Chapter 11
ALEX
There are two areas of my life where I’m always confident. Two things I’ve been doing for a very long time, two things I’ve been praised for over and over. And they are the two things that have made me actually feel jittery since coming to Rebel, Louisiana.
Hockey.
And romancing women.
Bonkers hockey has me in my head thinking about feeling like a dumbass on the ice for the first time in…ever.
And I’m actually feeling my nerves jumping as I pull into the short driveway outside of Nora’s tiny bungalow for our date.
What the fuck is this?
I’ve been taking women out socially for longer than I’ve had an official driver’s license. Before that, I had a driver. Yeah, yeah, I grew up as a rich kid. Not my fault.
And it never occurred to me to be nervous about dating.
I was popular, what can I say? Girls, then women, wanted to go out with me.
I never had to worry about having a date to any event I wanted to attend, and to several I didn’t want to attend.
I’ve dated models, actresses, and singers.
Women who are more famous than I am. Women who have to duck more paparazzi than I do.
I’ve never minded the cameras or gossip columns or attention.
But as I sit in the ten-year-old blue pickup that sounds like it left its muffler several blocks back—one of the many ways my sister is amusing herself, I’m sure—outside of the house that would fit inside my penthouse three times, I’m nervous.
Nora is different. She’s not going out with me because she wants to. She’s going out with me…to help me. I shove a hand through my hair. Yeah, that’s new.
Yes, it’s also helping the hockey team, and that’s going to help her grandfather, which will make her happy. But all of that put together simply means that she’s going out with me tonight for a whole lot of reasons other than actually wanting to date me.
And the attention we’re going to get is this entire town judging if I’m good enough for her. The sporting world, and the world that’s made my past dates and girlfriends celebrities, has no idea I’m even here, so there won’t be cameras and reporters.
The “paparazzi” here worships otters and has known Nora since she was in diapers and doesn’t love her because she sells lipstick and lingerie or movie and tour tickets, but because she’s…Nora.
And they have duct tape, airboats, and remote cabins, and aren’t afraid to use them.
I study the house that is painted lavender with bright yellow trim, steps, porch railing, and front door.
Of course, it has a bright yellow front door.
I think I would’ve been disappointed if this house were white with typical colored shutters and front door.
Okay, no matter what else is going on around us, I’m going to make tonight fun for this woman.
She makes everything fun for other people. That is literally her entire job description. I studied brochures and their website today during my downtime. There are so fucking many events, clubs, and activities in this town. Entertaining people is seemingly all she does every day.
So tonight, instead of concentrating on the fact that I am trying to win an entire town over, keep from getting kidnapped, and help an old man get reelected mayor for the four hundredth time, I’m going to concentrate on Nora.
The woman who makes me feel warm and happy without effort.
And, apparently, does that for everyone else, as well.
I’m going to treat her like a fucking princess. Period. That’s the whole plan.
I get out of the truck and head toward her front door. It strikes me that I’m not sure I’ve ever gone up to a date’s front door. Not like this. Not without cameras watching, or PR people staging it, or long corridors and private elevators involved.
This is just a normal front walk, a normal front porch—scratch that, this is a very tiny front porch—and a normal front door.
Except for the bright yellow paint.
I lift my hand to knock, but the door swings open before I can.
And there she is.
Nora is standing in the doorway, wearing a pretty pale blue sundress with straps that cross her tan shoulders and leave her arms bare.
The bodice hugs her breasts and torso deliciously, the skirt falling straight from her waist to just above her knees.
Her tan legs and the still warm weather, despite it being late September, mean she doesn’t need leggings, and she’s wearing strappy sandals.
Her toenails are painted, also pale blue.
I’m surprised by that, though I’m not sure why. I’ve certainly seen my share of pedicured feet. But her fingernails are cut short and unpolished, and I know this woman walks barefoot in sand and dirt. I don’t know how I know that, but it just fits.
There’s also a pink flower painted onto the nail of each big toe.
“Did you paint your toenails for me, Wildflower?”
Probably a dumb first thing to say.
Her cheeks get a little pink, but she smiles as she looks at her feet. “I did.” She steps onto the porch and turns to pull her door shut, but doesn’t lock it.
