All That Charm: (A Morning Glory Novel Book 3) Page 13

  “Oh my god, you were, like . . . like . . .” Jasmine stammered, her brown eyes wide with shock.

  The adrenaline faded and Eden began to tremble. “I don’t know why . . .” She didn’t know what to say. She’d taken it off course big time. She shouldn’t have. It was just that she wanted to be something more than milquetoast. Frenchie was pissed. The other dancers she’d practiced with were ready to, no doubt, gloat at her being . . . Oh God, what if Frenchie fired her?

  Frenchie ran toward her and Eden shrank back. “I’m sorry, Frenchie. I don’t know what—”

  “Shut up,” Frenchie growled, grabbing Eden’s arm and yanking her back around as the curtain opened once again. The crowd roared, the applause so loud Eden took a retreating step. Frenchie kneed her in the thigh, nudging her back into the spotlight that hit her.

  “I told you, folks, that this little sister would wow you,” Fred crowed into the system. “Give it up for the fabulous, luscious Lulu LaRue!”

  “Curtsy, dumb ass,” Frenchie hissed under her breath.

  Eden executed the curtsy she’d perfected in fifth grade after she’d watched My Fair Lady umpteen times. The crowd got louder. Behind her she could hear the chorus girls clapping.

  They liked it.

  Frenchie stepped back, putting her own hands together. From the corner of her eye, Eden saw Butch smiling. Actually smiling.

  They weren’t going to fire her.

  Thank God.

  “You ever pull that kind of shit again, and I’ll dust the floor with you,” Frenchie whispered under her breath as she stepped back, executing a sweeping bow, extending her hand toward Eden like she was a gift being presented. Cheers and piercing whistles rent the air. Eden lifted the bouncy short skirt by two fingers and curtsied, then, playing Lulu to the hilt, she spun and stuck her butt out so the skirt fluffed before sashaying off the stage.

  When she hit the wings, she collapsed onto a stool right beside a glittering Sista Shayla.

  “Well, well, well,” Derrick crooned. “We got a new diva in town, girls.” He licked his finger and stuck it to her shoulder, making a hissing sound before he strolled off laughing. Eden lifted shaking fingers to her face as the chorus girls swarmed around her, patting hands, half hugs, squeezes, all accompanied by “you were awesome.”

  Frenchie halted right in front of her, her stony face sending the chorus to the dressing area.

  Eden blinked up at her.

  Frenchie’s mouth curved into a full-blown smile. “I always liked a little sister. Gutsy little bitches. So come by tomorrow and we’ll talk about your hours, better pay, and ideas for how Lulu can set Gatsby’s on its ear. You did good, kid.”

  “Thanks,” Eden said to the air beside her. Frenchie was gone, no doubt to prepare for her own act—a tasteful burlesque with ostrich fans. The woman wasn’t much for niceties or small talk.

  Something hot bloomed inside Eden as she sat on the stool. The world moved around her. A stagehand rolled out props for the next number. Girls twittered in the background, and the band played an old standard she’d danced many a time to in her bedroom, pretending to sing into her hairbrush. All normal for a Thursday night.

  But nothing was normal for Eden because she’d taken hold of something and pulled it to her, claiming it for her own. And it was going to mean something. She felt that in her gut. When she’d said, “I know the words,” she’d changed her path yet again. How? Only time would tell, but it was a moment to remember, to imprint on her brain.

  “Eden!” someone called.

  She turned her head to find Lisa motioning her toward the dressing area. “Next number.”

  Eden rose, realizing she couldn’t sit and soak anything in. She had to do her part in the ensemble for Derrick’s number. She might have made her own break, but no one would ever be able to say Eden Voorhees wasn’t a team player.

  The next day Nick found Eden folding laundry in his bedroom. “Hey.”

  She jumped a foot, dropping the Crescent City Classic T-shirt onto the floor. “Shit.”

  That made him laugh. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. I yelled when I came in the door a few seconds ago. What’re you doing?”

  She scooped up the T-shirt and gave him a flat look. “Frying chicken. What does it look like I’m doing? I’m folding laundry.”

