“I didn’t mean it like that. And I would never suggest firing George and Mary.”
“Well, I can’t afford another salary. Besides, they both need their pay. The Blue Bayou is their livelihood too.” She sighs, setting the menu on the table. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be so sensitive, but I depend on them. I need them. They’re the only people who know as much about the hotel as I do, probably more. If they weren’t with me, I’d feel completely lost.”
“They depend on you too.” I take her hand back, forcing her to look at me. “You take care of them just as much as they take care of you. I’ve only been around a few days and I can see that you’re a family. All I’m saying is that maybe with a few changes—a few upgrades…” I pause, holding up a hand so she’ll hear me out. “You could bring in some more help and still make the ends meet.”
“Upgrades always mean money, and we don’t have that right now. I know they say you have to spend money to make money, but what happens when you don’t have the money to spend?” she asks, exasperation evident. I can tell she’s thought, probably worried, about this very subject a lot.
I exhale, sitting back in my chair as the waiter comes up to our table.
“Welcome to Lagniappe, my name is Max. Have you dined with us before?” He smiles, eyes on Carys as he speaks. I can’t fault him for that. She’s a looker. I’d probably be doing the same thing, but my tone when I respond says: Eyes over here, Max. She’s with me.
“Hello, Max. This is a first for both of us. What do you suggest?”
“Well, let’s start you off with some drinks. Are we partaking this evening?”
I look over at Carys and she shrugs her shoulders as if to say if you’re game, so am I.
We take Max’s suggestion of the French Quarter—Jim, Jack, Johnnie, and Jose mixed with a splash of Coke, simple syrup, and a twist of lime. For our lagniappe, we opted for a sidecar shot of tequila.
“Go big or go home, right?” I ask with a laugh.
“Well, if I’m only having one drink, and I am only having one drink because it’s my night to work the desk, I might as well make it a good one.” She laughs and does this girly move of flipping her hair over her shoulder and I forget about the deep conversation we were having about the hotel. All thoughts not pertaining directly to Carys’ gorgeous hair or her full lips or the freckle on her shoulder go out the window.
“You’re so pretty.”
“There you go schmoozing again.”
“I can’t help it.”
She shakes her head and hides a smile. “I bet you’ve got girls in every city.”
“Ha, no,” I deadpan.
“Liar.”
“You think I’m a player?” I ask.
Leaning into the table, she sighs as she contemplates. “I’m not sure what to make of you. Where are you from, by the way? I just realized I don’t even know where you live.”
“Dallas.”
“So, if you’re a city boy, where’d you learn to be so handy with tools and fixing things?” she asks, leaning in a little further.
“My grandfather,” I tell her. “He owned a ranch about two hours from Dallas. I used to go there during the summers. He was a businessman, but he really loved working with his hands, building things. I think that’s why he loved the business so much. He told me once if his parents would’ve been able to afford it, he would’ve gone to college to be an architect, but they were dirt poor. He was the definition of a self-made man.”
“You admire him.”
“I do...did. He passed away a few years ago.”
“I’m sure you miss him,” she says.
“I do.” I didn’t plan on our dinner conversation going anything like this. I wanted to get to know Carys, maybe make out with her, but I wasn’t prepared to expose myself. I know I don’t have to. I don’t have to say another word. I can leave it right here and change the subject, but I want her to know me just as much as I want to know her. “My mother died six months before him. Sometimes, I think he loved her so much that he died of a broken heart. My grandmother died when I was a baby and my mother was an only child. So, they were really close.”
Damn, Mav. Let’s dig up all the bones.
“Do you ever dial her number and then remember she’s not gonna answer?” she asks just as Max delivers our drinks, which we both definitely need now.
Carys and I both breathe out a thank you and immediately pick up our shots of tequila.
“All the time,” I tell her.
“To our moms,” Carys says.
“To our moms.”
We both toss back our shots and chase them with a drink of our French Quarter.
“Shit,” I groan. “They might need to change the name of this. Maybe Alcohol Poisoning?”
Carys laughs and then takes another sip of her drink. “Pretty sure that honor’s already been taken. I vaguely remember drinking it on my twenty-first birthday.”
“How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?” I know it’s not appropriate to ask a woman’s age, but I want to know.
“Twenty-five.” She takes another drink, visibly relaxing—sinking into her seat, shoulders at ease, and a slight pinkish hue to her cheeks. Parts of her look every bit of twenty-five, but others, like her fresh skin and freckles, make her appear younger. “What about you?” she asks.
“Twenty-eight. I’ll be one year closer to thirty next month.”
“Meh, thirty-shmirty. What’s thirty? Right?”
“I agree. I’ve always felt like age is just a number.”
“So, what do you do in Dallas, Maverick Kensington? Such an important sounding name...Maverick Kensington.” Every time she says my name, I like it a little more. I’d like to hear her say it under other circumstances...perhaps coming undone beneath me.
“I’m in real estate. Family business,” I tell her, not really wanting to get into all of that tonight. My father has been blowing my phone up the last couple of days, but I’d like to ignore my problems for just a little while longer.
“Real estate? Really?” She scrunches her nose and leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “I have to say, I didn’t have you pegged for a real estate guy.”
I laugh. “What did you have me pegged for?”
Shrugging, she looks away, thinking about it for a second. “Maybe an entrepreneur of some sort. I don’t know. You seem very capable, but also... I don’t know? Something I can’t put my finger on, like carefree or spontaneous. Regardless, you don’t seem to fit the stuffy, real estate mogul vibe.”
“I never said mogul. That’s my father. He’s the buyer, seller, and disposer of dreams.”
“Disposer of dreams, huh?”
“Yeah.” I pause, exhaling a deep breath. “He buys large properties, usually from people who have no choice but to sell, tears them apart and sells the pieces. And I work for him, so I guess I’m a disposer of dreams by proxy.”
“But these people want to sell, right?”
“Some do, some don’t. Some have no choice and they’ve exhausted all other avenues. When they fail, my father swoops in and makes the kill.”