Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
When the black Lincoln pulled up in front of the hotel at three minutes to ten, Imogen was ready, and she loved his punctuality.
She hadn’t known what to wear, so she’d let Jury pick a green-and-white checked gingham sundress and nude flats.
She pulled her hair back into a low ponytail and kept her makeup nearly nonexistent.
When the valet opened his door, Imogen watched Nic climb out.
Today, he wore cutoff camouflage shorts, a plain white T-shirt, low-top shoes, and a baseball cap.
His vibrant tattoos were on full display with his arms bare and lower legs exposed.
No watch, no rings, no chains. Nothing fancy.
And yet he still drew every eye in the area.
“Hey, girl,” he said with a smile. “You look beautiful and adorable. Perfect.”
Imogen couldn’t remember blushing basically ever, but she felt her cheeks heat with his words.
“And you are tattooed from head to toe, aren’t you?”
He tilted his head back and forth. “Not every inch, but a lot of ’em. You ready?”
She nodded, and even though he wasn’t wearing a suit, he still held out his arm.
“It’s refreshing to know that some people still have manners.”
“As my grandmother often said, ‘Manners never go out of style. They may seem old-fashioned, but they always impress the right lady.’ ”
“She sounds like a wise woman.”
He led her around the car and opened the door for her. “She was. One of a kind. She’s been gone a while now, but she left her mark, especially on me.”
“Did she see all these tattoos? What did she think?”
“Colorful. She called me colorful.”
“It fits.”
He shut the door with her inside, and she waited a few moments for him to join her.
“She could’ve said much worse. She actually handled it better than my mother. After my cotillion days, Mom was hoping I’d become someone important, but all I ever wanted to do was art.”
“Are your parents …” She almost didn’t want to ask.
“Both gone. I’m all that’s left of the St. Clair clan these days.”
“Our family name is going to pass away as well. I think my parents hoped one of us would marry some guy and he might take our name and we’d have a boatload of babies to carry on this Kilgore branch, but that will be left to our cousins to handle.”
He looked at her sideways as they cruised down Carondelet. “Your parents wanted you to marry a guy who would take your name? Uh, no.”
She laughed. “Like I said, I knew that wasn’t happening.”
“Fuck no. Any man who would do that would not be the man for you.”
Could you be though? Imogen wondered.
She’d known him approximately five minutes, but she liked everything she knew about Nic so far. She’d basically given up hope on ever meeting someone, and then, when she’d least expected it, there he was.
They paused at the light at Canal, and she could see the Voodoo Ink sign down the street.
“We’ll make a quick stop for beignets and then head to my place.” He met her gaze. “Which you’ve already been to.”
“It looked stunning.”
“Just wait until you see the inside. It’s pretty cool, I have to say.”
“Did you grow up there?”
“Yeah. My folks and I lived with my grandparents. When I turned sixteen, they gave me the separate apartment at the back of the courtyard until I left for art school.”
“That’s amazing.”
He pulled up in front of the blue awnings of the Royal Sonesta hotel. “Be right back. Two minutes.”
And then he was out of the car and jogging across the street into the Musical Legends Park.
He is something … something special. What Imogen couldn’t figure out was why he was still single. How has some lucky girl not snatched him up?
Within a few minutes, he was bounding across the street, opening the door, and handing the beignets to Imogen as he slid into the Lincoln.
“How are you even single? It truly makes no sense.” She couldn’t not voice the question.
He grinned, and his beard set off his even white teeth.
“Because I hadn’t met the one yet. Dad always said, ‘Wait until you find the right girl and only do it once.’ ”
She didn’t miss that he’d said hadn’t. As in past tense. Was it colloquial, or was he saying … he had now?
She wasn’t bold enough to ask that question.
But something shifted within her. What if he is the one? What would that look like? Her life was on Grand Island. His was here. Sure, it was only a couple hours’ drive, but … worlds apart. She couldn’t dive in New Orleans.
That’s not my concern right now, Imogen decided. We’re just going to have beignets, and I’m going to watch him paint. That’s all.
Also, she wanted to shake herself. This might be dreamy, but he’s not proposing or anything.
“You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden.”
Imogen turned toward him as he reached up to push a button on his visor. The yellow house she and Jury had stood in front of the other night was on their right.
“Sorry, just … thinking.”
“Care to share?”
