He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Spirit says you already thinking too loud, sugar,” she teased, gathering her cards. “Go on now before I start tellin’ all your business.”
We stepped back outside, both of us blinking like we’d just been released from a confessional. I was still fanning myself with the pamphlet she’d handed me about “aligning my sacred energy.”
Maison broke first. “Damn,” he said, laughing. “I didn’t know you were that… uh—”
“—horny?” I finished for him.
He laughed louder. “I was trying to be respectful, but yeah.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t act surprised. She said what she said. And she wasn’t wrong, either.”
“Oh, she wasn’t?”
“Nope,” I said, smirking. “Matter of fact, I can’t wait to get back to my hotel and introduce myself to my rose again.”
He almost tripped on the sidewalk laughing. “You? Nah, you don’t look like a rose girl.”
“I absolutely am,” I said proudly. “She does her job. Honestly, she eats better than a lot of men ever could.”
Maison stopped walking, staring at me. Then he started laughing again. “You are… different.”
“I prefer refreshed,” I said, sipping my water.
He shook his head, still grinning. “How long are you in town, Miss Refreshed?”
I checked my phone. “It’s February 7th. I leave the day after Valentine’s Day. So… a week.”
He nodded once. “Noted.”
I raised a brow. “And what exactly does that mean?”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Let’s finish our day and see.”
The rest of the afternoon felt like a movie I didn’t want to end. Maison turned into the kind of tour guide you don’t get on the internet. No maps, no schedules, just instinct. He walked me through the Quarter, pointing out murals and balconies older than most people’s family trees. Every corner had a story.
He took me to a small museum tucked between two townhouses. A place that celebrated Black artistry and the birth of jazz. Inside, the air smelled like history and dust and brass.
“This,” he said, stopping in front of an old trumpet encased in glass, “belonged to my uncle’s friend. He used to play at a club back in the day. Said the music saved him more times than church did.”
I smiled, watching him. There was something about the way he spoke that made you feel the city through him.
From there, he led me into Treme. The streets felt alive in a different way. Maison slowed his pace, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the block like he belonged to it.
“This is the oldest Black neighborhood in America,” he said quietly. “Still holds the most stories. You can feel them if you listen close enough.”
I did. The sound of a drum floated from somewhere nearby, faint but rhythmic. The wind carried the smell of home-cooked food and blooming magnolias.
We walked for a while without talking, just soaking it all in.
“You really love it here,” I said finally.
He looked over at me, that easy smile returning. “It’s in my blood. This city teaches you how to survive and celebrate at the same time. Every block’s got pain, but it still dances. You feel that?”
I nodded. “Yeah. It’s… grounding. Beautiful and heavy at the same time.”
“Exactly.” He looked around again. “It reminds you that even broken things can sing.”
