“I’m working the evening shift,” I tell Jean-Pierre, setting my watering pot aside and wagging a finger at Yard when he stops at the window to gaze up at me hopefully.
Ever since my pound pup nearly hung himself by getting his head stuck between the balcony’s wrought-iron balusters, he’s not allowed out here unless invited. His ears droop dejectedly before he flops onto the hardwood floor, his back turned to me in canine pique.
“Isn’t dis your night off?” Jean-Pierre frowns.
“Chrissy’s sick, so I’m covering for her.” I drop onto the chaise I’ve pushed into the corner with a heavy sigh. “That place keeps me busier than a moth in a mitten. It might be the death of me yet. Just you wait and see.”
“Please,” he scoffs as he leans his elbows against the balcony’s top rail. The sky above him is a Monet painting in soft pastels. “Don’t act like ya don’t love dat bar like I love my mawmaw’s red beans and rice. You probablywantedChrissy to take da night off so you’d have an excuse to go in.”
I cross my arms defensively. “She wassniffling yesterday during the afternoon shift, and who wants to buy drinks from a bartender with a cold?”
He shakes his head. “When’s da last time you took a day for yourself?”
“Tuesday.”
“Awholeday.”
Busted. “I don’t know. Was it sometime last month?”
“You askin’ me?” One dark eyebrow wings up his forehead and I battle the urge to shove it down with my thumb. Then whoopsie! My thumb might slip into his eye.
“Don’t give me that look.” I point to his face.
“What look?”
“That you-aren’t-takin’-care-of-yourself look. I don’t need a mother hen clucking over my shoulder. I need…”
I trail off. Honestly, I don’t knowwhatI need. I’ve been restless lately. Change is in the air, but I can’t tell if it’s good change or bad change, and that makes me nervous. When I’m nervous, I work.
There are worse traits, right? I mean, what if when I got nervous I drank, or holed up in my house with the blinds drawn, or took to tearing my hair out in chunks? My point being, working too much is downright American.
“A man,” Jean-Pierre says with a decisive sniff.
“Huh? What man?”
“Any man.”
I blink at him owlishly. “What are you talking about?”
“You.”
“Huh?” I ask again, proving I should write sonnets.
Jean-Pierre takes pity on me. “What you need is a man,maisyeah? Someone to take you out dancin’. Someone to tug at your heartstrings. Someone to make youforget.”
Forget. If only.
“You volunteering for the job?” I ask with a cocked eyebrow.
He makes a face of regret. “Me, I’d be da first in line if da good Lord saw fit to make me dat way.”
All my affection for him is in my smile. “I know. And I love you too. But I need a man about as much as I need a back pocket on this shirt. My relationships never work out, and I don’t want Aunt Bea frowning down her nose at me when another one crashes and burns. Besides, I don’t have time for romance. Halloween’s coming up. Then there’s Thanksgiving and Christmas. Before you know it, it’ll be Carnival season, and I’ll be run so ragged it’ll take most of spring for me to recover.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but something below snags his attention. Turning, he hangs over the balcony and lets loose with a soft wolf whistle. Jean-Pierre has impeccable taste in men, so even though I’ve just said I don’t need one in my life, I can’t deny my curiosity. I get up to see who’s caught his eye.
No sooner do I peek over the railing than I jerk back and plaster myself against the brick wall between my apartment’s two front windows. Blood roars in my ears. My stomach takes a nose dive.
“Soc au’ lait!” Jean-Pierre exclaims, pressing a hand over his heart.
