Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 86510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“We shall see, Blossom.”
Her cheeks redden. “I suppose so.”
June returns with our fries and drinks. “You want some ketchup?” she asks.
“Mayo,” I say.
Mary scrunches her face. “Mayo on fries?”
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” I say.
“No thanks. Ketchup for me.”
“I’ll be right back,” June says.
She returns seconds later with a bottle of ketchup and a bottle of mayo. I squirt some onto my plate and swirl a fry in it.
“That looks so gross,” Mary says.
“You don’t like mayonnaise?”
“Of course I do. I’m a New Yorker. I put it on all my deli sandwiches. But fries are for ketchup.”
“Or hot sauce,” I say.
She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t think so.”
“Or a mixture of mayo and hot sauce.”
She chuckles. “Right. You grew up in New Orleans. It’s making a little more sense now.”
“Exactly. French Creole roots. Not many people know this, but mayonnaise originated in France.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Really?”
“Well…I’m stretching the truth a little. It actually originated in Spain, but the French perfected it. A lot of the great sauces originated in France, though. Bearnaise. Hollandaise.”
“Right.” Mary grabs a fry and lets it hover over the mayo on my plate for a moment before ultimately choosing ketchup. “You said your grandmother owns a restaurant.”
“That she does.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had true Creole cooking,” she says.
I pick up a fry, dip it in the mayo, as an idea surges into my mind. “Would you like to experience it?”
“Are you offering to cook for me?”
I shake my head. “Are you kidding? I can hardly boil an egg.”
“Then you won’t make me haggis?”
I chuckle. “I can’t stand the stuff.”
“And you call yourself a Scotsman?” she teases.
“I call myself American with a Southern mother and Scottish father.”
“Your looks say differently.”
“That’s true.” I run my hand down the sleeve of my Jacobite shirt. “My looks say Scotsman through and through. Maybe I need to stop wearing kilts.”
“God, no,” she says. “You look…spectacular in a kilt.”
Her compliment warms me. Most people in Scotland no longer wear kilts day to day. I found, in the lifestyle, that they draw attention, so I wear them. Plus I’ve got damned good legs, if I do say so myself.
“So”—I clear my throat—“my offer to serve you a Creole meal.”
“I don’t know of any Creole restaurants here in the city, but I’m sure we could find one.”
“I’m sure we could, but it might not be authentic.”
“Then what are you suggesting?” she asks.
I reach across the table, grab her hand. The slight touch makes my groin tighten. I’m about to suggest something ridiculous, considering we just met twenty-four hours ago. Yet the words tumble out of my mouth with ease. “Come to New Orleans with me.”
She drops her mouth open. “What?”
“You showed me part of your world last night. Let me show you part of mine.”
The fry she’s holding falls to her plate.
“I know I just told you how busy I am, and it’s true. But I also said I have people who can take over for me. And right now, taking you to my grandmother’s restaurant is way more important than anything else I could be doing.”
“Ronan, I have a job.”
Right. “You have any vacation time?”
“Two weeks,” she says. “But my boss prefers more than a minute’s notice.”
“I wasn’t suggesting we go today.”
“When were you suggesting?”
“Tomorrow.”
Her jaw drops again. “I can’t just drop everything and leave.”
“Fair enough. But would you like to go?”
“Well…yeah. I would like to. I’ve never been to New Orleans.”
“I’m the best tour guide around. I grew up there. I know all the hidden places to go to that capture the true spirit of the Big Easy.”
“You mean like Bourbon Street?”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not. Everyone knows about Bourbon Street. I’m talking about holes in the wall, where you can get the true feel.”
She bites her lower lip. All I can think about is how I haven’t even kissed her lips yet.
I haven’t done any of the things I want to do to her.
And right now? I’d settle for simple vanilla sex just to have her.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“I wish I could,” she says.
“Talk to your boss tomorrow.”
“The shop is closed on Sundays.”
“Can’t you call him at home?”
“My boss is a woman, and I suppose I could, but…” She bites her lip again.
Is she actually considering it?
New Orleans is a special place—a place where magic happens. Mary needs some magic in her life right now. She’s floundering, in flux, and I want to help her. Because already I feel like she’s helped me. She’s shown me some of the beauty of my new home, and she’s shown me some of the beauty of who she is.
“Sometimes,” I say, “you have to grab the brass ring, Blossom. Sometimes…what will heal you is something you’ve never considered.”
Chapter Twelve
Mary
“Who says I need healing?” I say a little more harshly than I mean to.