I start to say something, then realize no one is going to break in and steal anything from this woman. Everyone loves her. Besides, if they do take something from her, they’re going to have old men hunting them down and taking them to remote cabins surrounded by bayou, snakes, and alligators.
“I painted them myself, though—well, except for the flowers. Ruth did those.” She lifts one foot and turns it side to side, studying it. Then she looks up at me. “I didn’t go to the salon or anything, so don’t get cocky.”
I grin anyway. “How often do you paint your toenails?” I ask as we walk to my truck.
“As often as I wear dresses and sandals. So hardly ever.”
I shake my head as I open the door. “Still feeling cocky.”
She laughs. “I know who your last girlfriend was. I painted them because Ruth insisted. She had Ingrid’s number half dialed when I made the compromise. But I figured it wasn’t worth more effort. Your last girlfriend had an entire team to get her ready. I can’t begin to compete with that.”
At the moment, I can’t remember the name of my last girlfriend. Not even what color hair she had. But I’m mesmerized by the fact that Nora has three different browns, a reddish hue, and a dark gold in hers.
“Are you insinuating that you’re my new girlfriend?” I ask.
She blinks rapidly. “No. No.” She nervously tucks her hair behind her ear. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. I mean, the last woman you dated. I know who you’re used to going out with.”
I reach up and capture her wrist, stalling her fumbling fingers.
“You painting your toenails yourself, even under duress, is sexier than anything any of the other women have ever done. For them that was all second nature. None of them did it for me. They did it for the photographers we were going to encounter on a night out. Or because they were paid to by the polish company. Or just out of habit. And not that you should do it for me, but it’s cute.
I like the blue. And the flower. A lot.”
Her cheeks are even pinker now, but she smiles. “Don’t look at them too closely. They’re kind of messy. I’m not good at nail painting.”
Suddenly, I want to get very close to her toes. Close enough to see just how far out of the lines she painted.
“I promise if I get that close to your toes, I won’t care about messy paint. And neither will you.”
Now her cheeks are very red, and I am very satisfied.
I grasp her waist in both hands and lift her up onto the truck seat before she can protest. I shut the door and round the front of my truck.
I am feeling instantly better about the date.
Yes, I have a lot to prove in this town.
Yes, the date has to go well. Yes, everyone in this town will care if Nora has a good time and will judge me harshly if not.
But now I don’t care about any of that. I only care about her and showing her a good time. I will judge me harshly if not.
I can play hockey that will put butts in the seats in that arena, and I can date the hell out of this woman.
“You’re wearing a suit,” she says as I slide in behind the wheel.
I start the truck and wince as the engine grumbles, clearly protesting being forced to turn over and actually run.
I wish I was taking her out to dinner in New Orleans in one of my cars. I would’ve probably picked the Rolls-Royce Ghost. It has a gorgeous leather interior and is an incredibly smooth ride. Very classy for date night. But my Aston Martin Vanquish is also very sweet for nights out in the city.
“Yes. We’re going somewhere really nice.”
I slipped into my suit and took a deep breath tonight. I feel great in this suit. I don’t have a tie on, and the crewneck knit shirt underneath keeps it looking casually sophisticated, but the tailored pants and jacket and the Italian leather shoes are impeccable.
“How nice?” she asks as I turn down the street that will lead out to the highway while avoiding Main Street. The last thing I need is everyone looking out the front window of Perks and Rec and watching us go.
“Really nice. Italian. It has fantastic reviews and looks gorgeous inside. It’s on the edge of the French Quarter. It’s called the Italian Barrel. Have you been there?”
Her eyes widen. “No.” She looks down and smooths her dress over her lap. “I’m not dressed for a place like that, Alex. Can we go somewhere else?”
I look over, scanning her from perky head to cute blue toes. “You look absolutely gorgeous, Nora. You’re dressed perfectly.”
“I’m not.” She laughs. “This dress is very casual. I can wear it to church, and a few places for dinner in New Orleans, but certainly not white tablecloth restaurants. It’s four years old.”
I reach over and snag her hand, threading our fingers together. “You look amazing. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.”
She takes a deep breath and blows it out. “How many forks are there going to be?”
I chuckle. “What?”