Auntie June says that New Orleans is unique in that it abides by the idea of consequence. Most folks in this city wake up having no idea what the day will bring. Whether they’ll go to bed with a smile on their face or tears on their cheeks. But whichever it is, they know their interactions throughout the day will havemattered.
There’s a real sense ofmake it counthere that other places are missing,she claims.
As I turn back to Luc, I feel her sentiment keenly. A lot hinges on tonight. Itmatters. And I’m determined to make it count.
Of course, five hours later, I realize when it comes to making it count, Luc is high king. He took me to Coop’s Place for dinner. He knows their jambalaya is just about my favorite thing on the entire planet. Then we walked over to a spot in the Marigny neighborhood and danced to a zydeco band until we were hot and sweaty. He requested they play the song we heard that night when he taught me to waltz, and all these years later, he still let me kick out of my shoes and stand on his toes while he twirled me around the dance floor.
We laughed. We drank. We talked like old friends do. And we touched. A lot.
We’re touching now as we head down the sidewalk back toward The Quarter. His hand is on my back, carefully steering me around the cracks in the sidewalk. It’s huge and hard and hot and… Okay, so please don’t take away my card-carrying feminist status, but Ilikethe way it makes me feel cherished. Protected.
The stars are out. The city is sparkling with light. And off in the distance, the low rumble of the river matches the rush of my heart.
Tonight has been…thrilling. And comfortable.
How is it possible to feel both those things at once?
“How are those shoes treating you?” he asks when I hobble.
“They’re the devil,” I admit. “But they’re adorable, so they’re totally worth the pain.”
He shakes his head. “I’ll never understand women.”
I slant him a glance. “On the contrary, from all I’ve heard, you understand women very well.”
The smile he gives me is… Well, there’s simply no other word for it. It’s seductive.
Another shiver races down my spine.
When a carriage mule plods past us, Luc hails the driver. “Hey, mister! You still on the clock?”
“Just finished my shift,” the driver says, pulling off his tricorn hat and running his fingers through the twenty or so gray hairs left atop his head. He’s wearing a black vest atop a frilly white shirt. The entire getup is enough to make a pirate smile.
“You think you got one more ride in you? We’re only heading over to the spice shop on St. Louis Street.” Luc pulls out his wallet. “I can make it worth your while.”
The driver tugs on the reins, and the mule’s ears pin back against its head. Even as it trudges to a stop, I swear it eyes me sullenly. It was ready for the barn and some hay, and it’s blaming me for the delay.
The driver says he’ll do it for twenty bucks, and I tell Luc, “No way. It’s only another ten blocks.”
“Lemme take you on a carriage ride, woman,” is all he says, handing the money to the carriage man and helping me up into the leather seat. His hands on my waist,spanningmy waist, make my breath escape me in one quick exhale. And it’s not until I’m sitting down that it comes back to me.
It’s late, so the buskers have turned in for the night. There’s only a low murmur of music in the distance and the hollowclip-clopof the mule’s hooves against the street.
When I lay my head on Luc’s shoulder, he takes my hand. His palm is hard with calluses, but his fingers are gentle.
“You were right earlier,” I tell him quietly, staring into the darkened windows of the shops as we go by.
“About what?”
“About having a wonderful time tonight. In fact, this might go down in history as one of the best first dates ever.”
A deep, satisfied rumble sounds in his chest, making something hot and wild unfurl low in my belly.
It’s weird to want someone who’s been my friend for so long, someone whom I’ve only recently begun to think of as anythingmorethan a friend. But weirdness aside, I find myself wondering if he’ll kiss me once we reach my apartment. Will there bemorethan a kiss?
A giddy anticipation fizzes through my veins, making my skin feel overly sensitized. Even the soft brush of the breeze against my cheeks is a sensual caress.
We pass the leatherworking store with the front window showcasing masquerade masks. Some are traditional, bedecked with beads and feathers and rhinestones. Others are more fanciful. There’s one with antlers and another with bunny ears. But the one that catches my eye is shaped like Batman’s mask.
