Page 43 of New Orleans Rush

She didn’t like how defeated he sounded, or his Surly Smurf frown. But these weren’t problems she could help solve. “So, what’s in the box?” she asked, hoping the topic change would distract him.

He sighed and studied the contraption in his hand. “No clue. He took risks with his work and organized his estate before he died. This”—he shook the box—“was an eccentric touch I should have expected. Apparently the key to my future happiness is inside. We’ve all tried to open it. We’ve all failed.”

“I’d take a hammer to it.”

Huxley looked like he’d eaten a green lollipop. “There’s a vial of vinegar inside. If it holds a note, something written on parchment, breaking the box will crack and dissolve the paper. Any message inside will be destroyed.”

Her throat tightened. Struggling with it for nine years, hoping for a message from his father, must have been some kind of frustrating. She’d have run over it with her car.

She peered at the contraption from the side. “Maybe it has rainbows inside. Or tiny fairies. Or it’s like those Harry Potter tents that seem small but are ginormous and filled with every imaginable convenience.”

She wasn’t expecting to feel his fingers on her cheek, the rough-soft pad of his thumb. “You’re wonderful,” he murmured.

His voice was impossibly tender, his brushing fingers divine. Swooning was imminent. Smelling salts would be required.

She promptly said, “Fifteen days.”

He hesitated, then retracted his hand. “I know, Honeybee. Fifteen days. It’s marked on your calendar, circled with a sparkly heart, and highlighted with five colors.”

She sat up straight and scowled at him. “When did you see my calendar?” Unless Fox had read her mind when she’d created the silly doodles and blabbed to his brother.

Huxley chuckled. “I noticed it when I put your Minnie Mouse slippers in your room.”

She turned her glower up a notch. “I need to shower and go to work.” She strutted away but swiveled back. “And for the record, it’s six colors, not five.”

16

As she reached the French Market, a text came in from Huxley and a traitorous grin split Bea’s face. She shouldn’t grin, not even when he’d told her she was wonderful, a mere twenty minutes prior. For the next fifteen days they were still platonic roommates. Nothing more. But the sight of his name was enough to make her practically skip to work. His text was more perfunctory than expected. I’m going shopping for food. What do you want in the house?

Not only was he refusing rent, now he was paying her way. His guilt over her homelessness had gone too far. Nothing, she replied. I’ll hit a late-night shop after the show. It’s my turn to buy groceries.

Don’t bother. I have time.

She gave her phone the evil-eye. You can’t pay for everything.

I’ll pay if I want to. We also need more eggs. Ones without shells inside them.

She laughed at his teasing. I thought you liked my eggs. You ate the whole plate.

No bouncing balls hinted at a reply. The pause lasted so long she almost pocketed her phone. Then he sent: I loved your eggs, Beatrice.

No one used proper names when texting. No one but Huxley Marlow of the Marvelous Marlow Boys. Even in text, her name had an erotic tone. She also wasn’t sure they were still talking about breakfast.

What did you like about my eggs?

Her innuendo-laced reply was sent before she thought better of it. Her fingers had a mind of their own, and she was verging on giddy. Not only was the sun shining, but she’d thought more about selling her paintings, making quicker and smaller pieces—fun miniatures for the flea market crowd. Without investing so much of herself in them, sharing them publicly should be less daunting. She would also paint something special for Huxley, a thank-you for his generosity.

The ideas had her buzzing, and flirting with Huxley felt too good on an already good day. They also had data bytes safely between them. And a twenty-minute drive.

She stepped aside. Tourists flooded the market, the bustling chatter and distant swirl of jazz tunes fading as she awaited his response.

It came a beat later: I loved that they tasted as delicious as they looked.

She bit her cheek. Those eggs had been far from delicious. Was he talking about her lips? The watermelon gloss? It felt like a hypothetical game—him wanting to taste her, her wanting to be tasted. A game she couldn’t resist playing.

She went to reply, but a new text came through, this one from a number she didn’t recognize. Although unfamiliar, the one word help meant it was from her father, and she stiffened.

He always started with that opener. Simple and to the point. In the past she’d have read his next messages with a pounding pulse, but they were always pleas for money. He’d learned she wouldn’t answer calls and had resorted to endless texts. The appeals would involve professions of fatherly love, saying that Beatrice was the only decent thing he’d done in his life, and he was lost without her and was ready to change. He’d tell her this time was different and would ask her to loan him cash.