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Ready to tackle the heat and humidity, we make our way through the French Market to Café Dumond for coffee and beignets along the Mississippi River.
“No regrets?” I dare to ask while we watch two siblings chase away the pigeons vying for the tasty powdered-sugar dough in their hands.
Last night Nova fell asleep mid-conversation. After Willa told me about his berating her in front of his friends just two nights before their wedding, I knew he wasn’t the man for her. Now that I’ve learned how they began dating, my suspicions are confirmed. Maybe I’m conceited to think she was so hung up on me that she jumped at him like he was payback for what I did, but her reveal told a story of a girl finding comfort with an old friend rather than love.
“None.” Nova flashes a sugar-coated smile, and I force myself not to lean over and lick her lips. “Does that make me a bad person?”
“Nope. That makes you a smart person. Divorce is painful and expensive.”
It might be Sunday, but the city is open for business. We spend the morning strolling through Jackson Square, admiring the local artists and street performers and touring St. Louis Cathedral—because we can’t not visit a church, Nova teased—before stopping for lunch at Gumbo Stop like true tourists.
Once our bellies are full and we’re somewhat recuperated from the damp heat—something I’ve acclimated to while living in Pensacola the last five months—we head out to explore more of the eclectic sites and sounds of the French Quarter.
We laugh and joke as one minute we’re immersed in the scent of old books while walking through a bookseller with amazing architecture, and the next, we’re inhaling patchouli in a voodoo shop before finding ourselves standing in the middle of whips, leather bustiers, and bedroom toys. The city is exactly how it’s portrayed in so many television shows. A brass jazz band marches by. Characters of all walks of life share the streets with us. Bars pack every corner. It’s a good day, a day that sees Nova’s dimpled smile more than a few times, and after everything, she deserves this.
She did the right thing leaving Anders at the altar, but she’ll have to face him and everyone else at some point. Until then, I’m determined to make her days easy.
While walking the two blocks back to our hotel after partying on Bourbon street—guzzling frozen Hurricanes and dancing in bars—the easiness wears off.
“Why did you leave me that night?” Nova stops in the middle of a dark, pot-holed street. “In Oregon.”
“Can we talk about this later?” I glance around. We’re not alone, but there’s less of a crowd down these side roads than on the main streets. Having been warned by the staff about safety, I’m on high alert and eager to keep Nova moving.
“What happened, Dev?” She takes a measured step, then stops for a second time. “Willa guarded information about you like a warden. I know you didn’t use me for sex, then run.”
Tonight, I’d like to use her for sex, not that I would, but damn, I’m so keyed up from holding her pressed to my body all night while we danced. The heated scent of her skin queued memories of our one night together until I had to change our tempo to prevent her from noticing my desire against her thigh. I want to run my tongue along her neck and taste her.
“Maybe that’s what you wanted me to think, but there has to be more.” Nova continues, and I scrub my hand over my face, clearing the daze.
She’s watching me with beseeching eyes, begging for the truth. From the moment I bought that plane ticket from Pensacola to Burlington and decided to step back into her life, I knew I would need to tell her everything. Now that the time is here, it’s more difficult than I thought. Meeting her in the middle of the street, I comb her tangled, sweaty hair from her face.
“Can we go back to the room?”
“I don’t want to go to the room. I’ll fall asleep. I want to talk.” I can imagine Nova stomping her foot, her indignation is that strong.
A rowdy group turns the corner, laughing and tripping over each other. Taking her hand firmly in mine, I tug. “Fine. We’ll talk, but this isn’t the place.”
Our pace picks up until we walk through the ornate gate attached to the security fence the hotel closes after dark. Hidden within the safety of the buildings, I lead Nova into the lush courtyard and set her near the bubbling fountain. There’s a middle-aged couple at the far end of the space talking quietly over a bottle of wine, and for a moment, I contemplate begging Nova to go to the room for privacy but give in to her request. We need to have this conversation while lucid, and the heat and alcohol, combined with walking all day and dancing half the night, have us exhausted. The bed will be too tempting.
“Let me grab two bottles of water from the vending machine. Hang on.”
When I return, Nova’s twisted her hair into a knot on her head, and she’s using the water in the fountain to spritz her heated skin.
“You’re so damn gorgeous,” I tell her for not the first time in the last twenty-four hours. Her teeth catch her bottom lip as her lashes lower to fan over her cheeks. “Maybe I shouldn’t say that, but I can’t help it.”
“You can say it.” She meets my eyes, and I take the seat across from her. “I just don’t understand.”
Sliding her water over, I nod. “I know. I’ve given you a lot of mixed signals, and for that, I’m sorry, but you need to know that you stole my heart, too. There’s been no one since you.”
“When you say no one…”
“I mean, I haven’t had sex since Oregon.”
Her shoulders roll back as she closes her arms across her chest. “What about the girlfriend I met? Palmer.”
“It wasn’t like you think.” Taking a moment, staring at the tiled ground, I blow out a breath and meet Nova’s eyes. “I… Dammit, okay. I’m only telling you this because she doesn’t hide it from people. Palmer is a sexual assault survivor. We connected at a survivors’ meeting in college, and because of our experiences, it made being together easy. Neither of us wanted a physical relationship. We were more of a support system to one another.”
“Wait, what?” Lips trembling, her hands fall to her lap. “You went to meetings? Because of what happened with Damian? You weren’t…”
