Page 55 of New Orleans Rush

“Did you bring a date?” Axel asked, a second from earning a black eye.

But she responded, “I did.”

The tendons in Huxley’s neck snapped tight. They hadn’t discussed their promised date since the fire rehearsal, but she’d been going out of her way to touch him since—small brushes whenever they were near, just as he did her. The lack of bra this morning had been too blatant to be accidental. He’d assumed her coy behavior meant she wanted the next ten days to fly as quickly as he did. Unless she’d actually begun thinking of him as a brotherly roommate and didn’t care that her flirtations had him in a constant state of arousal.

Or maybe Edna was right, and this was the start of her losing interest, looking for someone who didn’t play poker and wasn’t tied to a theater that would keep him in New Orleans. Or his imagination was working overtime, and Beatrice was messing with him.

Assuming the latter, he said, “If you bring a date, you’ll have to help me cook.”

She moved to his side and lined up her hip with his upper thigh. “My date is Della, and I’d love to help you cook.”

He relaxed at her admission but winced slightly. He would eat her food any day of the week. Subjecting others to her cooking, however, was cruel. “I was teasing. I’ve got everything under control.”

She turned so her breast grazed his arm. His thighs stiffened. Every part of him stiffened. She tipped up her chin and met his hooded eyes. “But we’re so good together. In the kitchen,” she added.

A rush of air left his lungs. “You’re playing with fire, Beatrice.”

“You’re the one who plays with fire,” she said, matching his low tone. “I’m the one who gets burned.”

He didn’t like that implication, regardless how innocently made. He also wasn’t fooled. She knew she was riling him up, assaulting him with undercover flirtations. The overtness of her new affections was both excruciating and exciting. He just hoped it wasn’t another version of her smiles—beautiful on the outside, covering whatever pain she couldn’t face.

“Torture me again,” he said, choosing to follow her lead, “and ten days becomes twenty.”

She pursed her lips, then shrugged a shoulder. “You’re bluffing.”

Of course he was. Lasting another ten days was already pushing his boundaries, but her use of the poker term had her dropping her gaze.

She tried to step away, but he moved to block her. “Good thing you can read my tells, then.”

Avoiding gambling jargon would make the subject taboo, and taboo subjects became noxious weeds, sprouting where least expected, taking over perfectly landscaped yards.

Taking a breath, she clicked her heels together and closed the final inch between them. “I was bluffing, too,” she said.

She stared up at him. He stared down at her red lips.

Ten days, he reminded himself.

“You guys know we’re still here, right?” Axel’s intrusion was, sadly, welcome.

Bea put more than a hair’s distance between Huxley and her overworked body, unsure when she’d become a flirty femme fatale. The old Beatrice Baker had no fatale or femme qualities. She was bubbly and fun, little snark or coquetry in her arsenal. Since Huxley’s impassioned fire rehearsal, she’d embodied the hip-sway of a belly dancer, the feminine confidence of a burlesque babe. All because he’d earned her trust.

A niggling unease still lingered when Huxley wasn’t around, but the more time she spent with him, the surer she became. She even went braless this morning, unwilling to pretend they were platonic roommates or chaste siblings.

Della’s entrance helped diffuse their sexualus tensionae further. “I got caught behind a garbage truck, then ‘Single Ladies’ came on the radio. I had to wait until it finished.” She dumped her purse on the bench by the door. “I wasn’t expecting a dinner party.”

Huxley grimaced at his brothers. “Neither was I.”

Della’s braids were piled in an intricate knot on her head. She eyed the group. “I came to check out Bea’s art, but I can go.”

Huxley jutted his chin toward Della. “You should stay. It’s them I’m not so sure about. In fact, I’d like to adopt you as my sister and disown these two clowns.”

Axel was sprawled on Huxley’s couch, careless boots planted on the coffee table. He laced his hands behind his head. “I’m too hungry to be insulted, and she’s family anyway. Aren’t you, sis?”

Della’s attention shifted to Fox, who sat very still. Statue still. His facial expressions were often on lockdown, but he was more unreadable than usual.

“Della,” he said in greeting.

“Fox,” she replied. “You left your toolbox in my bathroom.”