breasts did a lovely bounce before she pulled the coverlet over her body and sat up, motioning him near as she blew hair out of her eyes. “Thank you!”

  He wheeled the cart to her side. She reached for the flowers, lifting them to her nose and sniffing, her fingers toying with the gathered stems, her cheek rubbing against the silken petals.

  “You like them,” he said.

  “I do.”

  “Good, good.” He sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled a bed tray out from the undercarriage of the cart so she could eat in bed. “I have to go to Weddin’ Kisses after breakfast—”

  “We,” she interrupted.

  “Hmm?”

  “Aye. We have to go to Weddin’ Kisses, barring Rain needing me. I’ll check with her just to be sure, but no texts yet, so we have to go to Weddin’ Kisses.”

  He peered at her for a moment, appreciating the roses clasped to her chest, the wild curls around her shoulders, the errant
lock covering one of her eyes. He reached out and tucked it behind her ear, his fingers gliding along her jaw and to her pointed chin afterward. “All right, we have to go to Weddin’ Kisses to get a list of florists. The business’s Internet was shut off, so Tara printed it for us. Hopefully it’ll go smoothly. After that we pick up my tux, and the rehearsal dinner’s at seven on Royale Street.”

  “Sounds like a day,” she said.

  He nodded and slid an omelet in front of her with all the fixings. “It does, and no day starts without a good breakfast, so . . .”

  TWENTY-TWO

  PICK UP MY dress from Lucia, was Rain’s reply text.

  Theresa frowned.

  Are you sure you don’t want to try it on again?

  Lucia will be here Sunday when Im dressing. Said shed sew me in2 it if she had 2.

  Theresa sent Rain a string of heart emoticons to let her know she understood her instructions. She showered after, relieved that last night’s champagne wasn’t poisoning her head. Maddy had been a responsible den mother, loading them up with water, Gatorade, and ibuprofen before sending them to their beds. Theresa was grateful for it; one scotch hangover was enough for the week.

  She got dressed in a pair of jean capris and a pink short-sleeved button-down, slathering on the SPF 50 so the sun wouldn’t murder her skin. Alex kept busy by checking his email on her laptop. They were companionably quiet, like they’d known each other forever. The way they talked, fought, and fucked spoke to an unwarranted familiarity. Theresa hadn’t had this with Scott; sure, they’d maneuvered around each other well enough after a while, but there were difficulties she hadn’t realized she’d resented until after she’d moved out. The world had to stop when the writer was writing. Music couldn’t be too loud, or above a whisper, so working out was impossible. She’d started running because he complained every time she tried to do cardio in the living room. The vacuum could only be run with explicit permission. The dishwasher, too; it was loud. Delivering Scott lunches might have been thoughtful of her, but if he was on a word sprint, he’d bark at her for destroying his focus all the while munching on the sandwich she made him.

  If the dog barked, it was her responsibility to shut him up, and God forbid she prioritize her work over Scott’s. That was a big no-no, and it was, in the end, what ended their relationship: when she became the bigger breadwinner. When her art trumped his. That’s when he had the excuse to have those three women in those three cities to pad his ego. Because he was so miserable. Because she made him miserable.

  But with Alex, there was none of that nonsense. No unreasonable demands. No posturing. She didn’t feel like she was walking on eggshells or that her successes would somehow diminish his.

  And it was nice. Real nice.

  Maybe this is a thing that’s supposed to happen. Fanciful, yes, but when I don’t want to flush his head down the toilet, I really, really like him.

  They climbed back into Sol’s Porsche and cut their way through paparazzi taking pictures at the garage gates. The incessant flashes reminded her she needed to get shutter time at the rehearsal dinner that night, and she made a note for herself on her cell phone.

  They peeled away from the curb, Alex riding the clutch hard.

  “If you leave Sol’s transmission in the street, he’ll probably be upset,” she said.

  “That’s what he gets for driving a matchbox car instead of a real car” was his quasi-tart reply. He softened it with a smile. “Are you uncomfortable?”

  “I’m fine. Just giving you garbage at your misuse of a beautiful car.”

  “I hate this car. And you, my dear, are a sasspot.”

  “If you think I take that as an insult—” She grinned. “My mother says that a lot. That I’m sassy.”

  “Oh? Is she a sasspot, too? Is sasspot in the family line?”

  Theresa put her phone aside and leaned back in her seat, her arms folded behind her head. “Oh yes. Her name’s Ruby and she’s very much a Ruby. Brazen. Flippant. She met my father when she was serving him drinks at a bar and had to shut him off and then call security to haul him out with his friends because he was so drunk. He didn’t remember much about that night except for ‘an angel with red hair,’ so he kept going back to the bar to see her again, and then it took him three weeks just to convince her he wasn’t an arsehole and that she should go out with him. Nine children later, here we are.”

  “They sound happy,” Alex said, turning the car onto another narrow street.

  “Very. They’re my relationship goal, right up to and including the big family.”

  “Really?” Alex smiled. “You’d be up for nine?”

