It’s quiet between us. We’re the only ones in the gym, surrounded by equipment, quiet tunes from the speakers, and the sound of our ragged breaths. My gaze drifts from Rip’s lips to him, then to the gap between us, and finally back to him.
“Am I contagious or something?” I ask lamely. Not sure why I’m calling it out.
Rip eyes the space on the bench. “Are you?”
After the cellar, Rip wouldn’t dare touch me with a ten-foot pole. We were never really close, but now he’s all about keeping his distance, like he’s scared getting too close will cause a repeat of that night.
He said he doesn’t like men, as if I were plotting to make a move on him. How kind of him to assume that after one shared moment I’d rush to jump his bones—I’m not even the type to make the first move. All he did was give me proof that what I felt back there was somewhat mutual, even if unwanted. It’s good to know I’m not losing my mind like I worried.
Rip moves closer, but a wide gap remains. “You alright?’
“I don’t need a babysitter, Rip.”
“With the way you almost ate the floor, I’d say otherwise.”
I snort. “You’re kind of funny.”
“My mum used to call me her little jokester.” He sports a sly grin as if he’s reminiscing. “I didn’t think you had a sense of humor.”
Me neither. “I do when you humor me.”
“Well, this time I’m serious. I can’t have you bailing on our reservation tonight,” he tells me. “I’ve had my heart set on gumbo since we got to Louisiana, and I’ll be damned if I wait any longer.”
Just like all the other guests and tourists. Lucky for them, the resort makes some of the best. As for the dinner tonight, the lightness in my head comes from a mix of overworking my body and a lack of food to supply it. What Rip doesn’t know is that this isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and I know how to navigate my body. I’ll be fine by tonight.
“Is that the only thing you’ve been dying to try?” I ask.
Rip looks at me, nose scrunched as if he can’t believe I ever asked him, then places his palm against his chest. “Are you… making conversation? Is this real? I must be dreaming.”
I roll my eyes as I try to stop the smile spreading on my face. “I’m about to end this conversation.”
He pushes his damp hair strands from his face. “I want to try everything I see online, like beignets, even though there’s so much sugar on them, I think it might send me into cardiac arrest. And I want to hit up the popular spots. Tommy and I haven’t had the chance since we’ve been here.”
I’ve been running the streets of New Orleans forever, so it’s kinda wild when I remember how much people outside find appealing. Coming all the way from England, there’s no doubt a laundry list of things Rip and Thomas want to explore, and I haven’t been out there in ages. What better way to get good content than to film the activities that visitors come to NOLA for in the first place?
“Zara makes beignets,” I say. “They’re great.”
Rip’s shoulders relax. “I’m sure they are.”
I don’t know when he moved closer, but there are only a couple of inches between our thighs. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, eyes focused on his clasped hands. I let my leg relax, and our legs touch. He doesn’t move it.
“Maybe we can go down Bourbon Street for some content,” I suggest. “It’ll be a big deal since I haven’t been in the public eye like that in a while.”
His eyes narrow. “You want me to spend my time on Bourbon Street tailing you and lugging around a camera?”
“You don’t have to record at all times, and you’ll get paid for it. Or don’t do it at all, it doesn’t matter.”
It’s a nice change that I’m slightly in the mood to go out, same as getting motivated for a workout, but I already know next week I’ll dread the public’s scrutiny and judgment. Do I really want my first public appearance to be with Rip and Thomas as they tug a camera around?
“Am I allowed to get drunk?” His question catches me off guard.
His blue eyes meet mine. “If we go, when you’re not filming, I won’t be your boss.”
“But you’ll still be the city’s prince, surrounded by all his villagers. I’m a villager, so you’ll be my boss.”
I suppress another eye-roll. Are we still on about this prince shit?
“I’m anything but a prince,” I state, the buzz inside me now dead.
