Chapter 2 Luke
LUKE
I was trapped.
I’d come to the bar to drop in on Mrs. Brodie, my best friend’s mother, not to get cornered by fans, dodging camera phones and whispers like some fugitive. But now I was stuck in this back room, and the waitress who had shoved me in there didn’t look particularly sympathetic to my plight.
She leaned against the wall, her dark eyes cool and assessing, like she’d already decided I was the problem.
Her brown hair was pulled back into a messy knot, with a few strands curling rebelliously near her cheekbones.
And her jeans were worn, clinging in a way that briefly made me forget my frustration.
She was gorgeous, but not in the polished, Hollywood way I was used to.
She tilted her head and looked at me. “Are we just going to stand here in awkward silence, or are you going to explain what you’re doing in New Orleans? I guess you needed a break from… everything.”
The way she said everything made my jaw clench. She knew. Of course, she knew. The entire world had seen the fallout. Why would I expect this waitress in a New Orleans bar to be any different?
I exhaled shortly, irritation bubbling up. “Trust me, I didn’t choose to be here in this backwater place.”
“Backwater?” Her eyebrows shot up, her arms folded across her chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The frustration spilled out before I could stop it. “I think ‘backwater’ is accurate. This city is loud, it’s sticky, and the potholes could swallow a car.”
Her expression turned icy, like I’d just insulted her grandma’s gumbo recipe. “Wow. Insulting the city of New Orleans. That’s a great look for someone who supposedly has come to the city and is trying to ‘lie low.’”
The words stung more than I wanted to admit.
Lie low. That’s what everyone thought I was doing.
Licking my wounds after Sienna broke up with me and started the public train wreck that was my life.
But no one ever wondered if the spotlight itself was part of the problem.
If maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t the polished, charming star they expected.
I sighed, leaning back. “Touchy, aren’t we?”
“Touchy?” Her voice was rising. “You’re the one who called New Orleans ‘backwater.’ You’re acting as if this place is beneath you. What, is New Orleans not good enough for you?”
“Let’s be honest, the city has its... quirks.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Quirks? Wow. What a brave take. How much of the city have you even seen?”
I shrugged. “I’ve seen enough to know it’s... unique.”
She scoffed. “Unique. That’s what people say when they hate your outfit but don’t want to start a fight.” She looked at me pointedly. “Tennessee Williams said there are only three great American cities. New York, San Francisco, and New Orleans. The rest? Cleveland.”
My lips twitched into a smirk. She was not letting this go. “New York’s the capital of finance. San Francisco’s the capital of tech. What’s New Orleans the capital of? Sweat?”
Her eyes flared, but then she smiled. Slowly. Dangerously. “Jazz. Ever heard of it? You’re welcome, America.”
I leaned back, but my gaze stayed on her. “Fine. Jazz. What else?”
“Oh, where to start?” she said. “Mardi Gras. Frenchmen Street. Crawfish season. Beignets that taste like happiness. Music around every corner. People who talk to you like they’ve known you forever.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Look, I’m just saying that parades and potholes aren’t exactly my love language.”
She stepped a little closer. “No city’s perfect,” she said, her voice a growl.
“But here? We don’t pretend to be. We decorate the potholes and throw parties to make light of an annoying situation.
That’s the beauty of New Orleans. We don’t hide our craziness; we celebrate it by throwing a parade.
We don’t stuff our family skeletons in the closet; we bring them to Sunday dinner. I would never leave this place.”
I dragged a hand through my hair. I needed to apologize for insulting New Orleans, which she clearly loved.
A lot.
I mean, I like my hometown of Boston, but would I defend it in a duel? Probably not. This hometown loyalty felt a bit much to me. Still, I got the feeling that this waitress would throw me to the wolves if I didn’t apologize. “I didn’t mean to insult New Orleans.”
Her eyes flashed. “Well, you did. Am I getting this right? Your perfect life blew up, and now you’re hiding out here because you didn’t have anywhere else to go?”
Her words about my perfect life struck too close to home, and I didn’t answer right away.
My ex-girlfriend Sienna’s voice echoed in my head, uninvited: Everyone thinks you’re perfect, but you’re impossible to love.
Impossible. I glanced at the closed door, wishing for an escape route that didn’t involve the crowd waiting outside.
When I finally spoke, my voice was quieter. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I don’t need to. You’re exactly like every guy who walks in here thinking this city owes him something. News flash. It doesn’t. But hey, if New Orleans is beneath you, the door’s right there.”
Her head tilted toward the door, where the muffled sound of voices grew louder. My escape route, as she well knew, wasn’t an option. I couldn’t leave. Not without blowing my cover, because the news had not gotten out that I was hiding in New Orleans.
She was still angry, still defiant. But something softer flickered underneath. Her passion radiated from her in waves. She wasn’t just defending her city; she was fighting for it. It was the kind of raw, unfiltered loyalty I didn’t see much of in LA.
“You always talk like that?” I asked, my voice lower now. “Like you’re trying to win a debate?”
Her eyes didn’t leave mine. “Only when someone’s asking for it.”
A beat passed. The air between us shifted. Something electric.
I opened my mouth to say something else, something I probably shouldn’t.
But then there was a knock at the door.
