Chapter 24
I hadn’t been in conference mode in a long time. These folks had an app. They provided a paper version of the guide, but only
tech-challenged attendees were using it. That wasn’t my story, but it was still strange to navigate the events this way.
In addition to delivering the keynote, Gabe was tasked with teaching a master class. That freed me to pop in and out of different
sessions. I learned about writing flash fiction (something I’d never done), organizing your series bible (something I needed),
and next-leveling your voice (something that intimidated me). I ran into some former labelmates from my publishing house,
Evie Stone and Tasha White, and joined them for lunch. Over salads we got updates on our personal writing stories, and I listened
to them share publishing industry gossip. The two had obviously had an off–social media relationship, because they asked about
each other’s children, and I learned Evie’s mom had early-onset Alzheimer’s. She saw her future as a caregiver raising teenagers,
and both roles etched worry lines into her forehead.
“So what about you, Alex? You’ve been quiet,” Tasha said.
“I haven’t been to a conference in forever.”
“I know, I haven’t seen you in forever, not even at reader events,” Tasha said.
“It must be nice to have such loyal readers that you don’t have to hit the pavement and beg people to buy your books,” Evie
said.
“I do events,” I replied. “Regional ones.”
“What brings you all the way to New Orleans?”
Before I could respond, Gabe appeared, leaning into our table, flashing his gorgeous dimpled smile.
Tasha melted on the spot, and Evie pushed out her chest, effectively getting better use out of her magic bra. “I don’t mean
to disturb your lunch,” he started before Tasha interrupted him.
“Oh my gosh! Gabriel Scott.” Tasha stood and stuck out her hand. “I loved Seasons. I’m so looking forward to your keynote.”
“Thank you,” Gabe replied, smiling humbly.
“I tried to get in your master class,” Evie added. “It was sold out the first week of registration.”
“They’re recording the sessions,” I said, standing. “Audio and video.”
Tasha’s lips pinched. “I’m aware. It’s not the same, and you don’t get to participate in the feedback sessions.”
“Maybe next time,” Gabe replied. “You don’t mind if I borrow Alex for a second.”
Tasha answered, giving me a curious look, “By all means, borrow.”
I stepped away from the table with him. “Making friends on the first day, I see.”
“Old friends. We used to have the same publisher. Evie and I were in a series together, the Billionaires of Becketville,”
I said. “So how was your class?”
Gabe looked rejuvenated. “It was great. Nice and small, hence their inability to get in. I like to teach. More than writing,
I think.”
“We didn’t talk about lunch, so I decided to be an adult and feed myself,” I said.
“They have a staff lounge upstairs, complete with all kinds of food and swag bags.”
“Ooh, swag,” I said. “Fancy.”
“Very. I’ll make sure to get some beignets for you.”
“Please do, sir.”
“I’d better get back for the second half. I just wanted to check on you.”
“You could have texted.”
“What fun would that be?” He smiled again, and the light in his eyes found my heart.
I smiled back. “Thanks for bringing me. I’m learning stuff.”
“Sign up for an agent session.”
He’d remembered what I said about Dana. “Aren’t they all taken?”
“I might have used my influence to get you a meeting. Check the app.”
He moved away from me, disappearing into the crowd and then out the door. I returned to the table.
Tasha and Evie were sitting there, mouths open, waiting.
“How do you know Gabriel Scott?” Evie asked.
“He’s from South Carolina.”
Tasha tsked. “So are millions of other people.”
“South Carolina is kind of a small state,” I said, teasing as I reached for my drink. They continued to stare as if waterboarding
me wasn’t out of the question. “We work together.” I told them about the position at the center. They were fascinated.
“What a cool opportunity,” Tasha said.
My phone pinged with a text.
Gabe: Putting in my bid for dinner. I should be done by five.
Me: Dinner at 6?
Gabe: Let’s go to the French Quarter.
The rest of my afternoon went quickly. A session on leveling up character development and a second on deep point of view rounded out the day.
It was good to learn new things and be reminded of old things.
Listening to other writers talk and share their thoughts was cool.
Seeing Tasha and Evie off social media was cool too. Conferences were cool.
