Page 44 of New Orleans Rush

His intentions weren’t always underhanded. He often believed he could change. That never altered the outcome.

With the threats she’d received, she itched to read his latest messages, just in case. Make sure he was okay. But if he wasn’t, where would that leave her? If she got sucked back into that tornado, she’d spin until she couldn’t find her way out. As it stood, she hadn’t even changed her phone number yet. He obviously had, but switching hers meant neither of them could reach each other. For some incomprehensible reason, the notion still pained her.

Her souring thoughts were a reminder of why she and Huxley had implemented their waiting-period rule, why she’d asked to move in with him to understand the man better before getting involved. Flirty texts were not part of said plan.

She thumbed to Huxley’s message instead of her father’s and replied quickly, but her hands were jittery, her nerves rattled. She’d planned to end their flirtatious repartee with the non-sexy text: I’m menstruating. Buy me whipped cream. Because whipped cream tasted best when menstruating, and menstruating was non-sexy. Instead autocorrect betrayed her and sent:

I’m masturbating. Buy me whipped cream.

Crap.

Huxley’s answering dots bounced. She held her breath.

Then her phone died.

Double crap.

The useless battery prevented her from retracting her words or reading his. At least it kept her from glancing at her father’s message, a sign that ignoring him was the right thing to do. Unfortunately, none of it helped with the text she’d sent. She couldn’t charge her phone at the flea market, which meant she wouldn’t see or speak with the recipient of her dirty text until she was performing with him on stage. Sweat slicked her armpits. Her belly roiled.

Life was not always her friend.

Della sniffed her freak-out a mile away. “What’s with the sunburn?”

Bea slipped into their booth and pressed her hands to her overheated cheeks. “You mean the blush I’m sporting because I sent the world’s most embarrassing autocorrected text to the man I’m supposed to be sisterly with?”

“Are we talking about Huxley?”

“We are.”

“I’m dying to know about the sisterly issue, but the text sounds too juicy to pass up. Start talking.”

Aware Della was protective of the Marlow boys, Bea had refrained from gossiping about her new living arrangements. The embarrassing text was the safer topic. “I told him I was masturbating. Then my phone died.”

She cackled. “When?”

“When I got here.”

“So you were masturbating while walking? With one of those remote devices?”

“They have remote devices?”

Della wiggled her perfectly arched eyebrows. “They do. And let me tell you, they are fun. But back to the walking and masturbating.”

“I wasn’t walking or masturbating. I was attempting to stop flirting and told him I was menstruating. While standing still. At the market entrance.”

“You actually used the word menstruating?”

Bea glowered at her.

Della only looked more amused. “That’s adorably old-fashioned. I also love your thigh-highs. You have the funkiest tights.”

“Thank you, but we’ve gone off topic.” Though Bea did own an impressive collection of printed tights, today’s striped rainbow pair included.

As a kid, she’d shop at second-hand stores, spending hours sifting through tossed treasures. She’d wear fur vests over lace blouses, pink stockings under floral skirts. Kids would tease her and call her homeless and colorblind. She’d pitied their boring shirts and jeans.

Della pinched Bea’s hip. “So you sent this dirty text and have no idea how he replied?”

“That sums up my shame.”