Chapter 17 Anna
ANNA
We were done with the tarot-card reader, and I needed a drink—or maybe an exorcist—to shake off what had just transpired.
Or at least some comfort food.
“Do you want to go to Pat O’Brien’s and have a hurricane? It’s a sweet rum drink that’s a New Orleans specialty,” I said.
Luke offered a small, easy smile. “I don’t drink. But if you want one, go for it.”
“How about Napoleon House instead? They’ve got incredible muffuletta sandwiches. It’s classic New Orleans.”
Luke tilted his head, intrigued. “Napoleon House? Sounds fancy.”
I grinned. “It’s not. The building’s over two-hundred years old, and the story goes that the owner wanted it to be a refuge for Napoleon Bonaparte after his exile. He never showed, obviously, but the name stuck. Now, it’s one of the most iconic spots in the city.”
“I’m sold.”
With its dark wood and peeling paint, Napoleon House possessed a weathered charm. Stepping inside felt like stepping back in time. Luke slipped into a dramatic French accent, likely because he was worried about being overheard.
“You can call me Jacques Laurent,” he declared, gesturing grandly toward a corner table. “Assieds-nous et commandons ivrognes.”
I nearly dropped my bag as I burst out laughing. “Oh my gosh. What?”
His expression turned mock offended. “What? What did I say?”
Through my giggles, I managed to explain, “You just said, ‘Let’s sit and order drunks.’ I think you were going for boissons. Drinks.”
He sniffed, feigning indignation, though the glint in his eye gave him away. “You know, usually my French wows people. Okay, maybe not native speakers, but still. Don’t tell me, you’re fluent?”
“I minored in French in college.” I tried to sound casual. “When I have time, I meet with a group of French speakers at a coffee shop uptown to keep it fresh. It’s for when I finally visit Paris, which I fully intend to do. Respirer Paris, cela conserve l'ame.”
Luke blinked at me, his face blank. “Uh, okay, what now?”
I smiled. “To breathe Paris preserves the soul.”
As Luke and I settled into the cozy corner booth, the atmosphere lightened. Luke was back to his exaggerated French persona. “Très bien,” he said. Then he raised an eyebrow. “Alright, what’s so funny? You’ve been holding back a laugh since we sat down.”
I pointed to his head, grinning. “That wig. It’s so convincing, I almost asked for your autograph, thinking you were an ‘80s rock star.”
He smirked. “You ain’t seen nothing yet. My stylist has an entire wardrobe of these.”
“Your stylist? How very Hollywood.” I imagined him surrounded by racks of wigs and disguises, someone on speed dial for every possible look. What must that be like—having people whose entire job is making sure you look perfect? “You’re like a spy.”
He leaned in, lowering his voice, letting me in on a secret. “Okay, random fact, did you know the CIA studied Hollywood costume designers and makeup artists? Like, they legit used movie tricks to help create spy gear.”
I tilted my head, intrigued. “That’s actually... not surprising. Makes sense.”
“Right? Wearing disguises isn’t exactly my idea of fun, but it keeps the paparazzi on their toes. If I ditched this wig, I’d probably cause a fan stampede.”
A fan stampede. The image was almost comical—crowds of people shrieking and chasing after him like he was made of gold. But underneath the absurdity was something unsettling. He can't even walk down the street without being hunted.
“That sounds intense. Is getting mobbed by fans the worst part about being famous?”
Luke stared at his seltzer water for a moment, his easy demeanor slipping.
“I think the worst part is having to always be ‘on.’ You can’t have a bad day.
You can’t look less than perfect or lose your temper.
And if you punch someone who deserves it…
” He trailed off, his jaw tightening briefly.
“Paparazzi are like vultures, waiting to catch you at your worst and blow it up for the world to see.”
Something in his voice made my chest ache. I'd never thought about it that way—the relentless pressure, the constant performance.
I leaned back, studying him. “You have a pretty solid track record, though. I’ve never seen a bad picture of you. Have you ever taken a bad photo?”
He chuckled, the tension easing. “Oh, they’re out there. But I’ve got a good publicist. I mean, she’s probably more stressed than I am these days. I’m keeping her busier than she’d like.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a small army behind you.”
He nodded knowingly. “In this business, you don’t always know who you can trust. But if you pay them well enough, you can usually trust them. At least until someone offers them more.”
I grimaced. “That sounds exhausting.”
And lonely, I thought but didn't say. How do you build a life when everyone around you has a price tag?
“It can be,” he admitted, then his expression lightened. “But I’m luckier than most. I know that.”
Before I could respond, a playful look lit his eyes. “It’s not like I’m spoiled or anything.”
I winced at his not-so-subtle jab at what I had told my cousin’s daughters about him, but he quickly held up a hand. “Relax, I’m joking.”
Then, in a move that caught me entirely off guard, he reached across the table and rested his hand briefly over mine. It was a simple, fleeting gesture, but it sent a jolt of warmth up my arm.
What was that? My pulse hammered in my ears. Was it just... friendly? Or—
He picked up his iced tea a second later as if it hadn’t happened, but I sat there staring at the spot where his hand had been. Even with his hand gone, I could still feel his touch.