Soft jazz yed from the record yer in the corner—E tonight, all velvet and ache—and the afternoon light filtered through the window, catching on the strands of pearls I’d draped along the edge of the disy table.

    Aire Noire smelled like orange blossom, beeswax polish, and the faintest trace of powdery perfume from a scarf someone tried on earlier.

    I was hanging lingerie back where they belonged from the fitting room when I heard the bell above the door chime.

    He looked like a denim-d hallucination bringing with him the smell of Verti Mart muffalettas, a brown paper bag, and two iced coffees.

    “Lunch,” he announced like he did it all the time, like this wasn’t the first time I was seeing him sincest week at the trunk show.

    I blinked at him, stunned. “What is that?”

    “What do you think?”

    I made a face. “I can smell a muffaletta from miles away.”

    “I was meeting with the new owner of the LaLaurie Mansion, and since Verti Mart was right there, I thought I’d bring you lunch.”

    I narrowed my eyes at him. That was top-shelf Quarter gossip and the son of a bitch knew it. “Who bought it?”

    “If you have lunch with me, I’ll tell you everything.” He lifted the paper bag, jiggled it.

    I made a show of it, but I couldn’t deny it was exciting to have him here with lunch. He was making an effort, and I appreciated that. I wasn’t going to fall into bed with him, but I didn’t mind sharing a meal.

    We sat in the little nook I’d set up by the boudoir—a velvet bench, two mismatched chairs, and a tray table I usually used for wine tastings and holiday events. He unwrapped the sandwiches while I tried not to stare at his tattooed forearms or the way his shirt clung to his chest like it knew I’d missed it.

    “So, who’s the new owner?” I asked after I swallowed the first bite of the excellent sandwich.

    Gage smirked. “Some out-of-town developer with too much money and a taste for drama. Wants to turn it into a boutique hotel. Real hush-hush right now.”

    “Boutique hotel? The mansion?”

    “Makes sense. It’s too big for a family, and it’ll bring in the tourists.”

    “No kidding.”

    Built in the 1830s, all gray stone and haunted elegance, the LaLaurie Mansion sat heavy on the corner of Royal and Governor Nicholls streets. The stories of Madame Delphine LaLaurie’s cruelty, the attic, the screams, the fire had been made memorial by tour guides and a season of the show American Horror Story. Even the most skeptical New Orleanian hesitated under its shadow at night.

    Nichs Cage, the actor, bought the ce as if it were a Gothic souvenir in 2007 and then promptly lost it to foreclosure. Some said it was the ghosts. Others said it was the curse of owning the mansion. Either way, it made the LaLaurie house even more infamous.

    “So, you’ll be converting it into a hotel?”

    Gage drank some coffee. “If they get all the approvals. Big if, as you know, with the preservation codes tighter than corsets. But if they get it and they still want me to do it? Yeah, that would be a st.”

    “And your crew will be okay working on the most haunted mansion in the Quarter?” I teased.

    He chuckled. “Delphi is going to lose his damn mind.”

    “Well, if there were a Super Bowl for haunted renovation, the LaLaurie job would win it,” I dered.

    Gage grinned, and I realized how easy it was to be with him, to just slide into conversation like we used to.

    “If I got the job, I’ll take care of the haints, even the restless ones.” He picked up a slice of olive that had fallen onto the wax paper from his sandwich and popped it into his mouth.

    “How’s the Creole townhouse project going?” I was always curious about his work and he of mine. It also seemed like a safe topic.

    He gave me the highlights. “Well, we did have a minor incident with a bird that flew through the stained-ss window mid-demo—somebody got spooked, something fell…we saved the stained ss, thank God, but lost an afternoon’s work.”

    I told him about how the dys from France, where I sourced a part of my stock, were a headache—andmented how the summer was hurting business like every other business owner in the Quarter.

    After we finished eating, he helped clean up.

    “Thank you for lunch,” I said almost shyly.

    “It was my pleasure.” He regarded me with intense consideration. “May I do it again?”

    My breath caught in my throat. “Ah….”

    The tables have turned!

    I’d been the one aching and yearning for him, while he’d been afraid ofmitment. Now he was bringing me food and stringing together apologies in every small, kind gesture, while I was the one who was scared.

    The door opened right then and I turned to see Kadishae in. “Hey, bossdy.”

    “Hey.” I gave her a tentative smile.

    “Kadisha,” Gage greeted her, and she responded with a venomous re.

    She was dressed in her usual outfit: big earrings, bigger energy, and a Tne hoodie.

    She was smart as hell. Sharp-tongued. Loyal to a fault.

    “What’re you doing here?” she demanded.

    “Kadisha,” I cautioned, and settled behind the register. I turned to Gage. “Thank you for lunch.”

    “You’re wee. How about dinner?” he asked.

    “You think buying her food is gonna fix things?” Kadisha was obviously not listening to my clear warning to shut the hell up.

    “Hey, go inside and open the boxes we just got,” I instructed her.

    Kadisha gave Gage another death stare. “She’s seeing someone else. You know that, don’t you?”

