Until I met the man beside me, I never realized how small my world was. Ever since Angelica, I seem to have forgotten how to make real friends. I can’t connect with people, so this magnetic pull between Brody and me has proven difficult to comprehend. Ironic, given my field of study.
Like every other freshman in my major, I took Psychology of Human Sexuality, though I sense that I didn’t appreciate the course then as much as I would today.
Looking back, I understand that my walls were up. I wasn’t willing to lower them enough to let anyone in. I didn’t grasp the power of chemistry beyond romance novels and rom-coms, neither of which were my favorites.
When it comes to attraction, psychology often focuses on theories rather than absolutes. I get that now. A lot of variables factor into the different ways attraction works.
Physical factors play a role, of course. Biologically speaking, do I want to jump Brody’s bones?
Abso-fucking-lutely. Physically, he’s a beautiful specimen.
Sociocultural factors matter too. Since we come from similar backgrounds and the same sort of family, our surface-level attraction makes sense.
The biggest theory—off the charts where we’re concerned—involves the physiological processes that occur to create attraction. I’m talking about the body’s involuntary response to another person, like a racing heart. A surge of dopamine. Driven by brain chemistry, the rational, thinking mind has no say in how or when the switch flips on.
What’s happening between us is a theory that can only be proven by the two people experiencing the reaction.
He gives me a squeeze, bringing me back to the city street as we drift away from the musician and step into a crosswalk. “Lucky for you, I’ve come here a time or two on business. I can show you the ropes.”
“What about the running-for-our-lives thing?”
His brow crinkles like a newspaper. “Hold that thought.”
Brody steps away from me and extracts his phone. To call…Declan, maybe?
A hissing little serpent of doubt tickles the base of my skull. I realize he can’t just abandon his family right away. He needs to pretend he’s still working for his father, at least until we connect with Finn’s men.
But…what if he’s not pretending? What if I’m the one he’s really lying to?
I push my misgivings away. No. I trust Brody. He wouldn’t do that. Not with the way Declan’s always treated him.
Thirty seconds later, he ends the call with a grin. “Declan and I just agreed on something for the first time in this century.” Brody plants a kiss on my lips. “The city is ours for a day or two. Let’s explore.”
Just like that, physiology kicks in, and I’m damp between my thighs.
I’ll touch base with Finn later.“Okay.”
“We’re about ten minutes from the Ritz. Let’s grab a room first.”
Though I’m no New Orleans expert, I do know that the Ritz is on Canal Street, in the heart of the city.
My chest warms when I realize he intends to give us the full NOLA experience.
We detour on the way, weaving in and out of tourist shops so we can buy clothes and toiletries, along with a duffel bag to carry them in.
About a half hour later, we enter the most lavish hotel lobby I’ve ever seen.
His sister Maeve’s hotel is a baby compared to this place. The building is over a century old. The Cypress showcases modern architecture with a classic Hollywood vibe. The Ritz, on the other hand, is Beaux Arts style, an homage to old-world France.
High arched ceilings. Five-hundred-pound glass chandeliers. Marble everywhere with plush Eastern rugsslathered all over the floor. The walls pop with heavy wallpaper and vibrant colors.
Though fully booked for the Christmas season, someone just canceled their reservation for the honeymoon suite.
Brody pays the exorbitant rate without blinking.
As we waltz into our room, with its four-poster bed buried under piles of white sheets with a velvet fuchsia comforter folded open, I can’t help the laugh that tumbles from my mouth. With the ornate gas fireplace opposite the bed and all the little luxuries and diamonded teal-and-gold walls, the scene would fit into a fairy tale.
All I can focus on, though, is getting Brody out of those stranger’s jeans.