  “Maybe! Maybe not. I do have a career now, but if I settle down with Mr. Right, who knows? I like kids.”

  “So do I,” Alex said quietly. “I’d like to have some sooner or later, if God sees fit. It’d be nice to get a house with a big yard and putter my way into old age with a Mrs. DuMont at my side.”

  “Huh. Nine-some children, though?”

  “If I settle down with Mrs. Right, sure, why not?”

  He glanced her way, a strange, fond smile on his face. She returned it without hesitation; while it was far too soon to think along the lines of permanence, maybe, if they could traverse the bumpier paths of getting to know each other, there was hope for more. Scott never wanted children. He wasn’t devout. He would have been content to stay in an apartment for the rest of their lives, and any marriage they had would always come second to his books and quest for fame.

  Alex was not Scott.

  And that’s a very good thing.

  She slid her hand over to rest on top of his on the stick shift. His fingers grazed hers.

  Alex parked outside Weddin’ Kisses, in one of the four vacant spots reserved for Darlene’s patrons. Things had changed since they’d been there last; someone had hung a sheet in the window to block the street view. A handwritten note was fastened to the door informing customers that the shop would breathe its last breath the next Friday and that all future questions about refunds and reservations should be directed to someone named Nancy.

  Theresa climbed out of the car and up the steps. Alex followed, ducking around her to hold open the door. She winked at him as she walked inside. His hand brushed the small of her back. She shivered, because his casual touches reminded her of their not-so-casual touches from the night before.

  Which resulted in screaming orgasms.

  I like screaming orgasms.

  The bell on the door was still there, heralding their arrival with festive jingle-jangles. Inside the shop, the seating area was devoid of furniture, leaving an open space on the hand-knotted rug, the darker rectangles showing where the couches used to be.

  “’Lo!” called Tara from the back.

  Alex stepped up to the counter. The wilted flowers were gone. The photographs on the wall had been taken down and put into a box next to the printer. “Hi. Tara, it’s Alex and Theresa for the DuMont wedding.”

  Tara poked out her dark head from the back room. She wore a brown cap over her black hair, a plain white T-shirt with a pocket, and a pair of checkered brown pants that looked like she’d stolen them straight off an old man’s legs. They were too big for her by at least two sizes, but her leather belt valiantly kept them hovering above her hips.

  “Been expectin’ ya,” she said. “Made a list when yer folk called ’bout the flowers. Lemme git it. Sorry ’bout the no email thing. No innernet here an’ I don’t gots the dough ta pay fer it. Too expensive.”

  Alex smiled. “Don’t worry about it, Tara. You’ve been such a huge help.”

  “Tryin’. Darlene left a mess, bless her big dead heart.” She ducked around back. There was a rustle of papers and the hiss of a box being dragged over tile floor before a hard slam! “Got yer list.”

  She reappeared, waving a lined piece of paper with her famili
ar chicken scratch on it. “Wrote ’em in order’a likeliest. Darlene got the best rates from that shop out near the Tremé, so she used ’em lots, but they’re real exclusive—only do commercial work usually. Wanna talk ta Louisa. I’d’a called fer ya but been busier’n a one-legged man in a ass-kickin’ contest tryin’ ta close up.”

  Theresa barked laughter. “Thank you, Tara. I certainly hope someone’s compensating you for all this work.”

  “Oh, y’know. Gettin’ by.” Tara looked uncomfortable, so Theresa dropped it to be polite. Alex, however, either wasn’t as perceptive, or his desire to help exceeded proprietary expectations.

  “Do you need a job?” he asked bluntly.

  “Eh?” Tara’s dark eyes went big, casting an owlish slant to her features. “Mean, been lookin’, ayeh. Weren’ like I had notice with Darlene.”

  Alex nodded and pulled out his phone. “Talk to Sol. On Monday. It might end up being his accountant, Cylan—in case Sol has honeymoon plans—but either way, I’ll text you a time. Is the number I have good, or is there another one we should use?”

  “Yer serious?” Tara blinked fast, her eyes wet, like the tears were right there but she didn’t want to let them go.

  “As a funeral,” Alex said. “You were a personal assistant before?”

  “Well, ayeh. Some parts ’at, some parts secretary. Do it all. Went ta typin’ school an’ I gots a real good phone manner.”

  But do people understand you?

  Okay, that’s not kind. Bad, Theresa. Bad.

  Alex nodded. “He’s looking for a PA. Mentioned it just this morning. The question is, can you put up with my asshole brother? He’s a flamboyant pervert but he has a good heart and he treats his employees like family. Good pay, good benefits. Discretion and hard work are key, though.”

  “Sure! Bein’ real honest? Darlene was a real bitch most’a th’time. Movin’ over ta a run’a-the-mill pervert’d be a treat.” Tara’s eyes flitted back and forth. “Sorry fer speakin’ ill’a the dead. God rest her soul an’ such. Lemme—” She snagged the paper back from them so she could scrawl a number across the top with her name printed below. “Tha’s me. M’personal number. I’d be real happy fer the innerview.”