“Anna? Are you in there?” came a bright, teasing voice. “Who was that guy in the baseball cap and sunglasses?”
I froze.
The waitress, who I now knew was “Anna,” sighed, rolling her eyes as if she’d been expecting this. She pushed off the wall and cracked the door open just enough to peek out.
“Oh, hey, Marie Antoinette,” Anna said casually. “It was just some random guy named, uh, Nigel Pimmington.”
“Nigel Pimmington?” The woman’s voice dripped with disbelief. “What kind of name is that? Sounds like he should be sipping tea in a cravat and complaining about the weather.”
Anna didn’t miss a beat. “Well, he is English. They all have names like that.”
“Do they now?” The woman’s voice was filled with mock fascination. “So, this Nigel Pimmington just happened to wander into our humble establishment? What was he doing here? Inspecting the quality of our biscuits?”
Anna shrugged. “It was packed out front, and he was feeling overwhelmed, so I helped him find the bathroom. Not sure where he went after that.”
“Uh-huh,” the other waitress said slowly, clearly not buying it. “And then you stayed in here because…?”
“I came in here to check the inventory of emergency napkins,” Anna said with complete deadpan seriousness. “Obviously.”
I bit back a laugh.
The woman at the door was still skeptical. “Funny, he looked an awful lot like Luke Fisher. That jawline, those cheekbones.”
I bit down on my cheeks, nervous that Anna would give me up.
Anna, however, didn’t flinch. “Nope. Nigel Pimmington is just a regular English guy. Very normal, very boring.”
“Boring?” the woman exclaimed. “Honey, I saw you two talking. You don’t blush over boring. There was tension, Anna Banana. The kind of tension that could turn a stiff upper lip into a trembling lower one.”
My eyebrows shot up. Tension? I remembered the way Anna’s lips curved when she teased me about being a blacksmith.
Tension.
Yeah. That’s one word for it.
Anna groaned. “There was no tension. He was just... lost. It was so crowded in front, so I helped him find the bathroom, that’s all.”
“Lost, huh?” She was skeptical. “Well, next time, feel free to lose him my way. Nigel Pimmington sounds like the kind of man who’d recite Shakespeare to you at sunset.”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Anna said dryly. “He seemed more like the type to complain about the font we use for the wine list.”
There was a pause, and then the woman at the door sniffed. “Well, if he comes back, I call dibs on serving him. You can’t just hoard all the posh accents for yourself.”
“Fine,” Anna said, clearly eager to end the conversation. “Now, don’t you have tables to check on? The jukebox crowd looks like big tippers.”
The woman sighed theatrically. “Fine. Hurry it up.”
And then she was gone. Anna leaned back against the door and muttered, “That woman needs her own sitcom.” Then she turned back to me. Her expression was hard to read. “You’re welcome for not giving you up,” she said, her tone light, but with just enough edge to remind me she’d done me a favor.
I cleared my throat, looking away for a moment before meeting her gaze. “Thank you,” I whispered, keeping my voice low. The words felt awkward in my mouth, like I hadn’t said them in far too long.
Anna raised an eyebrow, the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips. “Wow, an actual ‘thank you.’ Must’ve really cost you.”
I sighed, dragging a hand down my face. “You win. Can we just wait until the crowd clears, and I’ll be out of your hair?”
She studied me for a moment, her expression unreadable.
I tried not to squirm under her gaze, but it felt like she could see right through me.
Did she know how hard I worked to keep the cracks hidden?
How much effort it took to pretend I was still the confident, charming star everyone thought they knew?
I hated the vulnerability creeping in around the edges of this moment. I hated even more that she might notice it.
Finally, Anna shrugged and leaned back against the door, her voice smoother but no less cutting. “Suit yourself. But if you hate it in New Orleans so much, maybe next time, stay wherever it is you think you belong.”
She didn’t say it outright, but the implication was clear: It’s not here.
I stayed silent, leaning against the opposite wall and closing my eyes, trying to shut out the noise both outside and in my head.
The crowd out there would move on eventually.
They always did. And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder if they’d still be interested if they saw the real me—the me that wasn’t a polished, smiling persona crafted for the cameras. Probably not.
Anna broke the silence. “You’re lucky I don’t like chaos.”
I opened my eyes, glancing at her. She was leaning against the doorframe, arms on her hips, her messy bun a little crooked.
Somehow it worked. Her olive skin had a warm, golden glow, and her lips, even pressed together in an unimpressed line, looked soft.
She was beautiful, the kind of pretty that made you notice, whether you wanted to or not.
“What do you mean by chaos?” I asked.
“You. Keeping your secret.” She shrugged. “It’s not for you. It’s because I don’t want a circus in Muses. This place is crazy enough without a mob scene.”
I smirked faintly despite myself. “Well, thanks… for not letting it turn into one.”
She shrugged again, but her gaze lingered on me for a beat longer before she looked away. “Just don’t make it a habit, okay?”
I nodded, leaning my head back against the wall. “I’ll try not to.” I couldn’t stop looking at her. Her presence was impossible to ignore.
The noise from the crowd outside remained a low hum, but I tried to focus on anything else, waiting for the chaos to die down and trying not to think about how I’d ended up in this.