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“Never. I’m very… routine-driven. And if something throws me off course, it takes me forever to get back into my flow. I mean, I’m pretty laid back and easygoing, as long as things fit into the allotted times,” she admits.
“Is that why you’re manhandling me right now?” I grin.
“Yes. That is one thing I cannot stand—not being punctual.”
I chuckle. “I don’t mean to shrink the shrink, but have you considered you might be just a teensy bit OCD?”
“A teensy bit? Bruh, I’ve got it bad. Everything but the tics. Mine manifests as anxiety attacks,” she confesses, and I nod.
“I had a sous chef who had OCD. Like… with the tics. Cleanest kitchen I ever worked in, but goddamn it took forever to cook a meal. He always had to measure out ingredients seven times before he ever added it to the dish. Poor guy.” I shake my head.
She slows as we reach a door opened at the corner of a building, and I glance up to see a sign with the name of the tour company.
“There are medications and therapies for that. Did he ever see anyone about it?” she asks, and I lower my gaze to hers, seeing the look of concern there. Concern for someone she had never even met before, who I mentioned at random. God, what an angel.
I can’t help but lift my hand to trace the line of her delicate jaw, and my stomach dips at the way she unconsciously leans into my touch. “He chose not to. Kinda like how Freddie Mercury never got his teeth fixed even after he became rich and famous. He thought his four extra incisors were part of his instrument, what made his voice what it was, so unique. My sous chef thought that if he got his OCD treated, it might take away some of his qualities that made him such an excellent cook. He was well on his way to becoming a head chef himself.”
“Sous chef. What does that mean exactly?” she asks curiously, finally seeming to relax now that we made it to the destination with… three minutes to spare.
“It’s like the second-in-command, the Vice President if the chef is President. The literal translation is under-chef,” I reply.
“Gotcha. Well, we can either go inside and chill in the waiting room to be lined up for our tour or we can just hang out here.” She turns to wave at the gal sitting at the desk inside, who waves back and seems to check off something on the paper in front of her. “We’re all checked in.”
“Wait.” I tilt my head, my brow furrowing. “I was the one who bought our tickets online. How did you just check us in?”
“I sent my buddy Ronnie, our tour guide, a text letting him know I was coming and to give us the extra special tour, since I had a certain celebrity chef with me. He told me he’d let Jamie, the girl sitting at the desk, know I would be here and gave her your name as the person on the tickets.” She shrugs.
“The extra special tour?” I smile. “You did that for me?”
She rolls her eyes. “Well duh. You’re sober and it’s your first time taking a haunted tour in New Orleans. Gotta make sure you get all the cool stories instead of the easy lame ones they give to all the drunk tourists who aren’t really going to remember it the next day anyway.”
I burst out laughing at that. “Speaking of which, I was told I need to try a… Hurricane, is it?”
I nod. “Ah, yes. The drink NOLA is famous for. But in all honesty, it’s the Hand Grenades that are so freaking delicious.”
“How about both? Do we have time to run into that bar really quick to grab one of each, or will your OCD spaz out for not being star student and first in line for the tour?” I tease and she sticks her tongue out at me, her nose wrinkling in the most adorable way.
She leans around me and glances into the bar right next door. “As long as we make it quick. They look dead, so it should be fast.”
And it is. Within five minutes, we have our drinks and are standing back in front of the tour spot, a small group starting to line up both inside the small room with chairs I see through the open doorway and a couple people outside, everyone with a drink in hand.
“Guess it’s a good thing we grabbed these. Looks like everyone brought their own form of hydration,” I joke, tapping my large plastic cup to her green one shaped like a grenade. “This one is damn good. Pretty strong too. Let me see.” I take a sip, rolling it around my tongue, letting the liquor pool in my mouth as I inhale through slightly parted lips to get a good taste of the flavor. “I saw him pour in the light rum, dark rum, and grenadine, but I’m tasting… passion fruit?” At her amused face and nod, I continue, “Orange and lemon juice?”
