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“I need the energy. We still have to finish visiting the Quarter. Let’s go.”
Since my father owns a bar, I decided to visit there rather than go to his home. It’s safer. The bar opens in the evening, so Max and I opted to visit the French Quarter in the meantime.
The area is a thing of beauty, and so different from everything I’ve seen until now. There are street artists at every corner, and a gypsy woman even offered to read my fortune. I declined, even though I was mildly curious. The heat and humidity are a force to reckon with, though. My dress clings to me, and I wish I could say the same about my hair, but it sticks in every direction.
“This city is beautiful,” I exclaim as we make a pit stop to eat a quick lunch. We’ve been walking for hours through the city, visiting famous landmarks. So far we’ve been to Bourbon Street and Jackson Square. We’ve also been to St. Louis’s Cathedral and right now, we’re on Royal Street. This strip of land is every food lover’s dream.
“I noticed. You barely paid attention to me all morning.”
I s
hrug. “You’re nothing to sneeze at, but New Orleans is totally eclipsing you.”
Max pinches my ass, making me bump into the next person waiting in line in front of me.
“Keep your hands to yourself, Bennett,” I warn.
“I thought you liked my hands,” he volleys back in a low voice. “Actually, you love them. You said it this morning. Repeatedly.”
He woke me up by touching me everywhere, so of course I was worshipping them.
“Different circumstances,” I mouth, elbowing him in the ribs.
Max and I are currently waiting in line to buy a jambalaya to go, and I’m salivating just looking at the food. The smell is intoxicating, further accentuating my hunger—and I stuffed myself with beignets a mere few hours ago.
When we’re in front of the counter, the vendor asks in a knee-melting Cajun accent, “What would you like?”
I tell him my order, letting out a deep sigh. The vendor seems unfazed, but Max cocks an eyebrow.
Max’s voice is clipped when he tells his order, and he watches me intently as we leave.
“What?” I ask innocently, shoving a spoon of jambalaya in my mouth. Holy hotness. My mouth is on fire. This dish is not for the fainthearted.
“So how come every time someone speaks to you, you make puppy dog eyes?” he asks with a frown.
“I can’t help it. Cajun accent is sexy.” My words only further accentuate his frown. I love seeing him riled up.
“Right, if you think this is sexy we won’t go to England anytime soon.”
“You might want to cross off Australia too,” I chime in. “Their accent is to die for as well.”
“No trips to Australia, then.” That last word sounded dangerously close to a growl.
“Not sure what that says about me, but I love seeing you all territorial like this.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep.”
He eyes my food. “Does that earn me the right to taste your jambalaya?”
Mine is with chicken, while his is with chorizo and chicken.
I sigh dramatically. “I draw a hard line at food, but because I love you so very much, you can have one spoonful.”
We continue our tour in the afternoon, but my mood grows dimmer, and my entire body tenses. A knot settles between my shoulder blades, and the closer we get to six o’clock, the tighter it gets.
“We should head in the direction of the bar if we want to be there when it opens,” Max says cautiously.
