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“No.” He shakes his head. “Clotted cream is more like sweet butter. Another thing you should try.”
“I get the feeling I’m not going find any of that in New Orleans.”
“Probably not.” He leans toward me. “I guess I’ll have to take you to Glasgow.”
I stop myself from gasping in surprise, but my eyes still widen. “Ronan, we’ve known each other for forty-eight hours.”
“Have we now?”
The look on his face is unreadable. Does he feel the way I feel? As if we’ve known each other for a lot longer than two days?
I take a bite of bagel, trying to ignore the flutters in my stomach. I have no idea what’s going to happen on this trip to New Orleans. Every step with him so far has been a surprise. And not knowing what’s coming next just makes it that much more exciting.
Chapter Thirteen
Ronan
“They say this place is haunted,” I tell Mary when the cab driver stops at the Cornstalk Hotel.
She laughs. “Oh?”
“You have your own room, but if the ghosts come and you’re afraid, you can always bunk with me.”
Her cheeks pink a little. “I suppose we’ll see.”
The driver opens the door for us, and I help Mary out of the cab. He grabs our suitcases from the trunk and sets them down. I hand him some bills. “Thank you.”
“Not at all,” he says with a smile.
I grab both of our bags, and we head inside. The Cornstalk Hotel is a boutique hotel located in the heart of the French Quarter, named for the cast-iron cornstalk fence that surrounds it. It’s a historic building with intricate details, and it combines old-world charm with modern comforts. I walk with Mary into the lobby, which is filled with antique furniture and an ornate chandelier. I chose it because it seemed to fit what I wanted this trip with Mary to be—unique and unusual.
“Welcome, Mr. O’Connor,” the desk clerk says as he wipes his glasses with a cloth. “It’s good to see you back. It’s been a long time.”
“Ten years at least.” I usually stay with my grandmother when I visit, rather than a hotel.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Good. We have two rooms reserved. One for me, of course, and one for Ms. Mariah Sandusky.”
He taps on his computer. “Yes, everything’s in order. I’ll find someone to take your bags.”
“No need.” I pick them up and turn to Mary. “This is an old hotel, so no elevators. Can you handle two flights of stairs?”
She looks at me with her mouth open. “Do I look like I can’t?”
I gaze at her. Even after a long flight, she looks radiant. “You look like you can handle just about anything, Mary.” I hand her the keys to both of our rooms. “We’re on the second floor. After you.”
She heads up the carpeted stairs, and they creak under her feet.
We reach the second floor, and Mary finds her room and unlocks the door.
“It’s so strange to be using an actual key,” she says. “Most hotels use cards now.”
I glance around the hallway, at the rich wood paneling and molding, the vintage artwork, and the ornate carpeting. “Using a key card here would take away from the ambiance, don’t you think?”
“Yeah. You’re right.” She walks into the room, and I follow her, setting her bag on the floor by her bed. “I’ve never stayed in a haunted hotel before.” She looks around. “This is amazing.”
She’s right. The room has a classic and elegant vibe, with a cherrywood four-poster bed, matching nightstands, plus a writing desk and chair. The bed is adorned with a dark red comforter and plush pillows. Overhead is an ornate crystal chandelier, similar to the one in the lobby.
