15. Remington
REMINGTON
I ’d seen Henri gazing at the books on my shelves as I’d gotten dressed for our outing.
He studied their titles and ran his fingers longingly over their spines, so I’d suspected he would enjoy the bookstore as much as I did.
Watching him move through the labyrinth of shelves with a smile on his face let me know I’d been right, and the joy I found in sharing one of my favorite places with him also let me know the way I’d felt the night before hadn’t just been because of an incredible orgasm courtesy of his welcoming body.
I was far more deeply connected to him than I’d intended to be.
What if he truly was that special person for me?
How could I possibly take the time for a relationship when so many people were relying on me, when I had to be so careful to show my strength, when I knew that anyone who was with me would constantly be in danger?
If I cared about Henri, wouldn’t it be best for me to let him go?
I could make sure he was taken care of by helping him find a job where he would be safe.
That sounded all right until I thought of him finding someone else, someone who would care about him, someone who would love his sweet smile and want his delectable body.
“What’s wrong?” Henri asked.
I realized I was scowling and my hands were balled into fists. I tried to shake off the rage that had risen in me at the thought of Henri with someone else. “Nothing. I was thinking about work.”
“You shouldn’t do that on your day off, especially if it makes you feel so angry.”
“Then take my mind off it. Tell me something you’d like to search for, and we’ll see what we can find. If we’re going to curl up and read together, you’re going to need to choose a book.”
“I love books, but it’s been a while since I’ve had much time to read.”
There had to be a story behind that, maybe the same one that had led him to his current profession, but this wasn’t the time for me to encourage him to tell it.
I could have gotten information like that from Blackjack, but for some reason, it felt wrong to invade Henri’s privacy.
I’d asked Blackjack only to verify Henri wasn’t a spy or an ally of the Landrys.
“When you do have time to read, what do you like? Mysteries, fantasy, romance?
“I like history and historical fiction like you seem to. I used to enjoy thrillers that made my heart pound and kept me up turning page after page, but then my life got kind of scary and that seemed like too much.”
That was likely part of his story too. “Lefebre’s has an excellent selection of historical books, both those written in the past and those written about it. They’re on the second floor. Come on.”
I sent him up ahead of me simply because I wanted to watch his round ass in his perfectly fitted pants. That was a mistake. I immediately started contemplating whether we could find a quiet corner where I could do some of the filthy things I was thinking about with him.
That was a risk I couldn’t take. I had big plans for the Landrys and their allies, which meant I needed to keep a low profile with law enforcement. I couldn’t run the risk of getting arrested for public sex. Maybe another time we could come back and I could indulge?—
I stopped myself before I completed the thought. He was only mine for two weeks. I could always bring someone else here, but that held no appeal. Henri understood the call of this place. It wouldn’t be any fun to debauch someone here who’d just as soon hook up in a club bathroom.
I led Henri to the history section, and after much perusal he chose a book about New Orleans at the start of the twentieth century. I found a beautiful collection of photographs of historic homes in rural south Louisiana. I paid for the books, and we continued down Decatur Street.
Henri stopped suddenly in front of an antiques shop that had a silver tea set surrounded by lots of smaller silver pieces in a window display. “These are gorgeous.”
The shop was filled with all kinds of things that might be located an estate sale, and I could tell he was intrigued. “Would you like to go in?”
“I would enjoy that, but if you?—”
“I’m here to show you the city. Let’s explore.”
I insisted on purchasing Henri a tea set and some candlesticks he clearly longed for. Once our items were wrapped up, we continued exploring the Quarter. I took him into a voodoo shop that was run by authentic practitioners unlike most of the more touristy shops.
When it was lunchtime, I brought him to a little café that, in my opinion, had the best muffalettas in town.
He seemed as impressed with them as I was.
We lingered over lunch, sharing a praline sundae and doing plenty of people watching.
During the rest of the afternoon, I took him into Jackson Cathedral, bought him a sketch from one of the street artists in Jackson Square, and gave him a tour of the World War II museum.
I enjoyed everything we experienced, but none of it compared to curling up with him in my favorite chair when we got home. Just spending time being close to him made me as happy as the hottest sex I’d had with other men.
Lounging at home with Henri felt so domestic.
Other than exercising my skills in the kitchen, that wasn’t like me.
Henri was bringing out parts of me I’d pushed aside.
I couldn’t remember a time when I’d enjoyed a day more.
It might not have happened since the Christmases of my childhood or during carefree summer days my family spent at a beach resort along the Mississippi coast.
As the day had begun, it had taken me a while to stop reaching for my phone, wanting to check in with my brothers and cousins, worrying that things were falling apart without me.
I had to keep telling myself it was just one day, and they could handle things, but the more time I spent with Henri, seeing the city through his eyes, the more I fell under his spell and forgot about all the responsibilities that weighed on me.
When it came time for dinner, I considered our options. “I could take you out anywhere you want,” I told him, “or I could order food, turn on the heaters on the balcony, and we could sit out there and eat, just the two of us.”