Chapter 16 #2
I shake my head. “No. Well, a little. I’ve been practicing a lot at night. That, combined with performing, it’s a lot. My hands haven’t seen this much action in years.” And then I grin. “Well, except for maybe for this one night about a month ago…”
Her cheeks flame red. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you just said that! And on a public street!”
I chuckle and take her bag. This time, she doesn’t argue. “Cupid, this is the French Quarter. I doubt there isn’t much these streets haven’t seen or heard.”
We turn a corner and change directions. She doesn’t ask why, and I cherish that bit of trust she’s given me. We meander down a couple more blocks, and I drop a few more bills for some amazing performers, prompting Zara to tug on my wallet and say, “How many do you have in there?”
I laugh, and I realize that if I had to count how many times I’ve laughed today, I would have lost track.
We finally make it to our destination, and as soon as that green and white awning is in our sightline, her eyes light up.
“Really?”
I shrug, trying to play it cool. “You can’t come to New Orleans without stopping here.”
“Oh my god, I am going to eat my weight in beignets.”
“Don’t forget the coffee. I know you’re not a huge fan of it, but I hope you’ll make an exception this one time.”
“How do you know that?”
“You ordered a chai this morning.”
“Oh, right.” She nods, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.
“And I might have stalked you a little during breakfast this last week,” I add. “Does your doctor know about your croissant addiction?”
She laughs, then rolls her eyes. “Just wait until you see me devour a beignet.”
Ten minutes later, we’re seated at a table inside—I love air conditioning—and have just placed our order. Because it’s still early in the season, Café du Monde is busy but not swamped.
“Thank you for taking me out today,” she says. “I thought I was okay spending the weekend in my room, but this was really special.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply. “But you should know I didn’t do this as some sort of favor. I wanted to spend the day with you. In fact, you should probably think a little less of me that I considered faking a cold just to have an excuse to come see you in the clinic.”
She laughs. “I’ll lower my opinion accordingly.”
“As you should.”
Her next question seems somewhat hesitant. “Can I ask you why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you want to spend time with me?” She glances up at me hesitantly. “Is this just two friends catching up or—”
“I don’t generally feel up my friends in a VIP lounge, Cupid.”
Her cheeks flush, and it has nothing to do with the heat outside. It feels like a win because it’s a physical confirmation that the other night affected her just as much as it did me.
If that call from Elena hadn’t interrupted us, how far would we have gone?
Would she have let me fuck her right there in that club? Let me spread her wide and bury my head between those lush thighs. Let me worship her until she was screaming my name so loud the whole club could hear. Those thoughts alone have been driving me crazy ever since.
“Then what are we doing here, Hen?” she presses. It’s the first time she’s called me that, and the familiarity of it feels nice. Intimate.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
“You said you didn’t want any distractions,” she reminds me, uncrossing her legs so she can lean forward. We’re now eye level with each other. “You said we should keep it professional.”
I swallow, and my throat feels suddenly dry. I knew we would have to talk about this. I just didn’t expect it to be so soon. But then again, this is Zara, and she doesn’t like riddles or questions without answers. She likes to have all the cards on the table, preferably in a nice, neat row.
It’s what made her such a good tutor.
“I don’t know how to be professional with you, Zara,” I confess.
“I didn’t back then when we were in college, and I certainly don’t now.
What I said to you in your office is still true.
I need to stay focused.” She opens her mouth to offer some sort of protest, but I press on.
“But it’s become crystal clear to me that when I’m around you, I’m distracted regardless of whether we’re keeping things professional or not. ”
“So?” She doesn’t finish her sentence, but I can practically hear the question mark dangling at the end.
“So I’d rather be distracted with you in my bed than distracted and worrying about who might be trying to get in yours. ’Cause seeing you on that dance floor with Darius is not something I want to repeat.”
“Darius isn’t interested in me,” she tries to tell me. I give her an unconvinced look, arching an eyebrow, and she laughs. “Okay, he’s not interested in me anymore. And you’re missing the point entirely, anyway.”
“And what’s that?”
“I’m not interested in Darius,” she says, tilting her head to give me a rueful smile. “Or anyone else.”
I cover my heart and, feigning pain, I say, “Ouch, Cupid. That hurts. I just bared my heart and soul to you.”
She rolls her eyes and laughs. “You did not. Saying you want to sleep with me again is not a declaration of love.”
“Oh shit. My bad.” My grin widens. “Did I not make myself clear? I’m not asking for an encore. No, I want season tickets. This”—I motioned between us—“is happening a lot.”
Her expression sobers slightly. “I don’t know if I’m ready for anything serious. My divorce just happened, and…” She stalls, and I’m terrified her next words might be that she’s not over him.
“We don’t have to put a label on it,” I say, not giving her a chance to continue. “Let’s just keep things casual for now. We’re on tour. If this isn’t the time to have a little fun, I don’t know what is.”
She looks hesitant, but I can see her coming around. “When you say casual, does that mean—”
“It definitely means exclusive. No more dancing with Darius or any of these other idiots.”
She gives me a shy grin. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“However,” she says, looking over my shoulder just as our server arrives with a large platter of beignets and our two coffees. She glances at the powdered sugar confections, and a mischievous grin spreads across her lips. “You may change your mind once you see me demolish one of these in public.”
Without a second thought, I reach down and shove nearly half of a beignet in my mouth.
Powdered sugar goes everywhere—my mouth, my beard.
A cloud of it settles on my shirt and the table below.
Zara’s eyes go wide, and she bursts out laughing.
Her hand flies to her mouth, but it’s too late.
People look over and grin at us. She whips out her phone and snaps a picture of me looking like a stuffed ghost. Finally, after I chew, I manage to say, “Your turn, Cupid. Do your fucking worse.”