Page 47 of New Orleans Rush

Blotches quickly colored her neck. She didn’t reply.

He faced the audience and smacked his metal weapons again. Turning his back to the room, he feigned trying to insert one into her chest. She flinched as they’d rehearsed. He repeated the ruse, not shoving the blade all the way through, while he talked to her quietly. “I assumed you’d want full-fat for your purposes, that the real deal would enhance the experience, but since I wasn’t sure, I got a couple others.” He shoved the first sheet through the box.

The audience gasped.

Bea’s cheeks flamed to match her hair.

“I also wondered at which point the whipped cream would be used. Is it best at the start or better when you’re worked up? And do you have contortionist skills you haven’t shared? If so, we could use them in the show.”

Another metal sheet. More gasps. More blushing from Beatrice.

She didn’t say a word, but she did make eye contact with Della, who was filming from the audience. Fox’s friend seemed to be cracking up. Beatrice mouthed, Help.

Della laughed harder.

Huxley went in for the kill. “I also bought a jar of cherries, but those are for me. I can’t eat my whipped cream without them.” He winked.

“Menstruating,” she whisper-yelled. “It was supposed to say menstruating.” Then her head slumped forward. “I hate my phone.”

He liked her phone very much.

Bea’s mortification had reached new heights. Huxley was messing with her, and the man was thriving on it. If she hadn’t been locked in a zigzag box, she’d have flicked his funny bone.

What she did do was refrain from returning his playful innuendo. She couldn’t wait for their fifteen days to fly by, as her calendar doodles had confirmed, but Della’s advice and Bea’s history fortified her anti-flirting plan. She would bottle up all these fizzy feelings for Huxley until she was sure she wouldn’t get stuck spinning in another man’s tornado.

She joined the boys for the curtain call, bowing with her ensemble. The cheers and whistling were louder than usual, courtesy of Axel, who’d only pulled on a pair of black slacks for the occasion. Normally the crowds would clear, people tapping on their phones or chatting with their cliques as they left. Tonight a bachelorette party lingered, rowdier than usual, coaxing the boys into photos. Axel invited them on stage. Bea stepped aside and fiddled with her feathered costume.

Della appeared at the stage lip, waving her phone at Bea. “I caught you turning fifty shades of red. I only wish I heard what he was saying.”

“It was as horrible as you’d imagine.”

“Or as awesome.”

Several women giggled and gushed over Axel. Bea crouched by Della, happy to have someone to chat with. “Did you capture Fox on video?”

She gazed at her phone like it housed her heart. “He looked amazing up there.”

They turned their heads and focused on the boys. Axel was being woman-handled by two of the groupies, their paws all over his snake tattoo. When one of them sidled up to Fox, Della made a pained sound. The Asian woman placed her hand on Fox’s hip. He tilted his head, smirk in place. They moved closer together.

“I shouldn’t have come.” Della swiveled and headed for the exit before Bea could apologize for dragging her there or offer words of comfort. Fox was certainly blind as a bat, which would make him a member of the flying fox family: a megabat from the subtropics of Asia with a four-foot wingspan. Megabats were large enough to be vampires.

Maybe she’d tested the wrong brother for sparkles.

She went to glare at him, only to be stopped short by another bubbly woman flirting with the men—one man in particular. The man who’d made her coffee that morning.

The woman with Huxley was a redhead, like Bea, but not a natural. She wore a fun pinup-style dress, like one Bea would purchase, but she probably didn’t have a gambling addict for a father or a tendency to key cars when drunk. The woman pressed a hand to Huxley’s stomach and held her phone out for a selfie.

Bea’s belly curdled. He’s not mine, she reminded herself. He’s free to flirt and date and take selfies. She couldn’t tame her body’s acute reaction.

Photo done, the woman didn’t pull away. She pressed closer to Huxley, winding her other arm around his back. Bea waited for Huxley to excuse himself or create space. He only smiled at something she said.

He didn’t smile easily with others. Bea had earned every gratifying grin. Yet here he was, flirting and smiling for a bottled redhead. Bea’s eyes stung. Her rapid breaths grated her throat. However hard she’d blushed when he’d teased her earlier, she was sure her skin had turned blotchier.

He glanced at her then, maybe sensing her forlorn stare. All humor drained from his face. Bea didn’t wait as he tried to extricate himself from his groupie. She hurried to the dressing room, locked herself inside, and pressed her forehead to the closed door.

Loud steps stopped outside her room. “Beatrice.”

She didn’t reply.