  “Why? That’s not—”

  “I know, but I’m just going to be honest with you—I started washing my clothes here a few days ago. Using my own detergent and fabric softener, of course. But I figured you’d be okay with me running a load or two if I did all your laundry.” Her pretty eyes were apologetic as she picked up a pair of his underwear and folded them in half.

  Something about her small, quick hands handling his unmentionables did funny things to him. Which was lame. Because they were underwear and to her it was a chore. But it made is mind wander to places where she handled his undies with him in them. Yeah, he totally needed to find a hookup. Lusting after Eden had become a habit he needed to give up. Like really soon. But for some reason, he couldn’t control where his mind went when it came to Eden. “It’s fine.”

  “Good, because I went to the laundromat near my apartment last weekend, and the white powder coming out of that place wasn’t Tide, if you know what I mean.”

  He made a face. “Seriously? Like . . . cocaine?”

  Eden shrugged and tucked his favorite soft T-shirt beneath her pixie chin before folding it. “Or something like that. And I’m pretty sure a few prostitutes wash their hot pants there too. I didn’t want to get hassled by johns or anything.” She gave a self-deprecating chuckle.

  “Where in the hell do you live?” he asked, picking up a pair of warm sweatpants and folding them. She’d created small stacks all over his duvet. He found the stack containing his clothes and set the pants atop it.

  “Lower seventh ward.”

  Crime and poverty went hand in hand in that particular ward, but then again crime and poverty permeated much of New Orleans. The city was complicated and awash in sin and beauty. Lots of haves but even more have-nots. Being an old port city with varying cultures, New Orleans had given birth to incredible food, music, and festivals, but it had also given birth to racial injustice, profuse gang activity, and political corruption. Like a painted woman, his city was desirable, scheming, and desperate. “But where you live is safe, right?”

  ’Cause if it wasn’t, he was bundling her up and installing her in the spare room.

  “It’s tucked away on a fairly quiet street. I have good neighbors and strong locks,” Eden said, rooting around in the basket for a matching sock.

  “Where’s Sophie?” he asked changing the subject because he could tell she was uncomfortable, maybe even embarrassed.

  “She’s in her room listening to an audio book. Her therapy was good today. Rick said he’d send you an email report.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Hey, it’s my job,” she said, folding the last shirt and setting it atop Sophie’s T-shirt pile. Then she started loading all the stacks into the basket. “You’re home early.”

  “Rarity. You want to join me for a drink?” So much for drawing boundaries, but having a drink wasn’t against the rules. People who worked together often shared drinks. He used to drink all the time with his boss at Ruth’s Chris in Baton Rouge when he was in college. They’d had no weirdness between them—merely a mutual appreciation of fine spirits.

  “A drink?”

  “Since you’ve nearly an hour before you leave. Plus I know not to disturb Soph when she’s mid-story. Hell hath no fury like a little girl who has Harry Potter interrupted.”

  “She’s a bit obsessed with that first book.” Eden smiled.

  “Let’s sit out on the patio. Nice evening to hear more about you and Morning Glory.”

  Eden pulled out her phone to check the time. “I suppose one drink won’t hurt.”

  Five minutes later, he sipped a nice twelve-year Balvenie while Eden took cautious sips of the Tom
Collins he’d poured for her.

  “Not to your liking?” he asked, secretly amused by the way she eyed her drink with suspicion. Like she thought he might slip her Rohpynol. Or maybe she didn’t care for hard liquor.

  “Kinda strong. I’m not much of a drinker,” she said, pulling her knee to her. The chair she sat in was large and overstuffed, making her look even tinier. She tucked a hank of coal-black hair behind her ear and fingered the edge of the highball glass resting on the table.

  “So tell me about your job.”

  “Not much to tell. It’s just a gig at a place in the Quarter,” she said, her gaze settling on the ragged-eared banana plant looking sad in the corner of the courtyard. “But I make decent tips. What about you?”

  “I don’t have a second job,” he joked.

