Page 63 of New Orleans Rush

She held in her commission news for the length of the evening’s show. Performing took focus. If she let out her glee, she’d have spent her time dancing rather than assisting.

After the curtain call and annoying girl fandom, she dragged Huxley into her dressing room. “I made a sale today.”

“Of course you did. I told you your apples are the nicest I’ve ever seen.” His gaze dropped to her chest.

If she weren’t busting to share her news, she’d ask him if he had a banana she could paint next. Instead she bounced her knees. “I didn’t sell an apple. I was commissioned to paint a portrait.”

“No way.”

“Yes way. I negotiated like a boss.” Now she was bouncing on her toes. Then she was in the air. Huxley lifted her up by her armpits and spun her in a circle. His cape flared as they twirled. She tipped her head back and laughed.

He lowered her in front of him. “I’m proud of you.”

She clutched his forearms. “I’m proud of me, too. And check out what’s on the makeup table.”

He glanced at the red handkerchief she hadn’t used. “You didn’t take it on stage?”

“Nope. I believe I’ve mostly conquered my stage fright, thanks in large part to you.”

His attention shifted to her lips, as it often did. His hands moved to her waist. “That’s all you, Beatrice, which means we have more to celebrate. But back to this portrait—who’s the subject of the painting?”

The question was quiet, and he didn’t let her go. She swayed slightly, as though music played. He mirrored her moves. He did that often lately, dancing absentmindedly when she’d turn swing music up at home, as they’d navigate around each other in the kitchen. Her surly man finding his fun.

She wanted to toss her arms around his neck and dance fully, celebrate with a kiss. She settled on enjoying the view of his scruffy jaw. “Maude the Dog. The client is flying me to New York next Monday.”

“Next Monday,” he repeated, his grip tightening on her hips. It was only nine days away, but their first date was also approaching. So much would change by then. After Thursday, they wouldn’t have to stand like this, touching with reserve, eyeing each other’s lips instead of licking them.

When Huxley said, “I should get going,” she remembered why there would be no licking or dancing or celebratory kissing.

“Right.” She moved out of his reach. “Have a good night.”

Her stomach turned over, an involuntary reaction. There were no lies here. This was his last poker night. He’d made that clear. Still, she pictured him in a smoky room, betting, winning, losing. The outcome didn’t matter. His honesty didn’t ease her anxiety reflex, either. Any and all betting wound her internal clock back to finding her rent money stolen from her secret Cookie Monster jar as a teen, to her zero balance in her adult savings account.

Huxley pulled off his top hat and raked his hand through his soft curls. She diverted her attention to Surly, Sneaky, and Cocky, cooing in their cage.

“Fox will walk you to your car,” Huxley said eventually. “Congratulations, again.”

His receding footsteps hurt her heart, but she didn’t dwell on the dull ache. For the first time, she felt like a bona fide artist, not a doodler or food sculptor. She was living in a colorful city with colorful friends and would soon be dating a colorful man, who no longer gambled. She didn’t need a fancy art college to be happy. She could take art classes on her own or draw Huxley in the privacy of their apartment. They could do a reverse Titanic, with him lounging on the couch, au natural, while she sketched the grooves of his hip bones and gave him sexy eyes.

She smiled at that reverie as she drove home. She ate a late-night Pop-Tarts snack. Her Titanic fantasies continued as she brushed her teeth and crawled into bed. They thwarted her sleep efforts until the front door opened and closed.

Huxley returning from his last poker game.

She listened as the kitchen tap turned on, then off. She pictured him leaning against the counter, his long neck tipped back as he drank his fill. He’d still be in his black slacks and gold button-down, looking ever the delectable magician. She wondered if he was wearing his cape.

His footsteps neared her door. He stopped. As did her heart.

Then it revved.

He was so close. They were so close to finally erasing the distance between them. She sat up, and the covers pooled at her waist. Her thin tank top brushed her sensitive nipples, each drag echoing between her thighs.

The softest thump sounded. His forehead resting on their barrier?

She padded to the door and pressed her forehead against the wood. It was like they were in the theater again, together but apart, while she’d listened to his private confessional. Two people whose thoughts were connected, their bodies divided by uncertainties. She could easily open the door, lift her top and unbutton his. If she pushed, he wouldn’t deny her this. But she’d smell the cigar smoke on his clothes and remember where he’d been and why they’d waited.

Even now, odd memories thwarted her. She’d often celebrate New Year’s with her father, just the two of them with bags of candy and streamers galore. Every year he’d tell her he was joining Gamblers Anonymous, that he’d get help and quit. He would say it with gummy bears in his mouth and streamers in his copper hair. She’d believe him, because he hadn’t been lying. He’d truly thought the next year would be different. And the next. And the next.

He’d wanted to change, but he’d been too weak to follow through.