1
The Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana
MONDAY, JULY 25, 9:05 A.M.
Well, will you look at what the cat finally dragged in an hour late,” Molly Sutton drawled from where she sat perched on the edge of Joy’s desk. It was an old desk, a little battered, but beautifully carved. It fit with the art deco decor in the lobby of Broussard’s Private Investigations, LLC.
Her boss, Burke Broussard, liked nice things and he loved New Orleans. Their office space on the Quarter’s edge was a lot more expensive than an equivalent space in the burbs, but Burke swore it was worth it for the foot traffic alone. Their full roster of well-to-do clients seeking “Highly Qualified & Discreet Private Investigators”—as their business cards said in a very dignified script—seemed to prove him right.
Scowling, Joy Thomas piloted her electric wheelchair behind the desk with practiced ease. “You shut up. I am not that late.”
Molly laughed. “You’re always here at eight and you know it. Besides, is that any way to talk to the person who brought you coffee?” She held out a cup from the coffeehouse, fixed just the way Joy liked it. “I figured you’d be a little rough this morning, so I came prepared.”
Joy eyed the offered cup, then took it with a reluctant nod of thanks. “Considering you’re the reason I feel like death warmed over this morning, you should have brought me coffee.”
Molly lifted her brows, unable to hide her smile. “I’m the reason? I don’t remember holding your nose and pouring three hurricanes down your throat, Mrs. Thomas.” She held up three fingers. “Three hurricanes, Joy. Three.” She cocked her head. “Do you see three fingers? Or six?”
Joy flipped her the bird. “I see just one.”
Molly choked on another laugh. In her midfifties, Joy looked so prim, so... matronly and proper. Never a hair out of place, she always dressed like a woman going to afternoon tea, a string of pearls ever present around her throat. The only thing missing was elbow-length gloves, and Molly bet that Joy had a pair of those, too.
Joy might have appeared prim and frail at first glance, but the woman was strength personified. One of the first Black women to reach detective rank in the NOPD, Joy’s career had ended after she was injured in the line of duty. Reinventing herself, she’d gotten her CPA license so that she could support herself and her four kids—then teenagers, now amazing adults.
She was more than their office manager, their bookkeeper. She was like a mother, too.
Having lost her own mother, Molly accepted Joy’s mothering with gratitude.
“Don’t know why you’re not miserable,” Joy groused, but her expression softened with her first sip of the coffee. “Mm. It’s still hot.” She narrowed her eyes. “You brat. You were late, too.”
Molly grinned, unconcerned. Burke ran a pretty loose ship and they all worked plenty of hours when they were on cases. “Guilty as charged.”
Joy took another sip, closing her eyes. “This is the good stuff. None of that burned crap from that other coffee shop.”
“Never,” Molly said solemnly. “And I’m not miserable because I was the designated driver who got all y’all’s asses home safely. You’re welcome, woman.”
Joy shook her head, wincing at the sudden movement. She turned on her computer and sat back in her wheelchair with a frown. “I never did figure why you were the designated driver. It was your damn birthday, after all. You should have been the one drinking three hurricanes.”
Shoving her hands in the pockets of her trousers, Molly shrugged. “Chelsea’s been under a lot of pressure. She needed to let loose a little. Especially since she had a babysitter. Tell Louisa thank you for staying with Harper, by the way. That was so nice of her.”
Joy’s daughter Louisa was a grad student who could have been out partying with her friends, but she’d agreed to sit with Molly’s eight-year-old niece. Harper had been through so much trauma over the last few years. Molly and her sister Chelsea didn’t trust just anyone to stay with her.
Joy smiled proudly. “She’s a good one, my LouLou. She said thank you for the dinner you sent home for her. She wasn’t expecting the Choux’s shrimp and grits.”
“It was the least I could do, seeing as how she wouldn’t let me pay her.” Molly had celebrated her birthday at Le Petit Choux, her favorite restaurant in the Quarter, its name a play on the French endearment. Because even though the food was amazing, the place was known for its desserts, including its choux pastry. And for its head chef, of course.
Joy aimed a sly smile across the desk. “She’d have preferred an eyeful of that chef.”
Molly chuckled, her cheeks heating. “Because LouLou’s not stupid.”
She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t kept her eyes open for the restaurant’s chef and co-owner, who was also New Orleans’ newest celebrity, having won a Food Network competition the year before. The win had driven droves of tourists and locals alike to the Choux, at least half of whom stood in line mainly for a chance to ogle Chef Hebert.
At around six feet tall, Gabriel Hebert—pronounced “Ay-bear” in the New Orleans way—was very handsome. His square jaw, sexy grin, and dark red hair that curled loosely in the ever-present humidity checked off all of her boxes. Not to mention how his shoulders filled out that chef’s jacket. And—not that she’d ever admit to ogling—his butt looked very nice in the black trousers that completed his uniform.
While she wasn’t looking for any relationships, she’d never pass up an opportunity to admire the Choux’s head chef. He’d personally served his decadent chocolate cake last night with its single burning candle, standing at her shoulder while her sister and friends sang the birthday song before cutting the first slice for her with a flourish.
Like he’d done on every one of her birthdays for the past three years.
Like he did for everyone on their birthday.