Page 25 of New Orleans Rush

Huxley wasn’t looking to meet someone. Not now, with so much stress boxing him in. But he’d put her pink pony on his coffee table and found himself staring at it sporadically, unconsciously smiling despite his troubles. That one simple gift had already made his days better. A ridiculous doll.

He sighed into the empty auditorium. “I know a distraction is a rotten idea right now. I’m just not sure I can stay away.”

Don’t stay away, she thought. You can do both. I’ll help you. She pressed her hand over her breastbone, covering her pounding heart, worried he’d hear its booming beat. Like the trumpets from her swing music had taken up song in her chest.

He’d called her beautiful and sexy and fun. God, how she wanted to show him fun. Not just goofiness to loosen him up. She wanted to ride a Ferris wheel together while the world spun around them, their arms and hands linked. She wanted to feed him beignets and lick the sticky sugar from his lips. Get him messy so she could strip him down and clean him up, slowly, with soapy hands. Explore every scar on his body.

Her body tingled at the possibility.

She closed her eyes, reveling in the imagined scenes. She strained to hear his every breath. She wanted to inhabit the silence between his words.

10

The next day Bea stood stock-still, staring at a set of jagged teeth and beady eyes. The alligator’s leathery jaw looked ready to chomp her to bits. She’d never seen an alligator up close, dead or alive. This specimen was certainly dead, as were the thirty-odd severed heads on the vendor’s table. Kids and spouses posed with the lifeless reptiles, cute photos taken that would be blasted on social media.

Bea sent a picture to her mother, titled, Caught in the wild!

Della’s stall was at this market, somewhere at the back end. She’d replied to Bea’s text, offering to meet about the job. Knowing the sights and sounds of the busy spot would drive Bea to distraction, she had allotted meandering time. It was a good thing. She salivated at the stacked muffuletta sandwiches and overstuffed po’boys. Oysters on the half shell glistened. Fruity cocktails whizzed in blenders. If her wallet weren’t nearly bone-dry, she’d try one of everything.

Inhaling the spicy, briny smells, she perused the shelves of hot sauces and art vendors, slipping down the rows with other tourists. She dragged her fingers through piles of necklaces and masks in pinks and purples and neon blues. Even with her meandering allotment, she barely found Della’s table on time.

But Della wasn’t there. Until she was.

A woman popped up from behind the table, her long braids swaying as she chewed something and licked her lips.

“If that’s a po’boy down there,” Bea said, “I might have to steal a bite.”

Della swallowed. “If you’re not Beatrice, this might get awkward.”

“Call me Bea, and awkward makes for good fun.”

Bea stepped aside, letting a few women browse Della’s jewelry. Unlike much of the kitschy pieces inside the main building, her work was striking. Colorful crystals and beads filled small circles, ovals, and squares, the shapes then linked together into bracelets and necklaces. Earrings dangled with intricate patterns. “Your work is as magical as the Marlow show.”

Della’s deep brown eyes twinkled. “I like you already. When can you start?”

“Shouldn’t I be interviewed?”

“Okay.” She ducked down, took another bite of her sandwich, chewed, swallowed, then faced Bea. “Will you steal from me?”

“No.”

“Can you use a calculator?”

“Yes.”

“Are you good with people?”

“I adore people.”

Bea’s potential boss wore slim jeans and a funky white top with cutouts in the shoulders. Her turquoise and yellow necklace—as intricate as a Greek mosaic—hung over delicate collarbones, a beautiful contrast to her dark skin. Her interviewing skills weren’t top notch, but she didn’t appear the sort to cozy up with a sneaky Fox. Until she narrowed her eyes at Bea. “Is Huxley one of the people you adore?”

Maybe she’d misjudged Della already. “Is this part of the interview?”

She shrugged. “I’ll let it slide. I’m just protective of the boys, and Huxley’s been through a lot.”

“At least he doesn’t try to read my mind.” Like his mentalist brother, although he’d done a fine job of it last night. Every confession spoken into the empty theater had echoed her feelings, his deep baritone nearly lulling her to sleep. When his one-way conversation had shifted to talk of his brothers, Bea had returned to her art, giving him back his privacy.

She hadn’t seen him since, and hearing he’d been through a lot made her even more curious about the man behind the fascinating face. As it was, her pulse raced each time he crossed her mind, or maybe it was the fact that seeing him tonight meant she’d be performing. On an actual stage. In front of people.