By episode seven, we were naked under the covers again. By episode ten, I had one leg propped up and a chicken wing in my hand while he kissed my thigh.
Don’t judge us.Balance.
Between episodes, we ate leftover gumbo, nibbled on pralines from Loretta’s, and popped open a bottle of wine he had stashed away, because of course, that intentional-ass man kept wine on deck.
And then we’d crash, just wrapped around each other like we had years of practice. It was funny when you thought about it.
“I don’t even know your last name,” I laughed into his neck as we laid across the couch.
He laughed. “I don’t know yours either. But I’ve seen you naked, cooked with you naked, danced with you in the middle of Bourbon, and I’m about 90% sure I’d kill somebody for you at this point.”
I snorted. “That’s the wildest part of all this. We acting like a whole couple.”
“We are a couple. A 8 day, Heaux Phase Limited Edition.”
“Limited edition,” I repeated, giggling.
“But high quality,” he added, lifting my chin and kissing me slow.
I melted into him. There was something deeply romantic about watching a show with someone who let you pause every ten minutes to discuss character development like it was real life. Something intimate about falling asleep on the couch together mid-episode and waking up hours later still wrapped up tight.
We didn’t need a fancy dinner or rooftop views that day. We had wine breath, soft laughs, bare thighs, and a show that gave us enough drama to talk about until bedtime.
It was chill. It was cozy. It was soft. It was everything.
I woke up the next day to sunlight slicing through Maison’s windows like a soft reminder that New Orleans doesn’t sleep, but we apparently did.
My body was so rested, it didn’t even register that we had fallen asleep on the damn couch. Wrapped in a blanket, legs tangled like we paid bills together. I didn’t even remember falling asleep, which meant it had to be good.
I stretched and turned toward him slowly, not trying to wake him. And… I just watched him sleep.
Yes. I’m that girl. The stare-at-you-while-you-snore girl.
His chest rose and fell so calm, his lips barely parted, and I could see that hint of a smirk even in his sleep. I couldn’t help but smile.
And then laugh.
Because what the hell was I doing?
I covered my mouth and whispered to myself, “Girl, what the fuck?”
Like, be serious. For all I know, he could have 12 kids and a baby mama who’ll bust through the door swinging. Hell, he might even be a felon. And there I was laid up like I already stalked his socials and scanned the comment section for red flags.
Chile.
Before I could spiral too deep into my investigative thoughts, he opened his eyes—like his internal body clock had me on his radar.
He looked at me and smiled that sleepy, sexy smile that should be illegal.
Then he said,
“My name is Maison Casteel. I’m 34. I have a daughter, she’s 13, but she lives in Florida with her mom.”
I blinked.
EXCUSE ME?!
Was this man psychic? Did he put a little voodoo root on my soul while I was asleep Because how in the entire fuck was he reading my mind like that? But he wasn’t done.
