Page 19 of New Orleans Rush

Ignoring that cryptic statement, Axel released Bea’s shoulder and blew her a kiss, which she caught and planted on her cheek. Huxley stood, his spine snapped straight as his brothers left the stage.

She pulled a snack from her purse and peeled the wrapper. “Did you lose Cotton Candy already?”

“Lose what?”

“The My Little Pony doll. You’re grumpier than usual.”

“She’s at home,” he mumbled while watching Bea nibble her fruit-and-nut bar. “What are you doing?”

“Eating lunch.”

“That’s not lunch, Beatrice.”

“On my budget, it is. I don’t earn a paycheck.” A sad state of affairs. She’d checked wanted advertisements this morning and had booked interviews for waitressing jobs. Until something panned out—a daytime job that didn’t interfere with her assistant duties—she’d have to ration meals.

She was so busy savoring her meager snack, she didn’t notice Huxley’s approach until he’d clasped her elbow. “You’re coming to lunch with me.”

Fox was right, as Fox usually was: fighting his interest in Beatrice Baker was a losing battle. All rehearsal, Huxley had been ready to deck Axel. His brother had been as obnoxious when rehearsing with Ashlynn, his charisma gene always switched to high. But watching him flirt with Ashlynn had never made Huxley want to punch his brother in the face. Beatrice had laughed when Axel had joked. She’d beamed when he’d done the running man while wearing his straitjacket.

Huxley had nearly ground his molars to dust.

In his life, he’d never experienced this kind of irrational jealousy. And here she was, existing on granola bars because he’d blackmailed her into working for free.

Ashamed, he took her to a small café. The hostess smiled when she looked at Beatrice. The other patrons grinned, too, as had every person they’d passed on the street. It could be the polka dot thigh-highs she wore, or her flared pink skirt, or the black-and-white halter top that turned her into a fifties pinup girl. But Huxley knew better: it was the Beatrice Baker Effect. Her natural brightness was contagious.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said, tucking her napkin on her lap.

“I believe I do. I’m the reason you’re eating bird food for lunch.”

“Technically, I’m the reason. I’m the one who keyed your car and couldn’t pay for it.”

Technically, she was correct, but he didn’t like being inadvertently responsible for her grim situation, and his curtness this morning had been unacceptable. He also wanted to know about her art and the name of her favorite book and if she brushed her top or bottom teeth first. He settled on asking her the question he’d mulled over since their fateful meeting. “Speaking of the car keying, you said something odd that night.”

“Besides calling you a kerivoula kachinensis?”

“Besides that.” Scents of coffee and bacon drifted from the back of the all-day-breakfast café. She studied him, expectant. “When I suggested calling the cops, you said you were the only one without a mugshot.”

“This is true.” She didn’t elaborate.

The glass doors were open to the street, fresh air drifting in. Across the road, a mule clipped and clopped, towing a vintage carriage. Tourists ambled down the sidewalk, sugar-dusted beignets in hand. The sun disappeared behind a cloud, shading this peaceful section of the French Quarter. Although mornings along these streets usually smelled like a frat party gone wrong, the sourness was absent. Music swirled from different directions: a violin, a horn of some sort, the pounding of a drum. It felt like years since Huxley had simply sat and soaked in a New Orleans afternoon, especially with a beautiful woman. One he wanted to understand.

“Care to clarify?” He prodded her, unable to let it slide. “After all, you’re part of the Marvelous Marlow Boys now. I’d like to know if nefarious sorts will be chasing after you.”

She pulled her gaze from the passing mule-drawn carriage. “Don’t you love the word nefarious? It’s very nefarious-sounding.”

“I do.” He also couldn’t get enough of how she enjoyed the minutia of life. “But you’re ignoring my question.”

Their small table held a single carnation in a vase and salt and pepper shakers. She tipped a pile of pepper in front of her and began moving it around. “There is one man who’d like to dismember my fingers, but he shouldn’t be a problem.”

“You have a vivid imagination.” She shrugged like she wasn’t joking. He wasn’t fooled. “You’re evading.”

She didn’t glance up from her pepper art. He didn’t know her that well, but she’d always tried to meet his eyes when talking, even when Huxley had avoided it. Looking into her rainstorm eyes reduced him to nothing but a pounding heart.

“Unlike your big brood,” she said, “I’m an only child, but my father was one of four kids. The mug shots vary, but most were a result of petty theft and drunken behavior. Their kids followed suit. No mass murderers or anything, just a DNA pool with addictive personalities, famous for making bad decisions.”

“Which bad decision did your father make?”

She finished drawing a pepper flower and met his gaze. “He’s a drunk. Not the abusive, angry sort. More the pathetic, sad sort. He’s sweet when he’s sober. He’s also a compulsive gambler. He did some low-level theft to support his habits while I kept the electricity on.”