My mind is racing with questions now. Who cares about society’s rules? I want to know what makes this guy tick! I smile to put him at ease. “If you thought that sharing that little bit of information was going to stop me from asking more questions, you obviously don’t know me or any woman very well.”
He gives me a slight nod. “I would say you are correct in that assessment. I’m terrible at reading women. I always get it wrong.”
“Did you have any sisters growing up? Or girl cousins?”
“The only girl that I had around me when I was growing up was Toni, and she didn’t come into the picture until I was well into my teens. Around sixteen or so.”
“Who’s Toni? Is that your ex-wife? Girlfriend? Is that Jacob’s mom?”
“No. Toni works here with me, and we grew up in the same neighborhood together. She’s lived in New Orleans all her life. Toni and her brother Thibault were kind of like another family to me. Along with Ozzie and Lucky, too.”
I lean in a little. “I think I heard May say a few things about her. She’s, like, really badass and gorgeous and somebody you don’t want to mess around with, right?”
Dev laughs and nods, his body relaxing a little deeper into his seat. “Yeah, that’s her. There’s nobody tougher.”
My vision fades into a haze as I stare off into the distance. I’m picturing myself as a little Rambo chick, kicking ass and taking names, earning the respect I hear in Dev’s voice.
“What are you thinking right now?” Dev asks.
I answer without hesitation. “I’m thinking how awesome it would be to be described that way by a guy like you.” My ears go a little pink when I realize I’ve revealed a bit too much of my hand.
“A guy like me? What do you mean by that?”
I shrug, trying to play it cool. “I don’t know . . . a guy like you. A guy who . . .”—I gesture in his general direction—“. . . likes to train and get all sweaty all over the place.” The perspiration has stopped pouring down his body, but his clothing is still wet and sticking to him.
He looks down at himself. “Oh. I gotcha.”
My eyes follow his lead and land on his crotch. I quickly look away, but not before he catches me ogling him. I start waving my hand in front of my face. They seriously need a fan in here. Is this early-onset menopause?
Silence ensues. Both of us are trying not to look directly at each other, but it’s like our eyes are refusing to obey. It’s silly; I’m totally blushing. It reminds me of high school.
“You know, you could become like Toni if you wanted to.”
I frown at that. “What?”
“I said, you could look like Toni if you wanted to. You have a great frame; you just need to do a little weight training to build up some muscle.”
I don’t know why this is making my face get even hotter and my body all tingly. He’s looking at my frame? He thinks I have a great one? Didn’t he see my big butt?
“It wouldn’t take you very long, either,” he continues, oblivious to my freak-out. “If you’re anything like your sister, you could get it done in less than six months.” He shrugs. “Not that you need to do anything. I’m just talking about strength training here, not changing your body. Your body is fine the way it is.” He almost says something else, but then he stops himself and looks away for a second.
I flap my hand around the front of my face, trying to wave away his comments and the waves of heat coming off my skin. Talk about embarrassing. I eat way too many Fudgsicles to look like I imagine Toni does, not even in six years, let alone six months.
He’s just being nice when he says my body is fine the way it is. He must have gotten too much sweat in his eyes or something. “I don’t have time for that stuff. I have three kids and a job . . .”
He shrugs. “You could find the time. If you did more freelance work, you’d probably have more free time right away. You could make your own schedule, work out when the kids are in school or daycare.”
I snort, no longer embarrassed by the conversation or my weird reactions to being in an enclosed space with him. “Oh, believe me, I will not be doing any more freelance work. Not that I did any to begin with.”
“Why not?”
My hands drop to the seat on either side of my legs. I stare at him intently, waiting for him to figure the answer out on his own.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” He’s grinning, the fool.
“You really don’t know, do you?”
“No, I really don’t.”
I open my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, to tell him that you don’t invite a prospective freelancer to your warehouse, lock her in a panic room for an hour, tell her that some crazy person is trying to break in to the job site, and then suggest she work more hours for you. Calling them Bourbon Street Boneheads is giving them too much credit. It’s more like I’ve entered the lair of the Bourbon Street Bimbos.