I smile. “She’d floor it without hesitation, laughing as if the world could never catch her.”
We sit in the rumble and let it thrum through our ribs. When I kill the engine, the silence presses in again. We’re both thinking of her.
Matt clears his throat. “So… your girl.”
I arch a brow. “She’s not my?—”
“Don’t,” he cuts me off. “You’ve had me rerouting hersecurity cam feeds through a triple-encrypted proxy just so you can watch her breathe in her sleep. She’s yours.”
I don’t argue.
Matt smirks. “How’s it going with her?”
I take a sip of beer. “Better than expected. She’s very…receptive.”
“Receptive. Is that code for she’s not calling the cops?”
“Well, she called a cop in the beginning. But we’ve moved past that.”
He laughs, taking a long drink. “Hey, as long as she’s into it, who am I to judge?”
“She’s into it,” I say.
“Just be careful, bro. You let her get too close—let her see who you really are—and it won’t be desire she feels. What’s buried in you, Bash, isn’t for the weak. And bringing her that close? That’s the most dangerous thing you could do.”
I don’t answer. Because he’s right.
I can tease her. Obsess over her. Claim her in every filthy, fucked-up way. But the truth?
No woman gets that part of me. Not ever.
Matt finishes his beer, tosses the bottle into the bin with a soft clink, and nods toward the house. “You stink, bro. Go get a shower. We’ve gotta be at Mom and Dad’s in an hour.”
Time to step out of the shadows. Be a son and brother. Even if only for an evening.
The Montclaire housesmells like every wonderful memory I’ve ever had in this home, built on butter, broth, and bone-deep love. Smoked andouille, shrimp, and garlic swirl through the air, layered over a holy trinity of onions, bell pepper, and celery. My mother’s shrimp and grits are a sermon in scent and taste.
The table is set, silver gleaming, linen napkins folded in sharptriangles. A pitcher of tea sweats beside a carafe of red wine. Voices roll through the kitchen, soft and musical, familiar as breath.
My baby sister’s laughter cuts through the chatter, high and teasing. She’s wearing a dress too short and a smile too smug.
Juliette sneaks a praline off the cooling tray, thinking our mother won’t notice. But she does, casting a sharp expression over her shoulder that makes Juju grin and pop it into her mouth anyway.
“I’m starving,” she whines.
“You’re always starving when there are pralines,” Mamère says from her perch at the table, shelling pecans like a queen on her throne. Her voice is rich and low, a French accent curling around every word. “But you never eat enough of the good stuff.”
“I eat plenty of good stuff,” Juliette says with a wink.
We all settle around the table. My mother sets down the cast-iron skillet, steam rising from a bed of creamy grits crowned with butter-seared shrimp and scallions.
Mamère lifts her rosary, beads wound tight around her wrist as always, then bows her head. “Bon Dieu, merci pour c’te belle bouffe. Bénis ceux qui l’ont préparée, et garde cette famille soudée. Amen.”
Good Lord, thank you for this beautiful meal. Bless those who prepared it, and keep this family strong. Amen.
She makes the sign of the cross, and we echo it without question. The ritual is as much a part of the meal as the food itself.
My mom clears her throat and sets the conversation in motion. “So, Bastien,” she says, reaching for the skillet of grits and shrimp, “how’s the private detective business?”
