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I would be fine if I didn’t have someone coming over in like five minutes.
This was going to be fun.
And if you didn’t have someone coming in? What would you do then?
Whatever you told me to do.
Zoe was playing with fire now.
Be careful what you say to me, Zoe.
And if I don’t?
She was taunting me, and I liked it.
I might be making a beeline to Kitchi Falls when I get back, and you’ll see live and in person exactly how much of an ass man I am.
Promise?
“Guaran-fucking-teed. Consider it done.
Good. Can’t wait.
And just like that, it looked like Kitchi Falls would be on my short list of places to visit when I went home. Might as well since, thanks to my uncle, I no longer had a secure future to look forward to.
I can’t either.
I wondered what the hell else I had to offer Zoe but a good time in bed. Better not to dwell on that for now. We still had at least a month or more until any of these scenarios could play out.
And suddenly, I couldn’t wait to get the fuck back to New York. Specifically, a little town on the Finger Lakes. And even more specifically, into the arms of one particularly funny, hot, and apparently very passionate woman named Zoe Harrison.
CHAPTER NINE
zoe
“First things first, Pat O’Brien’s.”
We’d checked into our hotel—in a damned good location for basically pennies, courtesy of Charlee’s father, who had a network of resort and hotel connections—and stepped onto the street. Charlee had been here before, but Natalie was a NOLA virgin, so I was pretty excited to show her around. Not that I was an expert by any means, but I’d spent some time here with a friend I’d met freshman year at Penn State who was from Metairie. I instantly fell in love with the convergence of cultures—the music, the food, the Quarter. The city was in my soul.
“It doesn’t get more touristy,” I admitted. “And there are better Hurricanes in other spots, but there’s something about this place.” As we began to walk, I quickly got my bearings. “This way.”
“Do you hear that?” Natalie asked. “Jazz coming from down the street.”
“The street music is one of my favorite things about the French Quarter,” I said.
“Agreed. I didn’t even think I liked jazz until I was here. What was the name of that place we went to that I loved?” she asked me.
“Preservation Hall,” I said, stopping at the corner. Admitting defeat, I took out my phone to navigate and got us there in less than ten minutes. Just like I remembered. A quaint outdoor courtyard serving their famous Hurricanes was strangely like coming home to me.
“I think I must have lived here in a past life,” I said, sidling up to the bar.
“In your past life, did they have a bathroom here?” Natalie asked.
Laughing, I pointed her to the inside bar. By the time the three of us sat by the fountain in the middle of the courtyard, Hurricanes in hand, we were giggling like schoolgirls just let out for the summer. A warm day, girls’ weekend ahead of us, and our first Hurricanes in hand.
Could it get any better?
My back pocket buzzed.
