He looked entirely too pleased with himself. “See? I knew you’d come around.”
I didn’t bother telling him that what I’dactuallywrite about wasn’t the city. No way. Because standing there, dripping water onto the ground, and talking about disguises, this golden god was basically begging to be turned into a character. Into the character of a man who didn’t want anyone to know who he really was.
Let him think he’d convinced me to write some love letter to New Orleans. That was fine. I’d write my story. The one I didn’t even know I’d been waiting for until now.
This would be the end of my writer’s block. And if I had to show around a conceited movie star to make it happen, well, so be it.
Luke grinned that perfect smile, and I tilted my head, feigning indifference. “Meet me at the front gate tomorrow morning.”
“Fine,” I said. “Tomorrow. And please wear clothes.” I shut the door before he could respond, but I couldn’t help smiling as I turned away. Maybe this deal wouldn’t be such a disaster after all.
* * *
By the timeI arrived at Muses for my shift that night, my brain was still tangled up in the possibility of writing about Luke Fisher. A fictional Luke Fisher, of course.
The warm glow of Muses’ neon sign lit up the sidewalk, and as I pushed open the door, the familiar scent of citrus cleaner, stale beer, and a hint of something smoky hit me like a weirdly comforting slap. Behind the bar stood Marie Antoinette, red hair piled on top of her head in an elaborate bun, with a few curls escaping to frame her face. She was wearing a T-shirt that read “Let Them Drink Rum” in sparkly gold letters.
“Anna Banana,” she called, her Louisiana drawl rolling out as she slid a fresh cocktail to one of the regulars. “You’re late.”
I glanced at the clock and frowned. “It’s 6:02.”
My friend leaned over the bar, narrowing her cat-like green eyes. “Exactly. That’s two minutes of valuable gossip time wasted. Now, tell me everything about the mysterious Englishman. What did you say his name was? Nigel... Brandywine?”
I grabbed an apron from behind the bar. “Pimmington.”
She froze mid-motion, her hand clutching a shaker. She stared at me like I’d just told her the ghost of Marie Laveau was mixing drinks in the back room. “Pimmington? What is he, the long-lost heir to the Pimm’s Cup empire?”
“Pretty sure he’s just a regular guy,” I lied, though my voice wavered slightly. “Well, sort of regular.”
She cocked her head. “Sort of?Oh no, Anna Banana, you don’t get to drop breadcrumbs like that and not deliver the full loaf.”
I ducked my head, pretending to focus on organizing the glasses behind the bar. My cheeks burned at the thought of Marie Antoinette finding out the truth. She’d probably declare it the most significant scandal to hit New Orleans since the pirate Lafitte smuggled goods into the French Quarter.
“Nothing to spill,” I said quickly, waving her off. “Hey, are you still doing those ghost tours in the Quarter?”
Her eyes narrowed, but her lips twitched like she was trying not to smile. “Why do you ask? Thinking of joining my merry band of haunted historians?”
I smirked and shook my head. “No, just curious. What’s the weirdest thing that’s ever happened on one of your tours?”
Her entire demeanor shifted, her green eyes lighting up as she leaned on the bar. “Oh, baby, where do I even start?” Her drawl practically dripped with drama. “There was the guy who claimed a ghost slapped him on the butt outside Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop. He yelped so loudly, I thought he saw a real banshee. Then there was the tourist who fainted after swearing she saw Marie Laveau herself crossing the street. And my all-time favorite? The guy who tried to bribe me into ‘summoning a ghost’ for his girlfriend. He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and said, ‘Just make something float or something.’ ‘Honey,’ I told him, ‘This is New Orleans, not Hogwarts.’”
I laughed, wiping down the bar. “You’re making that up.”
She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Darlin’, I don’t have to. The truth in this town is stranger than fiction.” She tilted her head, giving me that all-knowing tour guide look. “Speaking of truth, what are you digging for? You didn’t just ask about my stories for fun.”
I deflected with a shrug. “What’s the most popular tour you lead these days? Still the spooky stuff?”
“Ghosts always sell.” She straightened her posture, as if she were addressing a crowd. “But the real money’s in the scandals-and-secrets tours. People love dirty laundry. Whether it’s old-money feuds, cursed inheritances, or dueling politicians. I tell them about a society belle sneaking off with her lover while her husband’s throwing a masquerade ball, and suddenly everyone’s hanging on my every word.”
I nodded, pretending to focus on restocking cocktail napkins. “So, if someone’s new to New Orleans, what would you tell them to check out first? You know, if they’re more into people-watching than scandals or ghosts?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “The French Market.” She twirled a bottle of rum like a baton. “If you want to see New Orleans in all its messy, colorful glory, go there. You’ll see it all—the locals, the tourists, the artists, the street performers, and, of course, the food. You’ll get a little bit of everything, like Cajun spices, Creole crafts, and enough personality to fill a riverboat.”
“That’s a good tip,” I admitted, tucking the idea away in my mental notebook.
She leaned closer, her grin widening. “You thinking of taking this Pimmington fella there? You know, showing him therealNew Orleans?”
I choked on a laugh. “Absolutely not. He’s not exactly French Market material.”
