Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)(7)
Again.
But it was the phone call from my father that had really put the cherry on top. The same phone call I’d been getting every week for going on four years.
When are you coming back to Kentucky? When are you going to stop this foolishness and take over your responsibilities? Boudreaux Bourbon hasn’t had a Master Distiller who wasn’t a family member in over two hundred years! You’re breaking your mother’s heart!
And on and on, until my fucking ears bled. It didn’t matter how much he begged, though. I was never going back.
Returning to Kentucky meant returning to that world of privilege and power I wanted nothing to do with, that viper’s den of genteel, well-mannered people who smiled and shook your hand, then started sharpening the knives as soon as your back was turned. There wasn’t a single person in my social circle aside from my parents I could trust.
Money makes people greedy. A lot of money makes them ruthless. I’d learned that the hard way.
Liars, schemers, and snakes, all of them. It was safer in New Orleans. I didn’t have to fend off as many bullshitters trying to befriend me so they could get their hands on my bank account.
Bianca Hardwick definitely didn’t care about befriending me. And judging by the free dinner, she didn’t give a damn about my bank account. The only thing she seemed to care about was insulting me.
You’re the reason the gene pool needs a lifeguard.
Sassy goddamn woman. No one ever spoke to me like that.
My mouth was doing something strange. It took me a moment to realize my lips were curving up, another moment to remember that meant I was smiling.
“You feelin’ all right, sir?” asked Rayford, watching me in the rearview mirror with concern.
“Of course. Why?”
“Because you look a little funny. Sick, maybe.”
When I scowled, Rayford looked relieved.
How fucking depressing. I’d better never think about Bianca Hardwick’s smart mouth or perfect ass again, or Rayford might think I was dying.
FOUR
BIANCA
Whoever coined the phrase beauty sleep had obviously never seen me in the morning.
“Damn, girl,” I said to my haggard reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Those aren’t bags under your eyes, that’s a full set of luggage.”
I splashed cold water on my face, pressed a wet washcloth to my lids, and held it there for a minute, to no effect. When I opened my eyes, I looked just as bad as I did before.
Serves me right for staying up into the wee hours of the morning working on a new menu.
But if Jackson Boudreaux was serious about his threat to sue, I’d have to revamp everything, fast. Then I supposed I’d have to hire myself a lawyer.
Stuck-up son of a lazy-eyed catfish!
What little sleep I’d had was filled with nightmares about being chased from the restaurant by a pack of wolves, led by one particularly large and nasty specimen that was all sharp teeth and vicious growls, his black fur bristling as he snapped at my heels. I woke with my heart pounding, the sheets drenched in sweat. And now I looked like I’d been chewed up and spit out by an ornery gator.
I pinned my hair into a bun, then smoothed a dollop of pomade over all the rebellious little flyaways staging a protest around my hairline. Then I brushed my teeth and got dressed, not bothering with makeup. There was no concealer on earth that could tackle my undereye bags today, and I’d never quite mastered the art of applying mascara. Or lipstick, for that matter. The last time I wore it was at Christmas, and by the time mass was over at church it had smeared all over my teeth. I looked like I’d eaten a box of red crayons.
So it was barefaced that I appeared at my mother’s door to check on her on my way to the restaurant, as I did every morning. She took one look at me and raised her brows.
“Well,” she said, “I know you don’t look so rough because of a man, chère, so come on in and tell me the story.”
“Actually it is because of a man.”
I gave my mother a hug, then stepped past her into the small but beautiful front parlor of her home. Perfumed with vases of flowers and the scent of her Shalimar, with the low, throaty voice of Ella Fitzgerald crooning from the hidden speakers in the walls, it was a little oasis of elegance and style amid the gentle decay of Tremé.
The oldest African American neighborhood in the United States, Tremé was the musical heart of New Orleans, going all the way back to the seventeen hundreds, when slaves were allowed to gather in Congo Square on Sundays to dance and play music. Jazz was invented here. The civil rights movement started here. We have brass bands, incredible cuisine, cultural history museums, more festivals than days of the week, and famous historical sites galore.