“Early enough that you should already be in the car.”
I glanced at the clock on Luca’s nightstand. “Give me twenty-five minutes.”
“Make it twenty.”
The line went dead.
I lowered the phone and glanced back at Luca.
He was still in the bed behind me, propped on one elbow. “Let me guess,” he said. “The cavalry.”
“Eamon.”
“And he’s early.”
“Yes.”
“Is that a personality trait?”
“It is.”
Luca pushed the sheet aside and sat up. Morning light from the tall window caught his shoulder and the long line of his back as he reached for his shirt from the floor.
I had been in New Orleans for less than two full weeks. I had not expected to become familiar with Luca Moreau’s bedroom.
“Is he the intimidating type?” Luca asked, pulling on his jeans.
“Only to people who deserve it.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
He stood, rolled up his cuffs, and crossed the room to the door, passing close enough that the back of his hand brushed my wrist. It was casual enough that anyone else might have missed it.
I didn’t. I followed him downstairs.
The kitchen still held the quiet aftermath of the previous evening. Two Burgundy glasses waited beside the sink, and Celeste’s dessert plate sat abandoned near the cutting board.
Luca moved directly to the coffeepot.
“Airport pickup,” he said over his shoulder. “You have time for coffee.”
“I have time to smell the coffee brewing.”
“That’s pessimistic.”
“That’s experience.”
Luca started a full pot anyway. As he leaned back against the counter, his shirt was still only half-buttoned.
“You look like a man who slept well,” he said.
“I slept.”
“For what it’s worth, you’re not the first person in this house to violate their own rules.”
“I haven’t violated anything.”
“You’re picking up your boss twenty minutes after leaving my bed.”
