Terrell dropped me off in front of the Palmer home—a three-story Victorian in one of the poshest neighborhoods in New Orleans. It was done in the painted ladies style, colorful and overly embellished with ornate woodwork. The windows glowed warmly, and the sounds of the party drifted on the air as I stood at the end of the driveway and waited.
“Ms. Montreat?”
I whirled at the sound. Mr. Granade had walked up behind me as I watched Terrell’s taillights disappear down the block.
“Hi.” My cheeks warmed. He always got that reaction out of me. It was as if I were a teenager again and had seen my crush in the hallway. I shoved my hands in my pocket and looked up into his eyes, dark in the night. He wore a deep emerald dress shirt with an open collar, a dark brown blazer, and jeans. Casual yet somehow also refined. His clean scent washed over me, vying with the night-blooming jasmine in Mr. Palmer’s yard.
My heart relocated to my ears, the beat a steady thump as I let my gaze wander down to his lips, his open collar, the broadness of his chest.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
“Oh, um, yes. Terrell is parking the car.” I hitched my thumb over my shoulder for emphasis and then dropped it when I realized I looked like an idiot.
A cool wind whipped by and up my skirt. I shifted on my heels, trying to close my legs against the chill. My thong didn’t grant me much of a reprieve.
His eyes narrowed before he looked away toward the house. Then he sighed and took my elbow as if it were his duty. “Come on. Let’s go in. You’ll freeze out here.”
“Well, don’t do me any favors. Terrell will be here in a minute.” I pulled my elbow from his grip right as another breeze blew by, even stronger than the first. My lady bits protested, but I wasn’t going in with him when he was acting so . . . so much like his hardass self.
“Fine.” He took two steps away from me, then stopped. His shoulders rose and fell, and I’d swear I heard him sigh. He turned back around. “No, not fine.”
“Excuse me?” I tilted my chin up and met his eyes. There was no looking away this time.
He ran a hand through his hair, the perfectly smooth locks now mussed just like I liked them. “I’m sorry. It’s not a favor. I’d like to escort you in if you’ll let me.”
I considered his outstretched hand and peeked over my shoulder for Terrell. No dice.
“I guess so.” I walked past him, not taking his hand, and he fell into step beside me.
“Your hair looks different.”
Was this small talk? “You don’t like it?”
“No. I mean, yes.” He put his hand to my lower back as we climbed the steps to the front porch. “I mean, yes, I do like it.”
The voices grew louder as we approached the wide front door.
“Thanks.” I glanced up at him, the light from the transom window painting him golden.
He spread his fingers along the small of my back, pressing through the thick wool coat and the thin fabric of my dress.
“It’s beautiful, is what I meant to say.” His voice seemed an octave lower.
My skin tingled under his hand despite the layers between us. I leaned toward him, my heels giving me more height than usual. His hand moved around to my side and pulled me close enough that his scent became a heady delight.
His gaze darted to my lips and stayed there. We were close and moved closer still, his warm breath tickling my cheek, my lips. My heart hammered as if I were running a footrace.
The door opened and the moment was broken. We stepped away from each other. Mr. Palmer was speaking to someone in the house and turned his head only after Mr. Granade and I had separated. He smiled warmly and ushered us inside.
“Ms. Montreat, welcome to my home. Wash, come on in.”
The house was even more beautiful inside than out. The floors were a dark, polished wood, and the walls were covered with a variety of art. Chandeliers and sconces bathed everything in warm light, and several people milled around in the foyer, the adjacent living room, and deeper in the house.
“Let me take your coat.” Mr. Palmer held out his hands.
I hesitated, but another glance around the crowd showed several women wearing cocktail dresses, some of which were far more risqué than mine.
“Thank you.” I undid the oversized buttons up the front and shed the coat, handing it to Mr. Palmer.
“Wash, you want me to get yours?”
“No. I’m good.” His voice was anything but “good.” It was tight, strained. I glanced at him, but he was looking through the crowd. “Beer in the kitchen?”
“Anything you want. Got a bar set up in there.”
“Great.” Without so much as a “see ya,” Mr. Granade prowled through the crowd and disappeared.