Chapter 12 #2
“It is possible, however, that my sister Linnea and her husband would come.”
Nora perks up at that. “Is her husband still good friends with the prince?”
“He is. But that prince is now the king.”
“Is it possible that the king might come?”
I groan. I hadn’t thought of that, but yes, there is a chance that Torin would come watch me play bonkers hockey. “I’m sure he’ll be too busy,” I say.
Nora points her fork at me. “So that’s a yes, if he finds out about it.”
“He’s got a whole country to run.”
I chuckle when she says, “Does the palace have an email address?”
“I’m sure it does not.” It totally does.
“So that’s also a yes.”
I chuckle again and realize that I have never enjoyed a date conversation this much. Even though it was about my parents.
I’ve also never told another date about my parents and their feelings about my hockey career.
That either says amazing things about Nora or really pathetic things about me.
Of course, it could be a little bit of both.
We spend the rest of the dinner chatting casually about my home country, my siblings, their very interesting husbands, and their husbands’ friends. Declan is friends with Rebel’s very own hometown billionaire, her cousin, Dane.
Nora tells me about how Dane inherited all of his father’s businesses—a little over half the town of Rebel—but that he doesn’t want any of them.
But he also can’t get rid of them because no one in town can afford to buy them and he has just enough of a heart to not sell them to anyone outside of Rebel.
When it’s time for dessert, Nora first tries to tell me she’s too full for any, then agrees to a scoop of gelato. I, of course, have Enzo bring one of everything.
She laughingly protests, but does take a bite or two of each thing before Enzo boxes them up for us to take back to Rebel with us.
“Will Bruce think you’ve been cheating on him and his café?” I asked as I re-pocket my wallet and grab the to-go bag, then pull out Nora’s chair and help her to her feet.
“Maybe. But then I’ll have him try the tiramisu, and he’ll forget all about it.”
I’m grinning again—or still? Have I stopped?—as I escort her to the door.
“Do you want to walk around for a little bit?” she asks. “I haven’t been down to the quarter at night in a long time. I love to just walk and people-watch.”
“Of course. I am up for anything.” Mostly prolonging my time with Nora.
We start down the sidewalk toward the French Quarter since we are right on the edge. She slips her hand into mine, seemingly naturally, and my chest expands.
Damn. What is it about this woman?
We walk for about three blocks without speaking.
This area is mostly businesses that are closed at this time of night.
It seems all of the businesses in the quarter have apartments above them, so lights are glowing in many of the windows and a few people are out on balconies, but it’s clear that most of the music and noise is coming from a few blocks away.
We start past the French Market. It’s closed for the evening, but the multi-block outdoor market, which sells everything from local produce to fresh-baked goods to handmade jewelry to antiques, will be open tomorrow morning at nine.
“You know, we were actually hoping that you would do some interviews about the Revelers,” Nora says.
I look down at her. “What kind of interviews?”
“You’re a big name in hockey. You were hurt and left the team you’ve played for for your whole career, and you took off for Cara for a few months. Surely people—fans and the sports media—are wondering what you’re up to.”
Ah, she’s thinking I’ll do interviews with the hockey world. “And you think they’ll want to know about the Revelers and bonkers hockey?” I ask lightly.
That’s why you’re in Rebel. You’re there to play hockey. You’re important to her because you’re a hockey star. You can’t be butt hurt because she wants you for hockey. Everyone wants you for hockey.
“I don’t know.” She looks up at me. “Do you? I guess, I’d hoped they would? It’s definitely a story that a star hockey player is now playing a new kind of hockey in small-town Louisiana.”
“And that would draw attention to this new league,” I say.
“Right.”
I don’t think she’s aware of it, but she starts walking with a little bounce.
“If people are intrigued, maybe they come to Rebel for a game. Then we can hook them with our crawfish boil and the beads and the Zambonis decorated like Mardi Gras floats and the fan involvement. And maybe they decide to stay over Friday night and see more of the town on Saturday.”
I’m distracted for a moment. “The Zambonis are going to be decorated like Mardi Gras floats?” I only have a vague idea of what that even means, but I have an image of a huge 3-D court jester head and a million balloons and people on the float dressed in masks and feathers and lots and lots of sequins.
