Page 45 of New Orleans Rush

She smacked her hands together and rubbed them like a criminal mastermind. “Tonight’s performance should be interesting.”

“So should our slumber party.”

Della’s protective face snapped in place—full lips flattening, dark eyes hardening. Before she could interrogate Bea, two women approached the table, fussing over the jewelry. Della behaved like the professional she was, closing the sale. Bea, on the other hand, continued her impression of a sunburned lobster.

More customers followed. When a respite hit, Della didn’t waste their minutes alone. “Are you sleeping with Huxley?”

As usual, her directness was both refreshing and terrifying. “I’m not sleeping with him exactly. I’m sleeping in the room beside his.”

When Della’s eyes narrowed into twin lasers, Bea relayed her movie-script life: squatting in the theater, her gambling heritage, the blight, the poker games, the fifteen remaining days, and her roommate strategy.

“Let me get this straight,” Della said, ticking the listed items on her fingers. “You’ve both admitted you dig each other, you’re living together, you cook together, you eat together, but you’re not sampling the goods.”

“That sounds accurate.”

Instead of replying, Della studied her jewelry table. She selected a green and cream pendant necklace and held it toward Bea. “I’m sorry if I judged you when we met—that whole rebound/relationship thing. I was wrong. I wouldn’t have the willpower to live with a man I was interested in without sneaking into his room. Holding back must be brutal.”

Bea accepted the offered gift, the swirling crystal beads as beautiful as Della’s admission. Della had also hit the proverbial nail on its head. No matter Bea’s uncertainty and stress, she very much liked Huxley Marlow. “Thank you, but I’m trying to take this slow. Not get in too deep or get my hopes up. Except I’ve gone and upped the ante with masturbation imagery. How am I going to work with him tonight?”

“I can come with. Give you moral support…and crack up behind your back.”

“I’ve always wanted a backstabbing best friend.”

They smirked at each other.

Bea spun around and held out the necklace for Della to attach. “Do you often attend the theater shows?”

“I used to, but I haven’t been in a couple years.” She clicked the clasp in place and combed the ends of Bea’s hair with her fingers. “It’s hard watching Fox.”

At Della’s melancholy tone, Bea faced her boss and friend. The obvious longing in Della’s eyes swamped Bea with guilt. Wanting to avoid topics of dating, which would have led to topics of Huxley, she’d never asked Della about the men in her life. Aside from establishing they were both single, she’d never prodded enough to see what had been in front of her the whole time.

“You like Fox.” How could she have missed the signs?

“If ‘like’ means having an unhealthy obsession that totally derails your life, then, yeah…I like Fox.”

“Does he know?”

She shrugged. “He seems to read everyone’s mind but mine.”

“And you haven’t told him?”

“It’s complicated.” Della spun her bracelet, looking ready to cut their conversation short, but Bea stared her down. She could give good stare when required.

Della huffed out a feeble laugh. “He’s best friends with my brother, Rayce, and when Rayce moved away a couple years back, he asked Fox to look out for me, which isn’t a new role for him. My father left when we were young. Fox was super overprotective back then. These days, he acts like an overbearing brother.”

“And you don’t see him as a brother.”

Her bracelet fiddling turned agitated. “Not even close. I flirted with him once. Ran into him at a club, and thanks to my buddy vodka, I dragged him onto the dance floor. For a second I was sure he was about to kiss me, but then he got weird and left. He never mentioned it, and I never tried again. He’s clearly not interested, and if I tell him how I feel, he might get annoyed or freaked out. I could lose him completely. It’s not worth it.”

“Oh, Della.” Bea pulled her into a tight hug. “He might surprise you. Maybe he has feelings, too. If you tell him, he might admit it or look at you differently.”

Sighing, Della shimmied out of Bea’s hold. “Trust me, he sees me as a little sister. Nothing more. Which is why I don’t watch him perform. He’s already at my apartment constantly, helping out with stupid things I can do myself. But there’s something about seeing him on stage. It kind of knocks me for a loop. So, like I said, it’s complicated.” She picked at her cuticles.

Bea could relate to craving a man out of reach. She was currently living with one. But Della had known Fox for years. That kind of unrequited longing put her fifteen-day wait to shame. She also sensed Della wanted a subject change, an opening she’d like to somersault through. Before her text disaster, she’d been contemplating painting more saleable pieces. Della’s market stall offered a venue. “If I create some miniature paintings done on natural surfaces, like reclaimed wood and discarded cupboard doors, could I sell them here?”

“Of course,” Della said quickly. “I could condense my pieces, or we could hang them on the back divider.”

Immediately, Bea wanted to text Huxley, share this news with him and squeal about the images flooding her mind. But her phone was dead, she’d already derailed things with her masturbating comment, and she was wary about how quickly he was becoming her confidant.