“Okay,” I said, smiling into the phone. “Nine a.m., then. But if I show up and you’re not there, I’m writing about you in my journal undermen who waste people’s time.”
He laughed again. “I’ll be there. Eat, sleep, and hydrate. You’ll need the energy.”
“For what exactly?” I asked, curious and a little breathless.
“You’ll see,” he said. “Goodnight, Lyrix.”
“Goodnight, Maison.”
When the call ended, I lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling with a grin I couldn’t fight. He was charming in that casual, unbothered way that made it impossible to tell if he was flirting or just being himself. And that, somehow, made it worse.
Tomorrow, I told myself, was the first real day of my Heaux Phase.
4
Lyrix
By the time I made it back to the bar the next morning, the city was already awake. Street performers were setting up on corners, somebody’s grandma was selling pralines out of a basket, and the air smelled like coffee and sugar.
I was proud of myself, not just for being on time, but for looking damn good doing it. I wore a black bodysuit that hugged just right, some loose denim shorts, and my black and white Dunks. My curls were up in a puff and my lip gloss was glossier than my future.
When I walked into the bar, Maison was already there behind the counter. He looked up and gave me that slow, appreciative look that started at my shoes and worked its way up until it met my eyes.
He smiled. “Glad to see you were smart enough to wear comfortable shoes,” he said. “We got a lot of walking to do today.”
I raised a brow, smiling back. “Walking? I don’t go on vacation to work out.”
“You’ll survive. You’ll be having too much fun to notice.”
“You say that now, but if I pass out somewhere, I’m haunting you.”
“That’s cool,” he said, still grinning. “You ate yet?”
I shook my head. “Nope. I was running late. And by running late, I mean staring at the closet too long trying to figure out which outfit says ‘I’m here for a good time, not for a long time.’”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Perfect. That just made my job easier. We’ll start with food.”
I leaned against the counter. “Breakfast?”
“Brunch,” he corrected, grabbing his keys from behind the bar. “It’s New Orleans. We don’t just eat breakfast. We flirt with lunch too.”
I tilted my head, amused. “That’s supposed to sound smooth?”
He opened the door and motioned for me to follow. “Did it work?”
I smiled. “Unfortunately.”
The morning sun hit the street just right, and for the first time since I’d landed, I felt steady.. still a little reckless and unpredictable, but steady in the kind of way that felt like a good sign.
“Alright, Tourist,” he said as we started walking. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”
“Oh, I’ll keep up,” I said, slipping on my shades and falling in step beside him. “Just don’t forget who you’re dealing with. I trained for this moment.”
Maison led me down a few blocks, weaving through like he was born knowing every shortcut. Music played from somewhere, the smell of food in the air, a man on the corner yelling “Blessings!” like he was handing them out.
We stopped in front of this little spot tucked between two buildings. No flashy sign. No line out the door. Just a worn covering and blues music floating through a cracked window.
I blinked. “This is it?”