  Her curving lips made him think of dirty things. Like how she’d look naked, splayed on that soft duvet she’d just folded his undies on. Or how that mouth would taste. She’d be soft, sweet, and a little tart. Would he be able to taste the gin? Get drunk on his child’s nanny? He was half-hard just thinking about touching her, peeling that tight, stretchy dancer-looking top from her torso, stopping to sample the tight nipples outlined by the forgiving fabric. Her breasts were small ripe peaches, and he yearned to feast on them.

  Nick swallowed hard and took a large draw on his drink.

  Get a grip, pervert.

  “No, tell me about your restaurants. I read somewhere you have seven of them? Which is your favorite?” she asked.

  It pleased him she’d done some research on him. He liked her curiosity. Or maybe it was the cautiousness? Something about Eden was intentional but also achingly vulnerable, as if she was unsure of her footing. The first time he’d seen her, he’d wanted to take her into his protection, erase the worry from her eyes, and give her a serving of the happiness she deserved. “They’re so different, it’s hard to say.”

  “Which was the first one?”

  “Du Parrain. My grandfather opened it in 1948 on Poydras. Canal Street was the place to shop and be seen back then, but Poydras was filled with large office buildings and businessmen who needed to wine and dine their clients. He focused on traditional Creole cuisine and excellent cuts of beef. The sommelier was French and a hero from the French Resistance in the war. Very traditional, interesting, and a mainstay in the city.”

  “Why would you mention the sommel—What is that anyway?”

  Nick eyed the bottle of scotch on the bar cart he’d wheeled out. Susan and her stupid bar cart. She’d insisted upon one, but at least it was useful for times such as this. “It’s a wine steward. Most upscale restaurants with an extensive wine list employ them. And I don’t know why I mentioned it. I guess as a kid his stories of thwarting the Nazis always intrigued me. You know how it is when you’re a kid. You fasten upon things that seem daring and cool.”

  “My great-grandfather was a bootlegger. He knew Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, he was a real character. Bit of an outlaw. But that’s normal for my family.”

  Nick snorted. “I don’t believe that. You don’t seem like you’d do anything remotely illegal.”

  She took another sip of her drink, a secret smile hovering around her lips. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe the lunatics in my family. But all families have them, right? We just got more than our fair share of them.”

  “I guess that’s true. We have a US senator who got caught sleeping with prostitutes in DC.”

  “Hey, I thought that was the norm.”

  Nick gave a soft laugh and sipped the last watered-down bit of his drink. The sun had tiptoed to bed, leaving the city bathed in soft amethyst. The twinkle lights woven into the shrubbery framing the courtyard lent a romantic glow. He could almost imagine he and Eden were the only two people in the world. A man. A woman. A suggestion of attraction vibrating between them.

  What would she do if he reached out and touched her?

  Or if he folded her into his arms, breathing in her scent. He’d passed her many times, catching the clean scent of shampoo and earthy vanilla. He could start at the corner of those plump lips and nibble his way to a full-blown, wet, hot kiss. Would she push him away or issue a soft sigh and open herself to him?

  “I should go. Never know what the traffic will be,” she said, breaking the silence.

  “Finish your drink.” It wasn’t an order. It was a plea. He wanted a few more minutes with her. There was something between them, wasn’t there? Or not. Maybe he wanted there to be something more. She was such a mystery to him. He’d never been able to resist a challenge, and Eden had presented him one with her refusal to give him much of anything about her life. He wanted to unfold the origami that was Eden. Explore the mystery of the diminutive woman who held so much of herself apart from the world.

  “I can’t. Not my kind of drink, but I appreciate your fixing it for me.” She rose and set the half-filled tumbler on the table near him.

  Nick stood and when he did, he brushed her side. Eden moved back almost too quickly, but not before he caught her scent, before he felt how soft she was in the places that mattered most. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, a faint flush staining her cheeks. He looked down at her, at those sooty eyelashes and brilliant violet eyes. Her lips were slightly parted, almost an invitation. Just a few inches and he could brush them with his own. What would she taste like? He wanted to know. God help him, he wanted to know.

