I rolled my eyes playfully. “Okay… Maison Casteel.”
I didn’t know what I was expecting when he said lunch, but we pulled up to a little family-owned seafood shack with a sign that screamed in red letters:
“THE BEST SEAFOOD IN THE SOUTH!! DON’T DEBATE US.”
The parking lot was full. The music was loud. And the air smelled like garlic, spice, and a good time. Boosie was blasting from a speaker near the pickup window and every table was a picnic bench, half-filled with people in cutoff shorts, tank tops, and paper towels tied around their necks like bibs.
It was giving:We don’t care if you get messy. Just eat the damn food and dance while you do it.
Maison smirked, clearly proud of himself. “This is why I told you to wear the sweats.”
I laughed. “Okay, okay. You win this round.”
He left me to snag a table while he went to order, and by the time he came back, he was holding a massive brown paper bag that was steaming through the bottom and a tray of drinks that smelled suspiciously strong.
I raised a brow. “That smells strong.”
He grinned and sat down. “That’s a frozen Hurricane with an extra shot. You’re welcome.”
Then he opened the bag, and the smell hit me so hard I almost needed a moment.
Whew. The scent alone could break a fast.
He dumped it out on the paper-covered table and I saw a mound of bright red crawfish, chunks of sausage, corn, potatoes, and lemon slices all soaked in reddish-orange magic.
I blinked. “Damn.”
He laughed. “It’s a proper spread.”
“You don’t eat crawfish?” he asked, rolling up his sleeves.
“I mean… yeah. Kinda. Not a lot.I think the last time I had some was maybe three years ago at a friend’s backyard cookout.”
He stared at me like I just told him I’d never heard of Whitney Houston.
“Three years?! Girl, when crawfish season hits, we eating like it’s a holiday.”
I laughed and watched as he cracked one open effortlessly, sucking the head, peeling the tail, and tossing the shell with one smooth motion like a damn Louisiana ninja.
“Okay, show off then.”
I mimicked his motions, cracked one open, and sucked the juice from the head like he did. Except my throat immediately betrayed me and I started coughing like I just huffed hot sauce.
He nearly fell off the bench laughing. “I shoulda told you to take it slow!”
I coughed, eyes watering. “Oh my God! It’s spicy but so damn good!”
He smirked. “Baby, we’re not Creole for nothing. Our food got soul and our seasoning got bite. You’ll be good after a few more.”
And he was right. After a few more, I was knee-deep in the pile with butter dripping from my fingers, feeling like a seasoned local. We were talking, drinking, cracking shells, laughing with the couple beside us, and wiping our hands with the same raggedy napkins like we’d been doing this our whole lives together.
Then… I remembered something on my vision board.
“Taste each other’s fingers after eating hot boiled crawfish.”
I looked at Maison. He looked at me.
I wiped my mouth, leaned forward slowly, and said, “Can I check something off my board real quick?”
