When we find a table, he relays that to the waitress. I don’t know why I ordered that. Red wine gives me a headache. It just popped out. My favorite drink isn’t something ordered often, so it’s another one of those tidbits that can allude to an identity. It’s best to give up everything.
A half hour into our meal, I’m mesmerized by the mustache again. Don’t ask me why. I don’t generally have anything against mustaches. I like facial hair. But this one is very …Yosemite Sam. And sometimes, my mind latches on to something, and there’s no letting go. This time, I’m consumed by the possibility of food landing in it. I’ll have to forgo those skydiving plans if that happens.
The waitress interrupts my preoccupation, grabbing some of our plates as she looks at me. “Can I interest you in a chicory coffee or a French 75?”
For a split second, I forget to breathe. Those are both staples of NOLA. Things I love. But that means …
Panic rips through me, my spine snapping ramrod straight. My date starts rubbing my back, asking if I’m okay, right as any remaining air in my lungs bubbles up to my throat.
Ryker Noire is standing behind the waitress.My Ryker.Here. With two champagne flutes.
He found me.
I’m not sure what to do. Jump up and hug him? Run? Smile? Cry?
My heart hurts.
He sets one flute down in front of me, his cool-azure eyes twinkling as he winks. “Let’s go with the French 75 now, enjoy the night, and we’ll have chicory coffee in the morning with our pancakes.”
As fucked up as my head is, that makes me laugh. Leave it to Ryker to hunt me down, show up out of the blue, and lead with some cheesy pickup line. Even outside of his kingdom, he still carries himself like royalty.
Case in point: He’s at a street fair in a custom-made black suit that costs more than most people’s homes. And he looks … lethal.
“Is this a friend of yours, Alice?” my date asks, his gaze ping-ponging between my blanched face and Ryker’s smug one.
“Aliceis definitely not a friend of mine.” Ryker pulls out a chair and takes a seat as the waitress scurries away.
“Oh … so do I sense a rivalry here or a childhood frenemy? Exes? Or …”
This night is taking a bizarre turn. None of that is accurate, and yet, maybe after everything, some of it fits. My heart thumps wildly against my rib cage. In my temples. Toes. Everywhere.
“Ry—” I stop short of using his full name, foolishly close to dropping a detail that would have compromised my placement. Maybe that one syllable already did, but I quell those frazzled nerves. “This is, um … I’d like you to meet …”
Oh, holy mother of God, I have no flipping idea what this guy’s name is.
Ryker laughs—big and boisterous and haughty—offering his hand to Mustache Man sitting beside me. “It seemsAlice’stongue is tied.”
They shake hands and exchange a weird, alpha, tight-jawed grunt-chuckle. It’s a thing, I swear.
“It sure does. I’m Chad Williams.”
Chad. That’s it.
Both of them whip their heads to me. One amused. One scorned.
I must have said that out loud.Shit.
Before I can interject anything, Chad slides my wineglass in front of me, and some silent conversation transpires between them.
“She ordered wine,” he asserts, “and we’re almost ready to move on with our night, so thank you for the cocktail, but we’re good.”
That’s bold, considering I didn’t know his name thirty seconds ago, but whatever. This isn’t the time to get hung up on stuff. The town is small. This is going to bring unwanted attention to me.
Ryker sips his French 75, simpering, like he’s in on a secret—one about poisoning Chad. “Alice may have ordered Merlot, but she reminds me of someone. Andthat girlgot headaches from red wine, so I showed up with something Alice would enjoymore.”
As much as my brain wants to dissect that because it sounded like it wasn’t really about alcohol, I’m not going to. Taking this conversation at face value is stressful enough. But I am an exhausted single mom who never goes out, my orgasm aspirations have seemingly crashed and burned, and this champagne cocktail is my favorite drink—a drink with a lot of memories.
Unable to resist, I help myself to a hefty sip, pleasantly surprised that it’s made our way. “So much better with cognac.”
