Page 73 of New Orleans Rush

She scowled at him. “Aren’t I intimidating?”

He swiped some rogue Cherry Bomb staining her upper lip. She sighed. Messy lipstick wasn’t intimidating.

“My car has been fixed free of charge—some favor owed to Fox and Axel, and now that I’ve paid for the construction work and our shows are packed, money is less of an issue. You’ll also be receiving a weekly paycheck for your assistant services. If you want to help with rent or groceries down the line, that’s fine. But you’re just starting your business. I’d rather you save what you earn. Take art classes and buy painting supplies.”

She almost launched a rebuttal, claiming she didn’t want his charity, that performing with him and conquering her stage fright were reward enough. But saving for more art supplies was important, and he was wearing his lie-detector face. He meant business. At least her surprise gift for him was almost done. A thank-you painting he wouldn’t be able to refuse.

She pressed the envelope to his bare chest. “Hold this for me, then. Until I have time to set up a new account. Use it for our fancy fish tacos. But if you’re in a tight spot and can’t make rent, or you need help with the theater, you have to promise to tell me. I want to contribute.”

He snatched the envelope from her hand and planted a kiss in the center of her palm. “It’s a deal. Now get up and pack before I strip you out of those sinful pink pants.”

Huxley hated watching Beatrice pack. He despised the notion of sleeping without her. The thought of her traveling alone made him itch. He’d never felt so protective of a woman. He wasn’t sure if it was Big Eddie’s threats, or the way he sometimes danced with her on a whim, in the living room or on the sidewalk, or that he pretended to fiddle with his puzzle box while she painted. He barely noticed the box those days. He wasn’t sure she knew she hummed while she painted, soft and soothing. What he did know was that he was in deep with her.

They ate a non-crunchy-egg breakfast, then he pulled on his boots, happy-to-wear jeans, and a Gryffindor T-shirt on his day off. Not happy to say goodbye to Beatrice.

He’d surprise her with something for her return. Maybe paint her a unicorn. A grand scene with arching rainbows. His artistic creativity was limited to stage performing, but he was pretty sure she’d enjoy his lame efforts. First he had to visit the theater and pay Trevor the last of what he owed.

He escorted her to her car and kissed her nose. Anything else and he’d wind up covered in her lipstick again. “Text me when you get there.”

She ran her hand through his hair. “Text me when you think of me.”

“I’ll blow up your phone.”

She smiled his favorite smile—loose and carefree. “Maybe not every time.”

“Morning, Huxley!” Mrs. Yarrow waved from her front garden, flanked by her colorful flowers. Her yellow top barely contained her spray-tanned cleavage.

He averted his eyes. “Garden’s looking great.”

“I got that mulch I told you about. It’s done wonders. Come by later—I’ll show you my azaleas.”

An irritated grunt sounded from Beatrice. “I bet she wants to show you her azaleas.”

Chuckling, he brushed his thumb between her brows, erasing the puckered line wrinkling her forehead. “Are you jealous of a sixty-year-old woman?”

They eyed their neighbor in all her over-tanned glory. If the leathery skin didn’t turn him off, the blond bouffant and bloated lips would do the trick. As would her marital status. Mrs. Yarrow’s grin slipped as she swatted something by her face. A bee, likely.

Beatrice was unamused. “Injuring her would be self-defense.”

He couldn’t argue. If he saw more bees, he might have to torch the garden.

“Have fun with Maude the Dog.” He walked backward to his Mustang parked across the street, not wanting to take his eyes off Beatrice.

Instead of smiling at the sight of his restored car, she pouted. “I kind of miss my chicken scratches. They reminded me of meeting you.”

As thankful as he was for that night, he’d rather walk around in Ugg boots than continue driving a defaced car. He smoothed his hand over the midnight blue side, caressing his other beauty. His father would no longer be turning in his grave. “You misspelled part of it, anyway.”

She opened her door and stepped one foot inside. “I could do it again. Get it right.”

“I’ll pass. But if you want to text me more about masturbating with whipped cream, don’t hesitate.”

She scrunched her face in an adorable scowl.

He winked. The whipped cream gave him ideas.

They slipped into their respective cars. They closed their doors and started their engines, but he suddenly felt lost, like when he walked into a room and forgot what had taken him there. As though there was something he should have done before leaving. Frowning, he ran a mental tally of his morning: the oven hadn’t been turned on, no taps were left running. He’d made sure to turn off all the lights. He frowned harder, and a strange ache spread through his chest.

Beatrice drove off first, but he met her at the second stoplight. They idled, side-by-side, and that odd sensation returned, stronger this time. Her windows were rolled up, but he could tell she was listening to music: she bopped her head and drummed her SMILE steering wheel.