Chapter 10
Lyrix
The next morning came. No alarms. No obligations. No applying makeup. Just tangled sheets, warm skin, and two very exhausted people who’d lived a whole relationship’s worth of chaos in less than a week. And somehow, it still wasn’t enough.
We stayed in bed all day. My cheek pressed against his chest, his fingers lazily drawing circles on my back. Jazz played low from the Bluetooth speaker, but neither of us had the energy to dance. Hell, we barely had the energy to move.
The truth was that the last few days had caught up to us. New Orleans had danced us, drank us, flipped us, fed us, and finessed us into needing a day off. And we were not fighting it.
So we did what real couples do after a long week: we got the remote, a blanket, and some good-ass snacks.
“You ever watched Insecure?” I asked, curling into his side.
“Nah, but I heard Issa be in her bag with that mirror talk,” he smirked.
“Oh, she do. She is the bag,” I corrected. “You gon’ love it.”
Four episodes in, he was already hooked. Laughing at Molly’s chaos, annoyed at Lawrence, and fully invested in the mess.
“This Issa and Lawrence thing got me stressed and I don’t even know these people,” he said, biting into his sandwich.
“Right? That’s how I was. Screaming at the TV like it was my friend group.”
By episode seven, we were naked under the covers again. By episode ten, I had one leg propped up and a chicken wing in my hand while he kissed my thigh.
Don’t judge us. Balance.
Between episodes, we ate leftover gumbo, nibbled on pralines from Loretta’s, and popped open a bottle of wine he had stashed away, because of course, that intentional-ass man kept wine on deck.
And then we’d crash, just wrapped around each other like we had years of practice. It was funny when you thought about it.
“I don’t even know your last name,” I laughed into his neck as we laid across the couch.
He laughed. “I don’t know yours either. But I’ve seen you naked, cooked with you naked, danced with you in the middle of Bourbon, and I’m about 90% sure I’d kill somebody for you at this point.”
I snorted. “That’s the wildest part of all this. We acting like a whole couple.”
“We are a couple. A 8 day, Heaux Phase Limited Edition.”
“Limited edition,” I repeated, giggling.
“But high quality,” he added, lifting my chin and kissing me slow.
I melted into him. There was something deeply romantic about watching a show with someone who let you pause every ten minutes to discuss character development like it was real life.
Something intimate about falling asleep on the couch together mid-episode and waking up hours later still wrapped up tight.
We didn’t need a fancy dinner or rooftop views that day. We had wine breath, soft laughs, bare thighs, and a show that gave us enough drama to talk about until bedtime.
It was chill. It was cozy. It was soft. It was everything.
I woke up the next day to sunlight slicing through Maison’s windows like a soft reminder that New Orleans doesn’t sleep, but we apparently did.
My body was so rested, it didn’t even register that we had fallen asleep on the damn couch. Wrapped in a blanket, legs tangled like we paid bills together. I didn’t even remember falling asleep, which meant it had to be good.
I stretched and turned toward him slowly, not trying to wake him. And… I just watched him sleep.
Yes. I’m that girl. The stare-at-you-while-you-snore girl.
His chest rose and fell so calm, his lips barely parted, and I could see that hint of a smirk even in his sleep. I couldn’t help but smile.
And then laugh.
Because what the hell was I doing?
I covered my mouth and whispered to myself, “Girl, what the fuck?”
Like, be serious. For all I know, he could have 12 kids and a baby mama who’ll bust through the door swinging. Hell, he might even be a felon. And there I was laid up like I already stalked his socials and scanned the comment section for red flags.
Chile.
Before I could spiral too deep into my investigative thoughts, he opened his eyes—like his internal body clock had me on his radar.
He looked at me and smiled that sleepy, sexy smile that should be illegal.
Then he said,
“My name is Maison Casteel. I’m 34. I have a daughter, she’s 13, but she lives in Florida with her mom.”
I blinked.
EXCUSE ME?!
Was this man psychic? Did he put a little voodoo root on my soul while I was asleep Because how in the entire fuck was he reading my mind like that? But he wasn’t done.