“It’s probably way too soon for that.”
“Says who?”
“You’d run screaming, I’m sure.” Imogen was shocked she’d even said that much.
“Bet I won’t. Try me.”
“My job is on the island. Well, out in the Gulf. Your life is here.”
Mint-green doors swung open to reveal a courtyard, and Nic guided the Lincoln onto the charming cobblestone with a hedgerow and fountain—complete with a cherub—on the left and his stunning yellow-and-mint-green-painted home on the right.
“This is incredible.”
“It takes more than a bit of upkeep, but it’s worth it.” He met her gaze. “Anything worth having takes upkeep, Imogen. Relationships included. Why don’t we just see what happens?” His words were so simple, and yet they rang with truth.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Hey. No need to apologize. Can’t say I have a problem with where your thoughts are heading. But just … wait and see, all right? I’ll get your door.”
As he climbed out, a new thought hit Imogen like a lightning bolt. I don’t have to have a job anymore, unless I want one.
She’d confirmed with the bank this morning that the funds showing on the deposit slip were real. Neither she nor Jury had to work again if they were smart with how they used it, and Imogen planned to be.
He opened the passenger door and held out a hand.
Imogen loved his manners and was definitely in danger of falling in love with his house too.
He led her into a set of French doors off the courtyard, which opened into an airy breakfast room with cherry floors, an antique round table, and exposed brick wall.
He set the beignets down on a place mat, and she was enraptured.
“You have place mats.”
“You don’t?”
She realized she sounded silly. “It’s like you’re from a different era.”
His smile was wide. “Worlds collide here—that’s for sure. Let me grab some plates.” He met her gaze with a wink. “They’re my grand-mère’s china.”
Between the smile, the wink, the place mats … and everything else that Nic was, Imogen wanted to melt where she stood. Instead, she slid into an antique chair and set her clutch on the table.
“Beignets while they’re hot, and then I’ll give you the full tour.”
Including his bedroom? she wondered absently and then stopped herself. Jury is rubbing off on me.
It had been so long since she’d had sex that Imogen had no idea if she was even good at it anymore. Do I even still know how?
Nic carried two plates into the breakfast room, and she noticed the impressionist canvas on the wall.
“That’s stunning. I’m not good with artists, but is that a …” She trailed off as the name eluded her.
“I did that one. Turned out pretty good.”
His pretty good looked like it belonged in a museum to Imogen.
“Seriously? That’s your work?”
Nic nodded. “Yeah, there’s more of it in the house. And a bunch upstairs. And in my old apartment.”
“Do you sell them?”
“I do showings when I feel like it.”
When he feels like it.
Imogen was starting to put a few things together.
He worked two days per week at the shop.
Painted and enjoyed life. He had inherited his house and car.
His great-great-great-grandfather had shown up with a chest of gold.
She was guessing Nic was doing just fine financially, not that it really mattered.
Until yesterday, she’d been a moderately successful scuba diver with a PhD in marine biology, who worked for a lab that provided research services to oil companies. Today, she was an independently wealthy woman who had options she’d never before considered.
“That sounds fun.”
“It’s a good life. I get to do what I love, and I’ve got no complaints.” He pulled a beignet from the bag and offered it to her on a dainty pink china plate.
“That sounds like a fabulous way to live,” she said as she took it from his fingers.
“Best way I’ve found,” he replied as he fished out one for himself. “Along with having beignets on a spectacular morning with a beautiful woman. Can’t beat it.”
“You are smooth.”
“Is it smooth if it’s true?”
He bit into one, and she did the same.
“Mmm … I haven’t had one of these in ages.”
“They’re part of a balanced diet, as far as I’m concerned.”
She glanced at his muscular physique, a bit amazed to hear that, but clearly, whatever he was doing was working for him.
As she chewed the delicious sugary, fried confection, Imogen wondered what he’d meant when he said he wanted to paint her.
“You didn’t mean nude, did you?”
His brown brows shot up to his baseball cap brim.
“Nude what?”
“Painting?”
His lips curled into a smile. He swallowed and said, “Starting to think you got hoodwinked? Lured into the pretty-colored house by a colorful man with baked goods?”
“When you put it like that …”
He laughed with a grin. “I haven’t done nudes since art school. Although, if you’re offering, I suppose I could brush up my skills with the subject matter. The female form is universally respected as the most art-worthy.”