I went back to my room, showered, and changed into a denim skirt, a T-shirt, and jeweled clogs. I looked cute, if I did say
so myself. Right before six, there was a knock at the door. I opened it, and Gabe said, “I’m ready if you are.”
I was ready. I’d had a good day, so I was ready for whatever tonight would bring.
The French Quarter pulsed around us like it had a heartbeat of its own. Drums echoed somewhere in the distance, horns wailed
from a brass band, the sweet scent of pralines and beignets filled the humid air. New Orleans was a different kind of hot
from Charleston. Charleston’s heat crept up on you, and a breeze that came off the salty sea air offered some relief, or at
least it did where I lived. New Orleans heat, though—Lord—it wrapped around you like a damp blanket.
Once we were on the street, a switch flipped on inside Gabe. He slid his hand into mine as we moved through the narrow streets
like he had no doubt we were a couple. We talked about conference activities during the walk. I shared about the fun impromptu
writing session I attended on description, and he told me about his time in a thriller writing workshop. He was serious about
the short story he had to submit.
“This walk feels like it’s getting longer,” he said, leaning in, his voice low and close to my ear. “We can get a taxi.”
My body buzzed with lightness. The feel of his hand around mine was fuel for each step. “I’m enjoying the walk.”
It was true: Last night I’d bailed on him, but I wasn’t going to ruin another night for him or myself. Tonight the worry over
those hundred pages was set aside. I wasn’t trippin’ over my insecurities. This freedom allowed me to take up space in the
world with Gabe.
After twenty minutes, we stopped in front of Café Sbisa, a restaurant that proudly boasted on its door that it was established
in 1899.
Gabe looked in, trying to assess the wait time. “This is one of the oldest restaurants in the city.”
“Which means the gumbo is going to be amazing,” I said. “We get to compare it to Gullah gumbo.”
Gabe pulled on the door handle. “Good point. Let’s go get it done for the culture.”
Inside, the lights were dim, flickering against exposed brick walls and oil paintings that seemed to drip with color. The
air was thick with the scent of garlic and butter and wine.
There was no wait. We were seated in an intimate booth in the corner.
Everything on the menu looked good. I hated having to choose, but we decided on our dishes, and the server took our order.
I could feel Gabe’s eyes on me while I was talking to her. He liked to stare. Insecurity reared its ugly head and picked at
the edges of my self-esteem. I took a deep breath and forced it out of my head. This man made me feel seen. I needed to embrace
it, let go, and enjoy it.
The server swooped in with our drinks and salads. I waited for her to finish before leaning into the table. “Can I ask you
a question?”
“You can ask me anything.”
“Why don’t you speak Gullah?”
“Yah worry ’bout dat. Oona shoulda ax me. Oona settin’ up tinkin’ mi self a tief or tricksta.”
I laughed.
“Mi na know ’bout oona.” He chuckled. “No, seriously, uh . . .” He paused. “It reminds me of my father.” He nodded. “Not in
a good way.”
I gave him the space to process his thoughts, and he took it.
“My father wasn’t Gullah. He was a fisherman who worked oysters. He fell in love with my mother. After spending his life in
foster care, being with her on the island gave him a home. That’s why he was so sick when we moved off my family land.”
“Why did you move?” I asked.
Gabe took a sip of his drink before continuing. “Sorry, I talk about it in my book. We moved shortly after my mother died . . .
to Adam’s Run. He changed, insisted I speak ‘proper.’” He framed the word in quotes. “He was wrong about the language. It’s
a part of my culture, but I can’t seem to break away from what he wanted.” Gabe sat back and sucked in his stomach like he
was trying to keep his emotions inside.
There it was . . . his first emotional wound. It was good to know he wasn’t made of Teflon, because I was a hurt hound on
most days. I reached for his hand and squeezed. “It’s okay.”
He placed his hand on top of mine. “Good question.”
I smiled.
“How are you related to Ms. Kate?”
“She is my mother’s sister. She’s like a mother to me. Always has been.”
“I can see that,” I said. “Do you mind me asking . . . Where is her son?”
Gabe raised his hand to rub his chin. “Erik? He’s dead.”