    I shook my head. “Alright?—”

    “She’s a beautiful woman, I wouldn’t expect anything else.” Gage wasn’t backing down either, but he was at least being pleasant.

    “She can’t have dinner with you tonight, thank you very much,” Kadisha gritted out. “She has a date,” she threw over her shoulder as she stomped to the storeroom in the back.

    Silence.

    Gage’s expression filled with despair, just enough to break my heart. His eyes dropped for half a second, then lifted again—steady, but different now.

    “You seeing him?”

    I wanted to be petty and ask him who? Instead, I gave a nomittal shrug. I didn’t have a date with Jonah, and in fact, I wasn’t dating him, but it was none of Gage’s business, now was it?

    “He’s not a bad guy,” he added.

    Color me surprised!

    “You don’t mean that?” I blurted out.

    “No, I don’t,” he admitted wryly. “The guy is an asshole, and you need to stay far, far away from him.”

    Then he kissed my cheek, said goodbye, and left.

    Kadisha slithered back out. “Wow! Did you see that?”

    “I’m not dating anyone,” Iined.

    She crossed her arms, unapologetic. “I know, but I wanted to needle him. And…he did look like a kicked puppy, which gave me all the warm fuzzies.”

    I sighed.

    “A lot like you look right now, though that isn’t making me warm and fuzzy.” She gave a sassy wiggle to her eyebrows. “You two starting up again?”

    “No,” I snapped a bit too earnestly.

    As Queen Gertrude said, “Thedy doth protest too much.”

    “Right!” She rolled her eyes and went back to work.

    The lunch felt like a beginning. It made me both hopeful and restive.

    I’d told Kadisha no way we’d start up again.

    Told myself that it was never gonna happen.

    Told Gage we were done.

    And yet, my mind was racing, waiting for an epiphany. An answer to the question, “He wants you back, now what?”

    I’d just poured a ss of wine when something tapped softly against the ss-paned french doors that opened onto the balcony.

    I froze.

    All those talks about haints coalesced for a nanosecond before I remembered that I didn’t believe in that sort of thing.

    Then it came again.

    A soft ck.

    What the hell?

    I walked to the balcony and opened the door, and my heart did a stupid, optimistic little stutter.

    “Hey, baby.” Gage stood in the warm glow of the gasmps, looking up at me like we were in a nies rom.

    “Are you throwing stones at my windows?” I demanded.

    “I was tryin’ to get your attention.”

    A couple of tourists walking past stopped and grinned like they’d stumbled into a movie. One of them raised a phone to take a photo and maybe even record.

    Ugh! Tourists.

    I leaned against the wrought iron balustrade of my balcony.

    “Well…?” I urged haughtily.

    He grinned up at me. “You gonnae down, or do I need to find a boombox and y some Peter Gabriel?”

    “You’re not serious.”

    “Dead serious.”

    I rolled my eyes. “That isn’t even the right movie.”

    “Which movie were you thinking about, darlin’?”

    “Romeo & Juliet,” one passerby dered.

    “You lost that lovin’ feeling’ from Top Gun,” someone shouted.

    “Ten Things I Hate About You,” another announced.

    Just then, a street musician began to strum ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You’ with a jazz ir; the sound drifting into the night like a wink from the city itself.

    Someone pped.

    A breeze stirred.

    It smelled like magnolias, heat, and him.

    “What do you want, Gage?” I asked as I feigned exasperation while my heart went thump, thump, thump.

    He rocked on his heels. “I want to take you to Jazz Fest.”

    “Why?”

    “’Cause the Stones are headlining and ‘cause,” he paused and then sang loudly like Heath Ledger did with a hand on his heart, “I love you, baby.”

    Thump. Thump. Thump.

    “Oh, pretty baby.”

    A woman walking past called out, “If you don’t say yes, I will.”

    I straightened and crossed my arms, making an effort not to smile.

    He was so damn cute and so freaking unfair!

    How am I supposed to resist this version of Gage?

    “What do you say, baby?” Gage’s face was wreathed in a mischievous smile.

    “I’m not promising anything,” I replied snootily.

    “Didn’t ask for a promise, baby,” he countered, amused. “Just want yourpany while we listen to Jagger, and eat a meal, drink a little somethin’.”

    His grin turned slow.

    Honest.

    Sexy.

    Gage.

    A tourist passed behind him and patted Gage’s shoulder. “She’s gotta say yes, man!”

    I shook my head. It was getting harder to keep a stern face. A hard heart. Walls. “You’re pushing it.”

    “Maybe.” Gage tilted his head. “But I’m here. I’m showing up.”

    Tears pricked the back of my eyes. He was giving me everything I had asked for without saying the words, albeit a few monthste. For an introvert, this spectacle was an effort, and he was making it for me.

    I bit my lip, then sighed and leaned out a little. “What day?”

    His smile softened. “Saturday. Stones go on at eight. I’ll pick you up at five.”

    I gave a careless shrug and threw over my shoulder as I went into my apartment, “We’ll see if I’ll be ready, won’t we?”