Yes, she had been planning to eventually return to Belle Maison, but one look at the distress on his face and Phil decided to spare him.
“You were,” he said in a pained voice.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “The house is yours, Jamal. You paid a nice sum of money for it. Believe me, I know what the asking price was.” Phil gestured for him to follow her. “Come on. I haven’t eaten since lunch. I’m starving.”
He stood there for a few more moments, that mixture of regret and apology in his eyes. If he said one more thing about the house, she would scream. But he didn’t. Instead, he walked over to the door and held it open for her.
“After you.”
Jamal sat at the Formica-topped table at Mother’s Restaurant, watching Phylicia as she bit into her sandwich. How he could be so turned on by a woman with gravy running down her chin, he didn’t know.
Actually, he did. Sitting across from him, she looked downright edible.
“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind for dinner,” he commented, looking around the understated dining room that was just a step up from Jessie’s carport. “But this food proves that you should never judge a book by its cover.”
“I cannot believe you’ve lived here over a year and have never eaten a po’boy from Mother’s,” Phylicia said. “Presidents have eaten here. It’s legendary.”
“As evident by that never-ending line.” Jamal pointed to the stream of people still filtering in. They’d waited in that line for more than an hour, but it hadn’t been a hardship with Phylicia as company. “You were telling me about how you and Mya managed to get yourselves arrested,” he said. “We’re not leaving until I get the rest of the story.”
She rolled her eyes. “We didn’t get arrested. At least charges were never filed. Mya’s grandpa smoothed things over with Mrs. Jackson by promising to bring her fresh vegetables from his garden for a year.”
“But you stole the woman’s car.”
“Weborrowedher car,” Phylicia said. A sneaky smile drifted across her face. “I still can’t believe we did that. It was all Mya’s fault. No, actually, it was Corey’s fault. He’s the one who went to baseball camp in Covington for an entire month and told Mya he would explode if he didn’t see her. And, like the lovestruck fool she was, she went running.”
“And you helped her. What does that say about you?”
“Who was I to crush young love?” she said with a laugh. “Anyway, we never told Mya’s grandpa exactly why we took Mrs. Jackson’s car. He probably would have had Corey locked up if he knew.”
“Is that the most trouble you’ve ever gotten into?” he asked.
She nodded as she forked a helping of potato salad. “I was a pretty good kid. There wasn’t too much mischief to get into in Gauthier. What about you?” she asked. “Were you a troublemaker?”
Jamal shook his head. “I was the apple of my parents’ eyes.” Too bad that apple had started to rot over the past few years, at least as far as his father was concerned. “I had ample opportunity to get into trouble, but it just never interested me,” he said. “I was too busy trying to learn as much as I could about that eco-friendly stuff you hate so much.”
“I told you before that I don’t hate it. I just think it has its place.”
“Which happens tonotbe in the Victorian, right?” He laughed. “You’re going to be impressed with the way I integrate this new technology into that house.”
“It takes a lot to impress me,” she returned before taking a sip of her iced tea.
“I guess I have my work cut out for me,” he murmured.
The air crackled with electric heat. It pulsed like a living, breathing entity between them.
“Are you ready to head to the club?” Phylicia asked.
They had walked to the restaurant from the prime parking spot Jamal had found just a few yards away from the jazz club in the French Quarter. Mirroring the route they’d taken, they turned left down South Peters Street, walking past the bright lights of Ceasar’s Casino. They made their way along Decatur Street, maneuvering around a crowd that had gathered to watch a couple of street performers. Jamal took a chance at reaching for her hand and experienced an overwhelming sense of accomplishment when she didn’t pull away but instead threaded her fingers with his.
“You ever work on any of these buildings?” he asked as they strolled along Saint Louis Street in the heart of New Orleans’s most famous neighborhood.
“Several of them.” She nodded. “My dad and I used to drive into the city at least twice a month to do restoration work.”
“You enjoyed working with him.” It was more a statement than a question.
“Absolutely,” she said. “I never considered doing anything else. It’s been a part of me for as long as I can remember.”
“I can tell how much you love it. It shows in the care you take when you work.”
