I’m distracted for a moment. “The Zambonis are going to be decorated like Mardi Gras floats?” I only have a vague idea of what that even means, but I have an image of a huge 3-D court jester head and a million balloons and people on the float dressed in masks and feathers and lots and lots of sequins.
“Yes!” she says enthusiastically. “And each week two new businesses get to sponsor and decorate the “float” however theywant to. Just like the real parade floats. And they’ll choose what prizes get thrown out to the crowd. Of course, we’ll need people walking through the stands doing the throws, since they won’t be able to really do them from the ice. Unless…” She pauses, both talking and walking for a moment. “They might be able to throw a few things over the glass right in front.”
“That sounds…” Chaotic as hell. But I don’t say that. “Fun,” is what I go with instead.
She beams up at me. “Thanks. I think so too.”
“And then you hope that people will stay at the bed and breakfast and eat at Perks and Rec and shop at the other shops,” I say. I get it. That makes sense and is completely something someone like Nora, who doesn’t just love the town but also works for the town, would think of. Hell, it’s something her grandfather, themayor, would be all over.
“Exactly.” She looks excited and is clearly completely oblivious to the fact that I’m feeling stupidly stung by this.
I’m fucking here for hockey. If I weren’t a hockey player, I would probably never set foot in Louisiana.Maybefor Mardi Gras once or twice. But I wouldn’t even know that Rebel, Louisiana, or Perks and Rec, or Nora Delaune exist.
And I’m a fucking hockey star. I’m hurt, fine, but I still have a name synonymous with hockey. Would the hockey media and fans be interested in the story of the big star hanging out in small-town Louisiana and singing and dancing on the ice?
Yeah. Fucking probably.
This just makes sense from Nora’s point of view.
Probably from Astrid’s, too. My sister is a bestselling author and speaker. She knows about marketing and what it takes to draw in crowds. She might have even realized that Nora was the best one to talk me into this.
I have a soft spot for Nora, and I’m guessing that’s obvious to my sister.
We’re getting closer to Jackson Square. There are more people on the sidewalks and the sound of music and conversation gets louder.
“I love this area,” Nora says, definitely bouncing as she walks now.
We get to the corner of Decatur and St. Anne. The Cathedral is to our right, and Cafe Du Monde is to our left. There are people everywhere.
I look at Nora and see her face bright and happy as she takes in the people, the horse-drawn carriages waiting along the curb for passengers, the one-man band in front of Cafe Du Monde, his music case open for donations, and the street performers and artists dotted along the wrought iron fence that surrounds Jackson Square.
She turns us toward the Cathedral, and we walk until we get to the front steps, where a full jazz band is performing.
There’s a magician a few yards away, entertaining a small crowd, and four tarot card readers set up at tables along the wide mall area in front of the church.
Nora stops, watching a magician raptly. She sways slightly to the music, and I can’t resist slipping my arm around her waist and pulling her closer to my body. I love having her close to me. She has to tip her head back to meet my gaze and smile up at me. She slips her arm around my waist as well. To anyone passing by, we are clearly a couple.
“You know,” I say. “We should probably practice.”
“Practice what?”
My gaze drops to her mouth, then returns to her eyes. “If we’re dating, we need to act like a couple. We should practice when no one we know is watching, get over the bumps and awkward spots, so that when we’re around people who know us better—especially you—they won’t think that we’re acting strange.”
Her brows arch, and the corner of her mouth tips up. “You think I’m going to act strange if you’re close to me in front of people I know?”
“Well, we should make sure you don’t.”
I turn to face her more fully and drag one hand up her arm, over her bare shoulder to the back of her neck, and into her hair.
I tip her head back, and she murmurs, “I guess that’s a good point,” as I brush my lips over her.
She tastes like cappuccino and chocolate. A perfect, decadent combination.
Too bad I didn’t have more wine at dinner that I could blame on the warm, fuzzy feeling in my head and the desire to do stupid, dangerous things with her. Like fall in love.
But I’m completely sober.
Or at least I am not drunk on alcohol.
