I’d never felt comfortable with a lot of the things Father Lionel and, by extension, Mother Superior—Dawn—and the lieutenants enforced. It’d just never sat right with me. But I’d always chalked it up to me being young and sequestered for most of my life. I’d figured that I hadn’t had a chance to experience the big world and, therefore, was simply too curious and perhaps naïve for my own good. Now? Now Iknewthat I was naïve, though in a vastly different way, and those trepidations were valid. My instincts were right, and the things that Father Lionel did in the name of faith and to uphold our so-called religious beliefs were the real evil there.
Lark seemed comfortable with me, but I’d still be leery if I were in her shoes. I’d still second-guess everything I did, wondering if I would run back to the people who’d almost killed her. Who had tried to take something so integral to who she was that I wasn’t sure she would have survived the separation. I would still be angry, and that anger would extend to anyone even remotely connected to those who’d made my life a living hell.
I wondered if we could get past that.
I looked over at her and saw her gazing out the window, seemingly deep in thought. She hadn’t let go of my hand, and I took that as a good sign. I caressed my thumb over hers again and saw her lips lift in a small, soft smile. Still, she didn’t look my way.
I returned my attention to the road and headed to the steamboat houses.
“Are you going to be okay driving home?” I asked.
“I’ll be fine,” she said and looked at me. “The alcohol is pretty much out of my system, I think. You?”
“I’m good. Beer doesn’t last all that long in me. That’s actually why I went with the Abita tonight and not something else. I wanted to make sure that I got you back safely.”
She glanced at the clock on the dash. “It’s not that late. Would you like to follow me to my place for a nightcap? I think I have all the fixings for café brulot diabolique.”
I raised a brow. “Are you actually going to set it on fire?”
“Is there any other way to serve it?” she asked with a mischievous grin.
“How about just some Irish coffee?” I asked.
She pouted. “That’s not very festive.”
“No. But it is delicious.” I smiled.
“So, was that a yes?” she inquired.
“It’s an absolutely. Always.” I winked—a goddamn wink.Smooth. I could almost feel my cheeks heating.
I followed her to her place, and we took the steps to her upstairs apartment. The minute she opened the door, a veritable panther skidded around the corner and rammed into her legs. She laughed and scooped up the beast, rubbing her cheek against his head.
“Kholt, this is Phantom. Phantom, meet Kholt.”
I reached out my hand, and the cat sniffed me, then rubbed his massive head against my fingers. I scratched his ears and rubbed a bent knuckle under his chin.
“That is the biggest house cat I have ever seen.”
She kissed him and then set him down. “He is a big boy. I love big cats, and he exceeded my expectations. I expected him to stop growing at two, but he’s almost six now, and I swear he still got a bit bigger. And it’s solid mass. He’s not fat.”
I could only shake my head as the cat jumped up onto the couch and took a spot on the top cushion near the corner, the foam and material sagging under his weight.
“Make yourself at home,” she said and kicked off her shoes, putting her keys in a bowl by the door, hanging her purse on a hook, and setting her equipment bag in a hall closet.
I did as she suggested and took a spot on the couch, taking off my shoes, as well, and reclining, tipping my head back, closing my eyes, and just taking a big breath. The place smelled of sage and cinnamon with hints of lavender and mint.
I heard her in the kitchen and turned to take her in. Damn, she was beautiful. Her long fall of red hair caressed her shoulders and back, and her jeans hugged her curves. I was jealous. She stood at the counter and mixed our drinks but looked over at me mid-pour. Her green eyes flashed, and I felt it like a bolt of lightning. I wished I could see her chartreuse irises with their hints of gold that I remembered, but the darker color she sported now was just as captivating.
She came to sit next to me on the couch and handed me the mug of Irish coffee.
“Decaf?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said.
“Perfect.” I took a sip, and the flavors burst on my tongue. She’d used an Irish cream-flavored brew and bourbon cream, topping both mugs with whipped cream so no sugar was needed. “Wow, this is delicious.”
“I figured we skipped dessert. Might as well kill two birds.” She winked and sipped, and some of the whipped cream stayed on her lip. I couldn’t look away. Or stop myself.