Page 51 of New Orleans Rush

Nine seconds, and her chest swelled higher.

Ten seconds, and she blinked faster.

He extinguished the flames on his machete and arced his cape over her body, dousing the remaining fire. She was caged beneath him, sharp scents of smoke and alcohol mingling with her watermelon aroma. It heightened his awareness of her. Of them.

He should lift up, give her space after their intense rehearsal. Instead he leaned closer. “Were you scared?”

“No.” Her soft voiced whispered between them.

“Why?”

“Because I knew what you were going to do.”

They were cocooned, covered by his cape, flickering light illuminating the mere inches between them. His muscles unwound for the first time today. “Then know this: I do not want to date any other women. Or not-date them. If I smile for pictures and talk to audience members, male or female, I’m doing what I can to help create buzz without stripping. I don’t care about playing cards or gambling, and I will happily leave all that behind—which means I’ll be taking you out in two weeks. But only if you answer one question for me, now, truthfully.”

“If it’s a skill-testing question with math, I might not pass.”

A laugh rumbled from his chest. It felt good to laugh. He loved that she could lighten intense situations. Still, he schooled his expression and asked the most important question of all: “Do you trust me?”

This time she held eye contact, and gave a firm, “Yes.”

Twenty minutes later, while waiting for Beatrice to change, Huxley finished tidying the stage. The heat from the fire and her trust still circled him, his heart thumping loudly in his chest.

Except it was more than his heart thumping.

Edna shuffled into the theater, her cane thwacking along the aisle. “This place smells like a urinal.”

If Edna wasn’t a fixture here, he’d have fired his ticket collector years ago. But she’d helped Max Marlow design his posters and promote the shows from the beginning, even standing in when his assistant had been off. She had babysat Huxley and his brothers occasionally, when they’d been too young to learn magic and too old for daycare. He’d once wondered if she’d been in love with his father, but then she’d insult the theater and lament her stuffy ticket booth.

Why she still worked here was a mystery to Huxley, but he wouldn’t let her grumpy tone dim his good mood. “It’s late,” he told her.

“I can tell time. You, I’m not so sure about. Why are you still here?”

“I should be asking you the same thing. Your husband might slap your face on a milk carton.” He crouched and picked up the last candle.

“Unlikely. That would take more effort than using the remote control.” Edna clasped both hands over her cane’s snake head, hunched shoulders bowing her posture. “Are you here with the girl?”

His spine stiffened. “If by the girl, you mean Beatrice, then yes—I’m here with her. We were rehearsing a new routine.” While establishing trust and banishing her worries.

Edna harrumphed.

He should walk away, stow the candle, and wait for Beatrice by her dressing room, but Edna’s judgmental noise irked him.

He was finally building a life outside the theater, making choices for himself. Selfish maybe, but he deserved it. If Edna was trying to guilt-trip him about neglecting his theater duties, she’d have to find another job that allowed her to grumble at patrons while doing her crosswords. “Beatrice is the best thing to happen to me in a long while. She’s kind and fun. She’s even helped increase business. So if you’re going to mention her, I’d appreciate if you’d use her name.”

Another harrumph sounded. Edna pushed her glasses up her prominent nose. “Well then, I hope Beatrice is the sticking around sort. Seems to me she’s more of a wanderer, showing up here out of the blue. And your ties are in New Orleans.”

She turned at a snail’s pace, leaving Huxley with a candle in his slackening hand and an uncomfortable tightness in his chest.

Although crudely blunt, Edna could be astute, and he hadn’t thought much past finally taking Beatrice out in fourteen days. They’d both admitted anything between them wouldn’t be casual, but she’d been cagey lately, second-guessing him at every turn. Her wariness was understandable, and they’d made progress tonight, but she was a free spirit at heart, like her mother who got bored and traveled where the music took her. He could be setting himself up for disappointment.

That uncomfortable ache spread. He dug his fingernail into the melted candlewax and watched Edna’s slow procession out.

19

“If you’re making your seafood pesto pasta, there better be enough for me.” Axel barged into Huxley’s apartment and invaded his kitchen. He sat his intrusive ass on the counter. Beside the cleaned shrimp.

Fox strolled in behind him and snatched a trimmed green bean. “Count me in.”