Page 88 of New Orleans Rush

“Rationally, yes.”

Her voice rose a notch. “Then why do it? If you knew it would upset me and ruin what we have, why use my money for a stupid game?”

His chest jerked, like he’d been punched. His posture sunk on an exhale. “I’ve lived the last nine years trying to make my father proud and ease my guilt over his death. I thought fixing up the theater would end all that. But when I saw flying penises spray painted on it—”

“Flying penises?” Not even their intense talk could cover up that detail.

Huxley’s lip curled into a snarl. “Being the prick he is, Oliphant had some spray painted on the theater. He has a thing for phallic pranks.”

Don’t laugh, she told herself. Now is not the time to smile. She flattened her lips.

His eyes darted to her and away. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, chuckling. “Only you could make me laugh about that.” But their discussion wasn’t funny. He cleared his throat. “Seeing the graffiti was rough, but Oliphant also threatened to expose the building’s other issues, and I just…snapped. Not sure how else to describe it. It was like that threat and the stupid spray paint colored over every effort I’d made the past nine years, leaving only me standing there, watching my father’s locked barrel, wondering why he hadn’t pushed through the top yet. It felt like I’d done nothing but disappoint him over and over. So I convinced myself you’d understand, when deep down, I knew you wouldn’t.”

His shoulders rose and fell heavily. “It wasn’t rational, and I’m ashamed of myself. Sorry doesn’t begin to cover the apology you deserve. I’m also willing to do whatever it takes to make this right.”

Before she could reply, he stood and walked to the kitchen. His bare feet scuffed the floor, his sweatpants riding low on his hips. She shouldn’t be thinking about his hips. Or riding. But his earnest apology was tearing down her walls, the regret in his voice palpable. They didn’t need dinner before dessert. In fact, they needed to order every dessert off the menu to make up for the last two days.

Ready to accept his apology and focus on dessert and the riding of his hips, she opened her mouth to tell him so, but he returned with an envelope.

He sat and held it out to her. “This belongs to you. It was never mine to use.”

The sweetness on her tongue turned acerbic. Thoughts of dessert fled, and she barely refrained from tossing the envelope across the room. She didn’t want gambling money. Dirty money. It would only remind her of everything she’d lost. School. Her father. Her childhood. Huxley’s choice. She wanted to forgive him and forget this incident had ever happened, but here he was, shoving it in her face.

“I guess you won.” Her words sounded barbed.

Huxley flinched. “Won?”

She tipped her chin toward the envelope, refusing to touch it. “The poker game. I guess this means you won.”

He swallowed slowly. “Did you read my texts?”

“The first handful, but it felt like reading my father’s messages, with him pleading and explaining. I deleted the rest.” Bea didn’t want to listen to his explanations now. She thought she had. She’d wanted to be righteous enough to love him regardless of his faults. She certainly wasn’t perfect. But her mind felt tangled. A thorny rosebush of love and hate.

He dropped the envelope between them, and the tired lines of his face snapped taut. “I never played, Beatrice. I texted you in the heat of the moment and planned to, but I never touched your money. I never agreed to the game. I’d like to say I figured it out on my own, but Edna barking at me and a talk with my brothers helped me realize throwing my life away for the theater isn’t what my dad would have wanted. It’s not what I want. You are what I want. So, no.” He pushed the envelope toward her. “This isn’t gambling money. It belongs to you. As does this.”

He tapped his breastbone, over his heart. “I’m in love with you, Beatrice Baker. The rest is a backdrop. Window dressing. You’re the main event I can’t live without.”

His face shimmered through her teary gaze. Her heart must be allergic to happiness; it swelled three sizes. “You didn’t gamble?”

“No.” He leaned close and cupped her cheeks. “I’d walk away from the theater if it meant keeping you. I’d paint a thousand flying penises over it, if you’d forgive me. I’d eat your crunchy eggs every morning. There are no partly sunny days without you, Honeybee. You make me a better man.”

Her chin trembled and her tears spilled free. If she’d taken off like she’d planned, packed her bags and disappeared from his life, she’d have lived believing he’d betrayed her. Her past, like his, could have stolen this moment from them. They’d both reacted emotionally before sense had kicked in. For her, it had taken a unicorn painting and gunshot to wake her up and keep her there to face her pain. But she was awake now, and Huxley’s lips were inches from hers, his strong hands cradling her cheeks.

“I love you, too,” she said.

Her words were magic. The greatest illusion of Huxley’s time. “You love me?”

“I do. And your unicorn painting.”

“The painting is awful.”

“Perfectly awful.”

He had never known relief as sweet as this. “How can you love this idiot?”

“Are you trying to talk me out of it?”

He kissed her instead of replying, slow and deep, savoring every taste.