“We met when she moved here for college. It didn’t work out, so she moved back home where her family’s support is. She’s remarried now. We co-parent really well, rotate holidays. My daughter spends summers with me or just follows me around since I travel a lot. She loves it.”
He yawned and stretched, voice all raspy like he was doing a damn commercial for “Emotionally Available Black Men.”
Then he said,
“I’ve dated over the years. No one’s really matched my spontaneity, so nothing serious lately. Anything else you wanna know?”
I squinted at him.
“…How did you know I wanted to know all that?”
He grinned and sat up a little.
“You told me last night that you didn’t even know my last name. That means your brain was already working overtime. Probably overthinking everything. I figured I’d help you out a little.”
I laughed and shook my head.
“Okay, okay. That was accurate.”
Then I leaned back into the cushion and smiled.
“My name’s Lyrix James. I’m 32. No kids. Everyone in my family is either married, boo’d up, or pregnant… and then there’s me and my rose toy.”
He burst out laughing.
“Listen. Me and Rose’lesha have been through a lot. She was there when nobody else was.”
He kissed my forehead, chuckling.
“You’re hilarious.”
Then his tone softened a little, and his eyes met mine like he was letting the moment breathe.
“I think your honesty, your vibe, your energy… It’s beautiful,” he said. “You’ve been refreshing as hell. And this week’s been more fun than I’ve had in a long time.”
My heart flipped. Just a little.
“I feel the same,” I said. “It’s wild how easy this feels.”
He grinned again. “Well… I gotta help my parents at the bar tonight, but I want to take you to lunch first.”
I sat up, looked over at my wrinkled clothes from two days ago and made a face.
“I need clothes.”
He laughed and stood up, stretching again.
“I got you. I got some sweats and a T-shirt you can wear.”
“Sweats?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah… I don’t think you wanna wear anything cute to where I’m taking you.”
“Oh, so we doing activities?” I asked suspiciously.
He just smiled and headed to the bedroom.
“You’ll see. Just wear the sweats.”
I rolled my eyes playfully. “Okay… Maison Casteel.”
I didn’t know what I was expecting when he said lunch, but we pulled up to a little family-owned seafood shack with a sign that screamed in red letters:
“THE BEST SEAFOOD IN THE SOUTH!! DON’T DEBATE US.”
The parking lot was full. The music was loud.
And the air smelled like garlic, spice, and a good time.
Boosie was blasting from a speaker near the pickup window and every table was a picnic bench, half-filled with people in cutoff shorts, tank tops, and paper towels tied around their necks like bibs.
It was giving: We don’t care if you get messy. Just eat the damn food and dance while you do it.
Maison smirked, clearly proud of himself. “This is why I told you to wear the sweats.”
I laughed. “Okay, okay. You win this round.”
He left me to snag a table while he went to order, and by the time he came back, he was holding a massive brown paper bag that was steaming through the bottom and a tray of drinks that smelled suspiciously strong.
I raised a brow. “That smells strong.”
He grinned and sat down. “That’s a frozen Hurricane with an extra shot. You’re welcome.”
Then he opened the bag, and the smell hit me so hard I almost needed a moment.
Whew. The scent alone could break a fast.
He dumped it out on the paper-covered table and I saw a mound of bright red crawfish, chunks of sausage, corn, potatoes, and lemon slices all soaked in reddish-orange magic.
I blinked. “Damn.”
He laughed. “It’s a proper spread.”
“You don’t eat crawfish?” he asked, rolling up his sleeves.
“I mean… yeah. Kinda. Not a lot. I think the last time I had some was maybe three years ago at a friend’s backyard cookout.”
He stared at me like I just told him I’d never heard of Whitney Houston.
“Three years?! Girl, when crawfish season hits, we eating like it’s a holiday.”
I laughed and watched as he cracked one open effortlessly, sucking the head, peeling the tail, and tossing the shell with one smooth motion like a damn Louisiana ninja.
“Okay, show off then.”
