“You make it sound so brutal,” she says with a slight laugh.
“Because it is.”
I look past Carys and see our waiter approaching. This time when I let out a deep breath, it’s out of appreciation. We need a change of topic before I release all my demons and ruin our date.
“Have you had a chance to decide what you’d like to eat? Can I make any recommendations?” He looks at me and then smiles over at Carys, obviously finding her just as pretty as I do.
“What would you recommend?” she asks, her cheeks a little pinker. The French Quarter is definitely doing its job.
“The shrimp and grits with a side of fried crawfish is one of our best sellers. It’s served with bacon, crispy jalapenos, and a drizzle of honey balsamic.”
She smiles, closing her menu. “Sounds perfect. I’ll have that.”
“Make that two,” I tell him, handing over my menu.
“Great. I’ll get that turned in. Can I get you another drink?” he asks, pointing to my nearly empty glass. I hadn’t even realized I’d drank most of it. Huh. Probably why I’m just a wealth of information. Liquor has always been a lubricant for my mouth.
“Not right now,” I reply with a low chuckle, my mind going straight to the gutter.
Max dips his head in acknowledgement and flashes a quick smile at Carys who covers her glass and says, “I’m good too, thanks.” When he’s made his way to the next table, she gives me a lazy, slow grin that goes straight to my dick. “What’s so funny?”
“You wouldn’t want to know.”
“Try me.”
I toss back the last of my drink and clear my throat. “I was just thinking about how this,” I say, holding up my now-empty glass, “has always been a lubricant for my mouth.” I can’t help myself, the last few words come out slow and pointed, dripping with insinuation.
“Oh.” Her mouth forms a perfect “o” as she stares at me for a moment before darting her tongue out and swiping it along her bottom lip. Draining her glass and setting it down on the table between us, she never takes her eyes off me and I know her mind is now floating down the gutter beside mine. Shit, we’re probably sharing a raft.
Briefly glancing away, I contemplate slapping a few bills on the table and walking out, taking Carys and finding a dark corner so I can make the rest of her body turn the same lovely shade of pink as her cheeks. I refrain, though. My mama raised me to be a gentleman and I’m gonna try my hardest to be one until Carys gives me permission to stop. Besides, I’m starving and if this night ends the way I hope it does, I’m going to need my energy and so will Carys.
For a long, charged moment we have a silent conversation. The way her eyes lock with mine and then travel down to my lips tells me everything I want to know. She wants me. I want her. She knows it. I bet the people at the table behind us know it and are probably getting off on the sexual tension permeating the air around us.
Chapter 8
Carys
Holy UST, Batman.
Thanks to Jules, I now know that “UST” stands for unresolved sexual tension and he says Maverick and I have it in spades.
When he mentioned it earlier, I told him he was out of his mind but he swore he spoke the truth. Apparently, he has a gift for detecting sexual desires. Now, I’m no stranger to gifts and special powers, but his seem a little convoluted. But, sitting here, feeling Maverick’s stare like an extra set of invisible hands raking my body, causing my heart to race and my panties to melt, I’d have to agree with Jules.
It’s a no-brainer that we’re attracted to each other. Incredibly attracted, even. But my dilemma is whether or not to act upon it. Do we keep the sexual tension unresolved, therefore, keeping our relationship platonic and uncomplicated, or do we give into the sparks and see what happens after the ashes have settled?
Not gonna lie, I want to resolve the fuck out of this tension right here and now. Pun intended.
Maverick will eventually figure out whatever sent him running for New Orleans. He’ll go back to Dallas, to his job and life. I don’t know if that’s a reason to pursue the sexual tension, or run from it.
It’s been a long time since I had a fling. Actually, I don’t think any of my sexual experiences could count as a fling. Regardless of past experiences, this would be different. He’s staying at my hotel. So, do I pursue it for as long as he’s here? Then what? He goes back to Dallas and I forget all about him, going back to whatever it was I was doing before he showed up?
Existing.
Surviving.
Trying to make it from day to day, keeping myself and my hotel afloat.
That’s what I should be focusing on, right?
Any time I ask myself that, I get the same tug on my heart. I think it’s from my grandpa. I think he would say the hotel is important, but not as important as the people inside. I remember one time, when I was about ten years old, I asked him if he loved the hotel more than me. He’d been working long hours in the office, probably putting out a similar fire like I’ve been doing on a daily basis since I took over. He stopped what he was doing and picked me up, sitting me on his desk, right on top of all the papers and ledgers he had spread out. He looked me square in the eyes and told me the hotel was part of him, but only because of what it provided for his family. He said if it all burned down tomorrow, as long as he had me and Mama and Mary and George that it would all be okay. He said the hotel is like a body and we’re all like the soul. We make the hotel.
He wouldn’t want me to forget how to live. He wouldn’t want me to lose myself in the process of keeping the hotel afloat.
“Deep thoughts?” Maverick asks.
“Sorry,” I tell him, wiping at the corners of my mouth with my napkin. “I guess I was hungrier than I thought.”
We’ve both been working on making ourselves members of the Clean Plate Club. The food here is amazing and I can’t believe I’ve never tried it before tonight.
“This is the best shrimp and grits I’ve ever had.” He sits back in his chair, letting out a content sigh.
“How is everything?” a deep voice asks, causing me to look up.
A guy dressed in a white button-down shirt and black jeans is standing there with a kitchen towel thrown over his shoulder.
“Great,” I tell him.
“I’m glad to hear it.” He smiles, clasping his hands together in a pleased gesture. “Is there anything else I can get for you? Dessert, perhaps?”
“Oh, I’m stuffed,” I say, looking over to Maverick who is looking as full as I feel. “Y’all don’t lie about the lagniappe.”
The man chuckles, shaking his head. “That we don’t. If you leave hungry, we haven’t done our job.”
“Well, job well done tonight, man,” Maverick says, offering him his hand to shake.
Looking toward the back of the restaurant where two sets of large double doors swing constantly as the wait staff walks in and out, I ask, “Are you the chef?”
“Owner,” he says, dipping his head.
I offer him my hand. “I’m Carys Matthews. I own Blue Bayou around the corner. Dinner was great. I’ll be sure to send people your way.”
“Micah Landry,” he says, taking my hand. “It’s nice to meet you. Maybe we could do some cross promo. I didn’t even realize there was a hotel nearby.”