“Yes!” she says enthusiastically. “And each week two new businesses get to sponsor and decorate the “float” however they want to. Just like the real parade floats. And they’ll choose what prizes get thrown out to the crowd.
Of course, we’ll need people walking through the stands doing the throws, since they won’t be able to really do them from the ice.
Unless…” She pauses, both talking and walking for a moment.
“They might be able to throw a few things over the glass right in front.”
“That sounds…” Chaotic as hell. But I don’t say that. “Fun,” is what I go with instead.
She beams up at me. “Thanks. I think so too.”
“And then you hope that people will stay at the bed and breakfast and eat at Perks and Rec and shop at the other shops,” I say.
I get it. That makes sense and is completely something someone like Nora, who doesn’t just love the town but also works for the town, would think of.
Hell, it’s something her grandfather, the mayor, would be all over.
“Exactly.” She looks excited and is clearly completely oblivious to the fact that I’m feeling stupidly stung by this.
I’m fucking here for hockey. If I weren’t a hockey player, I would probably never set foot in Louisiana. Maybe for Mardi Gras once or twice. But I wouldn’t even know that Rebel, Louisiana, or Perks and Rec, or Nora Delaune exist.
And I’m a fucking hockey star. I’m hurt, fine, but I still have a name synonymous with hockey. Would the hockey media and fans be interested in the story of the big star hanging out in small-town Louisiana and singing and dancing on the ice?
Yeah. Fucking probably.
This just makes sense from Nora’s point of view.
Probably from Astrid’s, too. My sister is a bestselling author and speaker. She knows about marketing and what it takes to draw in crowds. She might have even realized that Nora was the best one to talk me into this.
I have a soft spot for Nora, and I’m guessing that’s obvious to my sister.
We’re getting closer to Jackson Square. There are more people on the sidewalks and the sound of music and conversation gets louder.
“I love this area,” Nora says, definitely bouncing as she walks now.
We get to the corner of Decatur and St. Anne. The Cathedral is to our right, and Cafe Du Monde is to our left. There are people everywhere.
I look at Nora and see her face bright and happy as she takes in the people, the horse-drawn carriages waiting along the curb for passengers, the one-man band in front of Cafe Du Monde, his music case open for donations, and the street performers and artists dotted along the wrought iron fence that surrounds Jackson Square.
She turns us toward the Cathedral, and we walk until we get to the front steps, where a full jazz band is performing.
There’s a magician a few yards away, entertaining a small crowd, and four tarot card readers set up at tables along the wide mall area in front of the church.
Nora stops, watching a magician raptly. She sways slightly to the music, and I can’t resist slipping my arm around her waist and pulling her closer to my body.
I love having her close to me. She has to tip her head back to meet my gaze and smile up at me.
She slips her arm around my waist as well.
To anyone passing by, we are clearly a couple.
“You know,” I say. “We should probably practice.”
“Practice what?”
My gaze drops to her mouth, then returns to her eyes.
“If we’re dating, we need to act like a couple.
We should practice when no one we know is watching, get over the bumps and awkward spots, so that when we’re around people who know us better—especially you—they won’t think that we’re acting strange. ”
Her brows arch, and the corner of her mouth tips up. “You think I’m going to act strange if you’re close to me in front of people I know?”
“Well, we should make sure you don’t.”
I turn to face her more fully and drag one hand up her arm, over her bare shoulder to the back of her neck, and into her hair.
I tip her head back, and she murmurs, “I guess that’s a good point,” as I brush my lips over her.
She tastes like cappuccino and chocolate. A perfect, decadent combination.
Too bad I didn’t have more wine at dinner that I could blame on the warm, fuzzy feeling in my head and the desire to do stupid, dangerous things with her. Like fall in love.
But I’m completely sober.
Or at least I am not drunk on alcohol.
When she sighs, her warm breath against my lips, I realize I’m drunk on her.
I drop our bag of dessert and cup her head with both hands, pressing my lips more fully to hers, then teasing my tongue along her lower lip when she sighs again.
Fuck. Kissing her is as good as the samples I got at the airport and in the coffee shop promised.
Better.
And I want more.