“May as well finish the sentence.” I was genuinely curious to hear what he’d been about to say.
“Maybe I haven’t done a good job of explaining what kind of place I’m looking for.”
I had a feeling that wasn’t what had been at the tip of his tongue. I suspected he was going to say that I was now being as salesy as the rest of the office had been last week. And he was right.
“Salesy” was not me. I did well with my clients because I listened to them and bridged the gap between their vision and reality. Sometimes I heard and saw things in their wish lists that they didn’t even recognize, finding properties that allowed them to surpass even what they’d hoped for.
I had done very little listening with Miles. I’d come in assuming I knew what he would be like, assuming I knew what kind of club a fading rock star would want: a shrine to his former glory. But if that were true, Miles would have been asking for flashy locations, trying to get in near the Hard Rock or House of Blues. Instead, the more similar a property was to those places, the less he liked it.
He’d chosen me expecting me to be the opposite of those things, and instead I’d been exactly those things. I didn’t like the way it looked on me.
I took a deep breath. “Miles Crowe, it’s possible I have done you wrong. Let’s walk over to the one place tourists and locals can agree on and figure this out.”
He quirked an eyebrow at me. “Café du Monde?”
“Café du Monde.” It was a New Orleans landmark on the edge of Jackson Square, a bustling open-air café serving world-famous beignets.
“Bold move after the Sugar Incident of Last Tuesday.”
“A gentleman wouldn’t bring that up.”
“Never claimed to be a gentleman. But full disclosure, I only mentioned it because I haven’t figured out how to eat beignets without making a mess, and I just want you to remember I’m not the only one.”
I smiled a little. “We can go somewhere else. Get some eggs Benedict or something that won’t make a mess.”
“No way. You don’t promise a man beignets then swap them for eggs. Café du Monde it is.”
We walked in silence to the café, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. We were only a block away, and though Miles kept his sunglasses on despite the slightly gray day, he turned his head constantly, like he was taking in all the people and sights.
“You want to order or grab a table?” I asked when we reached the café.
He hesitated. “Maybe I better grab the table.”
I nodded and headed for the counter to place my order. When I turned with a platter of beignets, I spotted him in the corner furthest from the street against the low iron fence that hemmed in the café dining area. A couple of women stood next to the table talking to him. He had his arms folded across his chest while he leaned back in his chair, holding himself very still, like he was waiting out a coiled rattlesnake.
I picked my way through the tables quickly and set the plate down with a clatter on the laminate top. “I got them, honey,” I said. These women were around my age, and one twirled her hair while the other leaned toward him, flashing a hint of cleavage.
I wouldn’t have cared if Miles was flirting back, but at the moment, he seemed more like he wanted to melt into the concrete.
“Thanks, babe,” he said, reaching for the lifesaver I’d thrown him.
“Is this your girlfriend?” the shorter, blonde girl asked.
“Fiancée,” I corrected as I sat down, and Miles choked on his coffee.
“Really?” asked the taller friend, a brunette who eyed me skeptically. “Where’s your ring?”
“It’s huge,” I said. “I don’t like wearing it out for everyday stuff even though it’s insured.”
Miles reached across the table and threaded his fingers through mine, running his thumb over my knuckles. “Can’t wait until I see my wedding band on your finger every morning for the rest of our lives.”
The blonde gave a happy sigh. “That’s so sweet. Congratulations, y’all.”
The brunette’s face had gone slightly sour. “Yeah. Congrats.”
“Can we get a picture with y’all?” The blonde was already pulling out her phone and turning to angle it for a selfie.
“Sure,” Miles said, and leaned toward me.
