Chapter 29
ANNA
If a movie star—one who’s not just gorgeous but also funny, sweet, and so protective it makes my heart ache—wanted me for a tour guide (and more), who was I to say no? Twist my arm, right?
For the next ten days, Luke and I were inseparable. It was like stepping into a dream, only better because it was real. Apart from the nights I was hustling at Muses, we explored every corner of New Orleans together, and I’d never been so happy.
It wasn’t just his looks. Though let’s be honest, those were definitely part of the package. Luke made me laugh, and he also had this way of making every moment feel like an adventure, of turning even the most minor things into something extraordinary.
We started with a swamp tour in the bayou, where Luke slipped into the persona of Dr. Archibald P.
Featherbottom, a Harvard professor with an impeccable Boston accent and an even more impressive handlebar mustache.
He asked the most absurdly “academic” questions, like, “Do alligators prefer their lobster bisque with or without sherry?” and “Do you think gators ever pause to ponder their place in the ecosystem?”
At the National World War II Museum, he morphed into Trevor, an overenthusiastic tourist from Minnesota in a Hawaiian shirt so loud it could have stopped traffic.
He took pictures of everything—including the restroom signs—and exclaimed, “Oh geez, this one’s definitely going in the scrapbook” in an accent so thick it fooled the tour guide.
And then there was Pierre Le Pencil, a flamboyant French “artist” who visited the New Orleans Museum of Art.
With his beret and comically crooked fake mustache, Pierre sketched a masterpiece titled Starry Night at a Bourbon Street Karaoke Bar.
A group of tourists gathered around, nodding as if they were witnessing the birth of a new Picasso.
I was dying inside, trying not to burst out laughing.
But the disguises and the jokes were just part of it.
The real magic was in the quieter moments.
When we sat at Preservation Hall, letting the raw, soulful jazz wash over us, or when we swayed to blues at Le Bon Temps Roule, or got lost in the rhythm at Vaughn’s in Tremé.
And almost every night ended at the Spotted Cat in the Marigny, where the music flowed freely, and I felt like I was falling—into the music, into the city, into him.
Luke was different. Sure, he was still every bit the charming, quick-witted Hollywood star, but there was something more thoughtful about him. I’d catch him watching people when he thought I wasn’t looking, like he was studying them, trying to figure out what made them tick.
It happened on the swamp tour when a little boy asked the guide how alligators slept without drowning. The guide had explained their special muscles and floating habits, but Luke had stayed focused on the child, as if marveling at the way children see the world.
At the National World War II Museum, he’d lingered in front of a display about the homefront, reading every word about the sacrifices ordinary people had made.
Later, he struck up a conversation with a couple who were visiting from Kansas.
They talked about their parents, who’d lived through the war, and Luke listened as if their stories were the most important thing in the world.
Even at Preservation Hall, where most people were lost in the music, Luke’s eyes wandered over the crowd.
He watched the older man in the corner, tapping his foot with the precision of someone who had probably played jazz in his younger years.
He noticed the couple holding hands as if they were the only two people in the room. He noticed everything.
And he asked endless questions of everyone, from other tourists, the jazz musicians, the waitstaff, and the guides. “What brought them here? What do they love about New Orleans?”
One night, as we walked home from a late dinner, I finally asked, “What’s with all the questions?”
Luke shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets.
“I spent so much of my life in a bubble. People were telling me what I wanted to hear, selling me versions of myself they thought I wanted to buy. Out here, people are real. They’ll tell you about their day, their struggles, and their joys. It’s grounding.”
I smiled, tucking that thought away. He wasn’t just seeing people; he was learning from them. And somehow, watching him do that made me want to be better, too. It made me want to be real, to show him all the messy, unpolished parts of myself that I usually kept hidden.
At home, the masks came off, and Luke would shrug out of his Hollywood polish, sometimes literally, changing into my lavender hoodie from Muses like it was his uniform for unwinding.
He told me about his dad, the man he admired most in the world, and I found myself sharing stories about my chaotic, love-filled childhood.
He wasn’t just a movie star; he was a man who made me feel safe, cherished, and seen in ways I hadn’t realized I was missing.
