Page 38 of New Orleans Rush

The best kind, she wanted to say, which didn’t make sense, considering his statement. “I still lied. I’ve been sleeping here without paying rent.”

“Are you making money with Della?” He asked the question softly, his hand motionless on her wrist.

Her breaths felt weighted, like the oxygen between them was laced with iron. “I am, but it’s tough to find a good apartment at a cheap price, and I like it here.” She had liked it, at least. Before that unnerving text.

“You like sleeping on the floor?”

“Sleeping in this amazing space. I’ve been struggling to paint for a while. Then I came here and my creativity flooded back. I didn’t want to leave.”

His strong cheekbones sharpened as he released her wrist, and her pulse point turned cold. His back was to her painting, but she couldn’t control her flicking gaze.

She wasn’t ready for him to see it. To see her in the unfinished work. He, of course, turned his head and followed her sightline. Stupid flitting eyes. He rotated his upper body fully, his knees lifting as he faced the project. And God, she felt naked. Exposed. He was studying her essence, the good and bad that forged her soul.

“It’s you.” He pushed to his feet and approached the work.

She’d outlined her profile on the wood planks, but only a handful of squares had been filled in. Still, he saw her. He knew. She wondered if he recognized his lighter blue eye or the section of his cape. She sucked on her lollipop, needing to busy herself with something. Cherry sweetness clung to her tongue. Jitters frazzled her further. He kept staring.

“It’s far from done,” she said around her lollipop.

He kept his back to her. “It’s amazing.”

Her cheeks probably matched her cherry candy. “I kind of stole the wood planks from a room upstairs, so I owe you for that on top of the car and the squatting. Oh, and the cape dry-cleaning, too. And the toothbrush. And beignets. And lunch.” The words thank and you felt inadequate on her tongue. Instead, she babbled. “I’m racking up quite the tab.”

His gray T-shirt clung to his broad back, stretching tightly over his muscles as he crossed his arms. He didn’t move after that, only cocked his head.

She sneezed.

“Bless you,” he said. Then, “Eighteen days.”

She twitched her nose. “What’s in eighteen days?”

When he finally faced her, her pulse stuttered. His pupils had blown wide, turning his mismatched eyes the same deep brown. His wavy hair was askew. Ten days ago, she’d dragged her fingers through that soft hair. She’d felt the strong cords of his neck.

She bit through her lollipop and crunched the hard candy.

“Eighteen days,” he repeated. “That’s how long I have to earn cash for the building. After that, I’ll quit gambling.”

“Why?” She sucked her cherry-flavored lip and leaned forward. Was he doing this for her? A girl he barely knew?

“Because I plan to take you on a date, in eighteen days.”

“Oh.” It was a pathetic syllable. It didn’t leap like her heart had at his admission, or tumble like her belly. It hung between them, solid and unmoving. She should be thrilled he’d been thinking about her, too, that he’d make room in his life to accommodate her baggage. But she’d heard those words before.

I’m done this time.

Never gambling again.

Doing it for you, Pumpkin.

She wanted to believe Huxley, but her intuition often led her astray. “I don’t like the idea of you changing for me. There’s pressure with that. We don’t even know each other that well.”

“I’m not changing my personality, just an extracurricular activity. And not knowing each other is the point. I want to know you better.”

“Enough that you’d quit a game you enjoy?”

“I couldn’t care less if I never see another deck of cards.”

“What about in your routines? You’ll have to use them then.”