She laughed, too, shaking her head. “Honey, everyone’s French Market material.”
I smiled, my mind still spinning with possibilities. Marie Antoinette didn’t know it, but she’d just handed me exactly what I needed.
8
LUKE
Why didI think this would be a good idea?
I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror while I waited for Anna to ring the doorbell. I had to admit, I’d outdone myself. The disguise was perfect. A battered straw fedora tilted just so, dark aviators covering half my face, and a thrift-store Hawaiian shirt that screamed,“I’m definitely not famous.”That, paired with khaki shorts and flip-flops, and I was practically unrecognizable. Just another middle-aged dad on vacation.
As soon as Anna spotted me, her eyes flicked up and down, and a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. She tilted her head as she took in the full glory of my disguise.
“You look like you just stepped off a Bourbon Street party bus. You’ll fit right in. Everyone’ll think you’re a tourist here for a bachelor party.”
I stared at her, unsure if she was serious. “Is that a compliment or an insult?” I asked, tugging at the collar of my Hawaiian shirt.
“It’s an observation. But”—she gave me a pointed look—“we’re not going with your bodyguards.”
“Yes, we are.” That wasn’t negotiable.
She rolled her eyes. “This is New Orleans. They’ll stand out more than you do.”
“They’ll be inconspicuous,” I argued, pulling out my phone to text them.
“Inconspicuous? They’re built like tanks. You’ll getmoreattention with them trailing behind you.”
“They’re not just for show. If something goes sideways, they can handle it. Crowds getting too close? Fans figuring out who I am? These guys get me out of sticky situations before they escalate.”
Anna raised an eyebrow. “Do you think people are going to swarm you at the French Market? This isn’t a red carpet.”
“You’d be surprised. I’ve been mobbed at a gas station before. One photo gets out, and it’s chaos. Trust me, these guys have saved me from more than one awkward escape. And they’re trained to be subtle.”
Anna shook her head, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Fine. Bring your tanks. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when everyone in the market starts whispering about the linebacker squad shadowing Hawaiian Shirt Guy.”
* * *
An hour later,Anna and I stood at the edge of the French Market, the scent of fried dough and spice wafting through the air. Hal and Tom trailed behind us. They wore cheap sunglasses and held café au lait cups as props.
“See?” I gestured toward them. “Totally inconspicuous.”
“If you think two guys the size of refrigerators wearing ‘I Heart Bourbon Street’ T-shirts are inconspicuous, we need to talk.”
I ignored her, focusing on the market ahead of me. It was a feast for the senses. Colorful stalls overflowed with beads, paintings, and food; the buzz of voices mingled with the wail of a saxophone; and the rich aroma of pralines mixed with the tang of hot sauce.
Anna weaved through it all like she owned the place. I followed behind, trying to look as casual as possible. That’s when I saw someone pointing.
A woman near a booth of hand-painted masks was nudging her friend, her eyes fixed on me. My pulse spiked.
“They’re pointing,” I hissed to Anna, my voice low.
She barely glanced at them. “They’re pointing at the masks being sold over there. Relax.”
“No,” I insisted, leaning slightly closer to her. “They’re pointing at me.”
Anna stopped walking, her hands on her hips. “Luke, you’re wearing sunglasses that could double as ski goggles and a hat that looks like you bought it on Canal Street five minutes ago. No one thinks you’re famous. They think you’re a lost tourist.”
But I couldn’t shake the feeling. Another nudge from the woman, followed by another glance in my direction. I had to act. I pretended to browse a display of decorative vases at the nearest stall.
