Page 62 of New Orleans Rush

The woman didn’t balk at Bea’s extravagant list. She pulled her phone from her shoulder bag and showed Bea a photo of the world’s cutest poodle. “You’ll be painting Maude. She’s getting older, and we’d like a portrait for our parlor. We’ll fly you to New York. You can spend the day with her. How much of an advance would you need?”

Bea had never been on a plane or painted commissioned work. She’d never even negotiated successfully. Sweat studded her cleavage and her mouth dried. When she remembered how to inflate her lungs, she said, “Can you excuse me a minute?”

She then worsened her whiplash by using her tipping head and mouth to silently beg Della to join her at the back of the booth. Huddled together, Bea exhaled. “She wants a large portrait of her poodle.”

“So why do you look like you swallowed a cup of Joe’s hot sauce?”

If ketchup was the worst condiment, Joe’s hot sauce was the best. No matter how profusely she sweated, she always loaded it onto her po’boys. “Because I demanded an advance.”

“Look at you, being all sassy.”

They discreetly low-fived. “Now she wants to know how much. She’s also flying me to New York so I can meet Maude the Dog and see their home.”

“Jesus.” Della shook her head, grinning. “Maybe we should swap jobs. I’ll make change while you sell my work.”

“Only if it comes with a po’boy raise, extra hot sauce, please.”

“Done.”

They assessed the sharp couple. Both women were polished enough to recognize a true Chanel from a knockoff blindfolded. Negotiating would take finesse.

“The one I spoke with is Jacqueline Berry,” Della said. “She’s a sick jewelry designer. They’re on vacation, but she came here to see my work. She’s looking to expand her lines.”

“Della, that’s amazing!”

She waved off Bea’s excitement. “Working with her would mean moving to New York. I love New Orleans.” She fingered her bracelet again. Agitated about the prospect of leaving Fox? “Regardless, I know a bit about her, and the lady is one hell of an eccentric, so a dog portrait isn’t surprising. They also have buckets of cash.”

Bea was about to rewind to Della brushing off an incredible job opportunity when a bee flew by her head. She froze.

Della went on to strategize negotiation tactics, but Bea’s eyes darted uncontrollably, searching for her buzzing adversary. “Purse,” she told Della.

“What?”

“I need my purse. My EpiPen’s inside.”

“Are you allergic to bargaining?”

“Yes. But also bee stings. I almost died when I was eight.” Her near-death had involved a game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey and a very unhappy Melanie Swank, who’d gotten pinned when Bea had been stung. It had been her last birthday party invite. She wasn’t about to let another bee sabotage her life. “The EpiPen’s just a precaution.”

Della was off and rummaging under their table before Bea finished talking. Jewelry boxes flew as she dragged out Bea’s beaded rainbow purse. “Did it sting you? What do I do?” Her eyes were wild.

The bee had begun circling Della’s head. She swatted at it with the purse. Bea ducked and twirled. The eccentric ladies watched them, eyebrows raised. By the time the bee absconded, Della was disheveled, and Bea’s hair resembled a bearded vulture’s nest.

Della slumped. “I think I’m allergic to you being allergic to bees. Now, tell me what you’re thinking about this advance.”

Half an hour later, Bea’s first commission client, Arabella Grieves, returned from a bank with an envelope filled with hundred-dollar bills. Twenty-five, to be exact. Bea would receive the other half upon completion and would fly to New York in a week. Her feet barely touched the ground for the rest of the day.

Except when her spine tingled like someone was watching her.

She listened for familiar buzzing, worried the bee had set up surveillance, waiting to catch her unaware. No noise assaulted her ears. She studied the market crowd next, scanning for a tall man with a goatee, but Big Eddie was nowhere to be seen.

Then she cursed Huxley.

It was because of him she glanced over her shoulder more often, that she drove down random side streets on her way home, like an undercover cop shaking a tail. Another fake job added to her résumé, after expert negotiator and diva extraordinaire.

They’d had a Marvelous Marlow meeting the other day, during which the brothers had informed Bea about their sleuthing. Turns out, Big Eddie was a low-level thug in a larger organization. Since he hadn’t turned up in New Orleans, they surmised her location was still secret. That didn’t stop Huxley from flying into overprotective mode. He walked her to her car morning and night. He texted her regularly to check in. He’d also removed one of Della’s YouTube posts, the one titled, Beatrice Baker and the Marvelous Marlow Boys. Bea had hated to see that post removed. Huxley only worried about how long it had been live.

He was partly smothering friend and all domineering male, the domineering part surprisingly sweet. No one had ever worried after Bea.