Page 41 of New Orleans Rush

Playing the role of sisterly house companion, she’d made sure to wear a bra under her sleepwear, ensuring the white cotton tank top didn’t cross any carnal lines. Her watermelon-slice flannel bottoms were definitely roommate quality. Huxley still stared at her like she was a red lollipop, and he had a red lollipop addiction.

Steam curled from his refreshed coffee, malty, toasty scents drifting between them. Shell extraction complete, she cut and sautéed the mushrooms, as he had. Her final product was more a jumbled mess than pretty presentation. At least it was edible.

Huxley accepted his plate. “It looks delicious.”

“You’re a skilled liar.”

“I don’t lie. You did an excellent job.”

Warmth filled her chest. “This is the fanciest meal I’ve ever made. Consider yourself lucky I moved in and graced you with my culinary expertise.”

Mug in one hand, he leaned his elbows on the counter. “Thank goodness you moved in,” he murmured, his rapt attention focused on her, not on his food.

He shifted on his stool.

Her breasts felt heavy.

Sexualus tensionae.

Instead of sitting beside him, she stood across the counter where their arms and legs wouldn’t brush, and where she couldn’t inhale his soapy, manly scent. She used the space to remind herself there were reasons for their self-imposed roommate scenario, the main one being: believing the best in people often led her to disappointment. This was her chance to understand Huxley’s true character before getting in too deep.

She scooped up a forkful of eggs and crunched on something. Mortified, she froze. If Huxley’s sour expression was any indication, he’d also chewed eggshell pieces. She managed to swallow, then moved her plate away and waited for him to crack a joke or get annoyed with her awful breakfast. He did neither of those things.

Huxley scooped up another bite and crunched his way further into her heart. “Axel has some new number tonight,” he said. “It involves less clothing.”

She couldn’t touch her eggs or tear her gaze away from this sweet man’s face. “It might not be what you imagined for the theater,” she said, “but the seats are filling, and I have new flyers. Della lets me take a few breaks at the market to hand them out. The women I target get all giggly when they read them.”

Because she’d slapped an image of Axel on the advertisements, one in which he happened to be shirtless. Even two-dimensional, Cocky Smurf charmed the ladies. Bea also spent some post-performance evenings trolling the streets, accosting drunk women with her leaflets.

Along with social media posts, her efforts had more tickets selling nightly. Each show still set off her stage fright, complete with more dressing room panic sessions. Huxley would come in and talk her down as she squeezed the red handkerchief. She’d then remember how his passionate kiss had helped calm her nerves. She’d keep her eyes on his top hat or cape or study his scarred cheek, wishing she could coast her lips over the puckered surface. Her fantasies would distract her initially, her adrenaline rush taking her the last mile.

Last show, she’d only messed up three times, and she hadn’t fallen onto any audience members.

Huxley grimaced as he took another bite. “I’m planning a new number. Does fire scare you?”

“Like when it shoots from your sleeves for the dove routine?”

“Yes and no. You’ll be more involved this time.”

She was pretty sure one touch from Huxley would have her skin bursting into flames. “I can do fire.”

“Good.” He devoured the rest of his eggs, like they’d been prepared by a five-star chef, not her incapable hands.

She forced her attention to the living room, anywhere but on his handsome self. Her pink pony stood on his coffee table in all its girly glory. It was Bea’s favorite thing about the room, especially when she’d catch Huxley looking at Cotton Candy, amusement in his eyes. A few magic magazines and his Bon Appétit collection were stacked beside it. Her gaze skimmed the publications and landed on the art supplies she’d set up behind his couch.

Last night had been their weekly free evening. No stage fright or performing. Drop cloth on the ground, she’d lost herself for hours, only to feel Huxley’s hand on her back later. So thrilled her inspiration had returned, she’d forgotten she was in his house, on his floor, living with this fascinating man. Her bedroom was next to his. A wall separated them.

“I’m heading to bed,” he’d said softly, his deep voice caressing her ear. The intimacy of the moment had sent her swooning so hard she’d nearly face-planted on her paint palette. But the greater joy, the startling reality, was that she didn’t need the theater’s magical prop room for her creativity to bloom. This new venue had also pumped her full of inspiration.

Even now, while Huxley insisted on cleaning up, two hours before her flea market job began, she filled plastic containers with water and set up her art station. Because she could. Because she was energized. Because with Huxley near, she suddenly had to.

She painted two squares: a section of the queen of hearts and the lip of a martini glass. She wasn’t sure when jazz music had begun to play, or when Huxley had sat on the couch behind her. He didn’t make conversation or watch her work. Maybe he sensed her need for concentration, or he enjoyed the quiet, too. Either way, his proximity brought with it a soothing contentment.

Needing to shower, she cleaned her brushes and dumped her paint-muddied water. Huxley’s attention remained fixed on a small box in his hands. The box. The one he’d obsessed over yesterday as well, but she’d been too excited about painting to ask him about it.

She laid out her brushes to dry, ready to find out why he was trying to open an unopenable box, but he put it down and moved to stand in front of her project.

He crossed his arms. “How do you like your martinis?”