I mimicked his motions, cracked one open, and sucked the juice from the head like he did. Except my throat immediately betrayed me and I started coughing like I just huffed hot sauce.
He nearly fell off the bench laughing. “I shoulda told you to take it slow!”
I coughed, eyes watering. “Oh my God! It’s spicy but so damn good!”
He smirked. “Baby, we’re not Creole for nothing. Our food got soul and our seasoning got bite. You’ll be good after a few more.”
And he was right. After a few more, I was knee-deep in the pile with butter dripping from my fingers, feeling like a seasoned local.
We were talking, drinking, cracking shells, laughing with the couple beside us, and wiping our hands with the same raggedy napkins like we’d been doing this our whole lives together.
Then… I remembered something on my vision board.
“Taste each other’s fingers after eating hot boiled crawfish.”
I looked at Maison. He looked at me.
I wiped my mouth, leaned forward slowly, and said, “Can I check something off my board real quick?”
He blinked, confused but intrigued. “What?”
I grabbed his wrist and brought his hand up, locking eyes with him the whole time.
And then I sucked his fingers. One by one.
Slow. Deliberate. My tongue wrapped around each one like I was savoring a whole second course.
His pupils dilated so fast I thought he was about to pass out.
His voice dropped. “Lyrix…”
“What?” I asked, all innocent.
He grabbed my hand without warning and returned the favor. Except when he sucked my fingers, he damn near swallowed my whole hand. He was moaning, deep-throating my index finger like he forgot we were in public.
“MAISON!” I whisper-yelled, jerking my hand back and trying not to slide off the bench from how hot that made me.
He wiped his mouth and just looked at me like I was the next course.
I leaned in and whispered, “Yeah… let’s hurry up and get the fuck away from here.”
He grabbed the tray of drinks and bagged up what was left, and I knew… this day was far from over.
We pulled up to the hotel, full from all that seasoned seafood and slightly tipsy from whatever liquor was in that plastic to-go cup.
I reached for the door handle, but Maison was already out, jogging around to open it for me like the Southern gentleman he was—well, Southern gentleman with a nasty mouth and hands that had no business being that good.
As I stepped out, he kissed my cheek, and I smiled.
“You ain’t gotta walk me in, I’m good,” I said, digging in my purse for my keycard.
“Hold on,” he said quickly, and jogged back toward the trunk.
I paused. “Wait, what are you doing?”
He opened the trunk, shuffled some things around, and then slammed it shut. When he came back around the car, he was holding a full bouquet of flowers in one hand… and in the other was a damn poster board.
I blinked. “Uh, Maison… what the hell is this?”
He grinned and flipped the board around.
It was decorated in Mardi Gras colors, full of purple hearts, green glitter, and little cut-out beads drawn with a silver marker. The whole thing looked like someone’s kindergarten project, but also the sweetest, most charming thing I’d ever seen.
In big, bold, bubble letters it read:
“Will you be my Valentine?”
Underneath it was two boxes with Yes or No.
I started laughing so hard, I nearly dropped my purse. “MAISON! What is this?!”
He pulled a black marker from his pocket like he had this planned all day. “My own version of a vision board,” he said with a smirk.
“Well you’re creative,” I teased, still grinning. “Now you have me checking boxes.”
“Literally,” he said, holding out the marker.
I took it from his hand, my heart doing cartwheels in my chest.
I looked him right in the eyes, then slowly, dramatically, checked the “Yes” box.
He smiled wide. “Damn right.”
I leaned in and kissed him. When we pulled apart, I whispered, “How did you know? I told myself I wouldn’t spend another holiday alone.”
He shrugged, his voice lower. “I just felt it.”
Another kiss. Longer this time.
I held the bouquet with one hand, the poster board tucked under my arm, and just hugged him like I didn’t want to let go.
He kissed my forehead and said, “I’ll be back to get you tomorrow. Around one.”
I smiled. “Okay. I’ll be ready.”
I turned and headed into the hotel, hugging that damn glittery poster board like it was a rare artifact.
That man. That man…