  The moment stretched between them, heavy and somehow profound. Her eyes clouded as she watched him, still and hyperaware like a doe framed in a meadow. She sucked in her bottom lip, nipping it with her teeth, plucking the taut guitar string of desire inside him.

  Nick swayed toward her, his head angling so that he could perhaps—

  “Dad,” Sophie said before banging into the jamb of the french doors with her chair.

  Moment over. Opportunity missed. Doused by reality.

  “Hey, baby girl,” he said, shifting away from Eden and smiling at his daughter. “You look pretty this afternoon. Braids?”

  His daughter glowed. She’d recently lost a front tooth, so she was a bit snaggly with her grin. But the happiness that tumbled from her was so . . . reassuring. Sister Regina Marie had been right—Eden was a meant-to-be for them. “Edie did it.”

  “Edie, huh?”

  “That’s what I call her,” Sophie said, grinning at Eden. “Only I can call her that though.”

  “I see. So I can’t call her Edie? How about Den? Can I call her Den?” He walked over to ruffle his daughter’s hair. Sure, he was disappointed at the loss of a possible . . . something . . . with Eden, but he was pleased to see his little girl building a relationship with her. It had been touch and go for those first few weeks, leaving him to wonder if Sophie was as resilient as everyone kept telling him she’d be.

  “You’re silly,” Sophie said.

  Hardly anyone would call him silly. But he liked that he could be that man with his daughter. And he didn’t mind that Eden knew it. A man didn’t necessarily have to be on his game when the woman had already folded his underwear.

  Eden gave Sophie knuckles. “I’m out, Soph.”

  “That’s what she calls me.” Sophie giggled. “A nickname.”

  “I knew that,” Nick said, following Eden into the house, hyperaware of the sway of her hips, the sheer femininity on display. His libido was obviously very much out to play. Before he could think about it, he grabbed Eden’s elbow.

  She turned. “I’ll see you—”

  Her words died as he brushed her cheek with a soft kiss.

  “Thank you,” he said softly.

  “For . . . ?”

  “Making her smile again. Making me . . . smile again. You’ve done well.”

  Her hand came up to touch the cheek he’d kissed. “You don’t have to thank me for doing my job, Mr. Zeringue.”

  “Nick. You gotta call me Nick,” he said, slightly exasperated she’d pulled t
he Mr. Zeringue card from her back pocket. Why would she throw up that barrier? Because of the almost kiss? Maybe Eden was a whole lot smarter than he.

  “Right.” Eden smiled and lifted the beat-up canvas bag she hauled wherever she went. “See you later, Nick.”

  He watched from the front door as she made her way toward the car he suspected was on its last leg. It didn’t suit her, but at the same time it did. No pretention. Pragmatic. Small. She needed something more reliable. She needed a better place to live. She needed someone to wait up for her. But what could he do about it?

  He was her boss.

  He was Mr. Zeringue.

  Shutting the door, he sighed and pulled his phone out of his pocket. Time to do as his sister suggested. Scrolling through his contacts, he found what he was looking for. John David Mangham—college roommate, investment broker, notorious womanizer. Nick had run into John David at a Christmas party a few months back. John David berated him for not calling since the divorce and suggested they go out and relive the good old days. If Nick wanted to meet some available ladies, John David was the perfect person to call.

  His friend answered after two rings. “Z Dawg, what’s shakin’?”

  “I need a drink and a woman,” Nick said, eyeing his daughter as she struggled to close the french doors he’d left open. Of course, he’d just had a drink with a woman . . . one that was off-limits no matter how much he wanted it to be different. She’d sent him a strong reminder. Mr. Zeringue.

  “Who the hell doesn’t?” his friend said with a snort. “You’re lucky. I have discerning taste in both. How’s next week looking?”

  “I’m open,” Nick said, hoping that was true on several levels. He had to start looking for opportunities to get a life. So he had to be open to what the world sent his way. “When do you want to try for?”

  “How about next Thursday? There’s this really cool place I’ve been to a couple of times. You’ll love it. Great drinks, hot women, and there’s this drag queen named Sista Shayla. Total hoot.”

  “Drag queen?”

  “Trust me. You’re going to find something so hot at this place.”