“One question. Do we want to pretend like we just hit the legal drinking age, or do we want to acknowledge the fact that we’re pretty much ancient as fuck and will be older than 87% of the population?” I ask, eyes wide, feigning innocence.
He rubs his chin for a moment, thinking about his answer. “How about a little of both? Pick two places. For the first one, make me feel like a frat boy on Spring Break, and for the second, take me somewhere we can rest our old bones and just chill.”
I grin. “I have the perfect places.” I slide away, keeping hold of his hand as I guide him between the two orange and white roadblocks and start weaving between people. A few yards in, and we’re swallowed up by the crowd.
Music blares, echoing off the buildings as a huge group of partiers dance in unison to “The Wobble.” I turn to face Curtis and walk backward as I take hold of his front belt loops and shimmy, giving him a flirty look. He smiles down at me, a heated gleam in his eyes, but there’s more there than the usual lust most guys aim my way. No, there’s so much more—a possessiveness I feel to the depths of my soul, chipping more windows into the walls around my heart.
His hands reach out to take hold of my waist, guiding my blind walk down Bourbon Street as I don’t watch where I’m going, fully trusting him to keep me from running into anyone or falling off a curb. When I sense an intersection coming up, I spin around, feeling his palms glide around my body as he never lifts them away from me. My tank top bunches, pulling up from the waistband of my jean shorts, and as we pass over the crossroad, I feel his fingertips lightly trailing back and forth over the sliver of exposed skin at my hip. It sends tingles up and down my side, my nipples pebbling against the cups of my bra.
Normally, this place is sensory overload. The smells—good and bad, between the different restaurants battling with that unique NOLA aroma—the neon lights and people coming and going in all directions. Not to mention the music and yelling. It’s always so… just so much and all at once. But for the first time ever, everything seems muted. I don’t focus on the loud voices all around me, or the seizure-causing flashing lights, or the funk of the chick currently throwing up in the alleyway as we pass by, or the beads narrowly missing me as they’re tossed from the overhead gallery to someone baring their breasts in the crowd next to us. No, my focus is on the man who overshadows all of that outside noise and narrows my every nerve ending on him, as if I’m a blossoming flower and he is the sun itself, everything in me wanting to stretch toward his warmth and light.
Finally, we reach his first request—frat boy central. “Here we are!” I tell him, and he glances up at the two-story building, it’s beautiful classic wraparound iron gallery circling the second story of the corner lot. It’s a crazy contrast, the gorgeous old architecture and the loud party scene going on inside, a big neon multicolored sign boasting Tropical Isle, Original, Home of the Hand Grenade, New Orleans’ Most Powerful Drink above the door situated at the corner of the building.
“I think that’s my favorite feature of this style architecture,” Curtis says thoughtfully, and I glance up to see him looking at the entrance.
“The doors?” I ask, a little confused. There’s nothing really special about the door here. It’s just wooden and painted green.
He shakes his head. “Not the doors themselves. The placement of them. I don’t think I’ve ever seen doors made right into the corner of a building before today. Like, right where two sides of the building meet, bam! That’s where you go in. I bet that’s a bitch to install when they have to replace the doorframes and stuff, trying to get it all aligned and level.” When I raise a brow at him in question, he answers, “My yaya’s husband has been a contractor since he retired from the military. When I was a teenager, it was my first job.”
“Reeeally?” I trail my finger over his chest flirtatiously. “Not only could I fulfill my construction worker fantasy, but you actually know what you’re doing? My very own Chip Gaines,” I purr, rubbing up against him and watching his eyes flash. “See why Joanna is my idol? She’s got it all figured out. Get ya a guy to do all your neck-down work and design biddings. Mwah-ha-ha-ha.”
He chuckles at my evil laughter. Pulling me ever closer. “Sugar, I’ll even walk around in just my tool belt, if it’ll make you happy. Anything to make you happy,” he murmurs just before he presses his lips to mine for a quick but oh so sweet kiss. “Now. Let’s see if these Hand Grenades are better than the ones we had on the tour.” He takes my hand and pulls me inside, walking up to the line at the bar.