I blinked through disbelief. “What?”
“He passed ten years ago.”
“I don’t understand. I asked her if her son was still painting.”
Gabe took a slow sip of his drink. His eyes stayed on mine, steady, almost apologetic. “What did she say—‘probably’?”
“Something like that.”
He let the silence stretch just long enough. “She meant in heaven, Alex.”
My entire body bore the weight of his words. How was I supposed to know that? “I had no idea. None. I . . . thought they were
estranged or something.” I sat back. “I need to read your book.”
“When you’re ready.”
“No. I’m being silly. I clearly need to read it. You’re all a part of my life now.”
Gabe’s eyes sank into mine. He took my hand and squeezed it. “When you send your pages off to your editor, Alex. Not a moment
before. I forbid you to interfere with your own process.”
I understood what he was saying, but I was missing too much. Ms. Kate’s son . . . dead. I was ashamed I didn’t know. I wanted
to know how, but I wasn’t going to take Gabe through that, not when his grief had inspired his book.
The server arrived with our meals. We hadn’t touched our salads. She put everything down. Looking at Gabe, she said, “Sorry,
the kitchen got it up faster than usual.”
Gabe nodded. “It’s fine; we’ll get started.”
She blushed and walked away. The effect he had on women—it was unreal. He interrupted my thoughts with “You know what I’ve
observed today?” His voice was low, pulling me closer. “You are relaxed.”
“Am I usually uptight?”
He shrugged. “Your deadline is weighing on you.”
“It is. My creativity is completely jammed up. I swear it’s aging me.”
“Aging?” He winked. “Maybe backwards.”
I smirked. “Now you’re creating fiction.”
“I’m not. You’re beautiful, Alex.” He released a long plume of air on that statement.
My breath caught, and heat crawled up my neck. I thanked him, but it came out like I was just humoring him.
“I’m serious.” His gaze never wavered. “You’re always beautiful, but tonight . . .” His eyes moved over my face, like he was
memorizing the moment. “Tonight, you’re glowing.”
I bit my lip to hold back the grin that threatened to break wide open. “This is called sweat. I just walked a mile in the
worst humidity I’ve ever endured.”
He laughed, low and smooth. “No. It’s you. It’s definitely the beauty from within shining through and meeting up with the
good genes on the outside.”
With that, my heart was his. All of it.
Dinner passed in an easy rhythm—shared plates, stolen glances, long pauses where neither of us spoke but everything was said.
When we finally stepped back into the night, the French Quarter was even more alive, if that was possible. The music had changed,
a slower rhythm now, almost sultry.
Gabe slowed his pace, and I fell into step beside him. My T-shirt clung to my skin from the damp air, and when his hand settled
on the small of my back, I felt the touch everywhere.
We reached the hotel too soon. I wasn’t ready for the night to end. I didn’t want to lose this version of me, the woman who
felt light, fully present, and . . . beautiful.
We stood there for a beat, under the awning, the golden glow of the lobby lights falling around us.
He stepped closer, closing the small space between us. My breath hitched.
“I don’t want to say good night yet,” he murmured.
“You can say it upstairs. We do have adjoining suites.”
“That’s the problem,” he said. His hand slid up my arm, fingers grazing the curve of my shoulder, then my neck. The way he
touched me—delicately, reverently, like he was holding something precious. Like I was precious.
I tilted my face up to his, my pulse racing, my skin alive.
And then his lips found mine.
Soft at first. Testing. Asking.
I answered.
The kiss deepened, his mouth capturing mine, his hand in the small of my back, pulling me closer. The world around us dissolved.
There were no tourists, no music, no city, no writers, just the two of us in this perfect moment.
When we finally pulled apart, breathless, his forehead rested against mine.
“Let’s get out of this street before we get arrested for PDA,” he said, laughing.
We took the elevator up. Outside my room, he waited until I slipped my key card into the door before turning and going to
his own door.
I stepped in, kicked off my shoes, and ran to the bed and dived onto it. “I can’t believe it!” I yelled, but then covered
my mouth. I didn’t want him to hear me. I lay there for a long time, pulse racing, lips tingling, wondering how on earth I
was supposed to sleep now.