It was during these evenings that I began to notice the subtle shifts within myself, too.
While Luke immersed himself in preparing for his audition, I found myself drawn to the writing desk he had picked out for me.
The desk overlooked the lush garden, its serenity coaxing me to sit down and face a blank page.
At first, it was just scattered thoughts, snippets of dialogue, and raw emotions, but soon, the words started flowing.
I used my experiences and emotions to fuel the story, drawing heavily from my life in New Orleans and, without realizing it, my growing feelings for Luke.
I felt alive and hopeful. It was like I’d found my voice again, and it was stronger than ever.
One night, my writing was interrupted by a knock at my door. Luke leaned against the frame, his casual confidence matched by the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Get dressed,” he said, his tone light but insistent. “I’m taking you out.”
“What? Where?” I blinked, caught off guard.
“Commander’s Palace,” he replied. “I hear that it’s one of the most iconic restaurants in New Orleans. Our reservation is in thirty minutes.”
This wasn’t just a casual dinner; this was an occasion. My eyes landed on the black dress Luke’s stylist had chosen.
If this wasn’t the occasion for it, I didn’t know what was.
When I came downstairs, Luke was waiting near the door, adjusting his cufflinks.
He was in a tuxedo, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
The way the fabric fit him, the effortless charm in his posture.
The soft lighting from the chandelier caught the sheen of the black fabric, highlighting the suit’s sharp lines.
But then his eyes found me, and the world seemed to shift, like gravity had suddenly changed direction. He didn’t speak at first, but the way he looked at me, like I was the only person in the room, made my heart flutter and my cheeks flush with heat.
“You look incredible.”
I smoothed down the dress, trying to play it cool. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
The drive to Commander’s Palace was brief, barely enough time for me to get over the fact that I was on my way to a legendary New Orleans restaurant with Luke Fisher, Hollywood heartthrob.
Tom and Hal ushered us into a private room as discreetly as possible, sparing Luke the need to wear sunglasses and a cap.
Scanning the menu, Luke leaned in closer. “What’s the standout here? Turtle soup? Crawfish étouffée? Barbecue shrimp?”
I chuckled. “I’ve never been here, but the turtle soup is supposed to be legendary.”
He nodded, a spark of excitement lighting up his face. “Then it’s a must.”
The ambiance in the private room was warm and intimate, the perfect blend of elegance and charm. As the food arrived, Luke took his first hesitant bite of the turtle soup. After a moment, his eyes widened, and he leaned back dramatically. “Divine.”
I leaned in, lowering my voice. “Okay, is Tom trying to pass as a busboy? Because he just rearranged a stack of napkins like it was a security threat.”
Luke didn’t even turn around. He just smirked and sipped his drink. “He’s got a whole system. Blend in, look bored, monitor exits. Occasionally, fluff a bread basket.”
I laughed. “Subtle. Very low-profile. If the Oscars ever give out awards for background acting, he’s got it locked.”
“Don’t encourage him. He once shadowed a valet for an hour because he thought the guy looked suspicious.”
“What was suspicious about him?”
“He had a man bun.”
I snorted into my water.
Luke’s smile faded just slightly, enough for something more serious to slip in. He set down his glass and looked at me across the table.
“Truth is… they’re not just watching the waiters and busboys here. They’re watching for anyone watching us.”
I blinked. “Us?”
“You know,” he said, his tone light but edged with something serious, “when we figure out how to take this relationship public, we’ll have to be careful.”
I blinked at him, caught off guard by his choice of words. “Public?” I echoed, my heart leaping with a joy so unexpected it almost made me dizzy. A smile spread across my face before I could stop it, warmth flooding my belly.
He nodded. “It’s only a matter of time before someone takes a photo or asks the wrong question. And I… want to be ready for that. For what it means when we’re not just having dinner in a private room. When it’s headlines and speculation and the whole mess.”
The restaurant buzzed with clinking silverware, bursts of laughter, and the low hum of conversation in the surrounding rooms. But for a second, it all fell away.
“I want to protect this,” he said. “Not because I’m scared of what people will say. Because I don’t want anything messing with what we’ve got.”
I stared at him, warmth blooming in my chest. Slowly, I reached for his hand.