CHAPTER THREE

Aimee

For the fourth—fifth—aw, heck, why lie—the tenth time that night, I caught myself checking out the new guy. And for the tenth time that night, I found myself going a little breathless, a little butterflies-in-the-tummy, and a little wet in the panties.

The man was flat-out sexy, and he wanted to buy me a drink at closing time, despite our rather clumsy introduction.

I grabbed a couple of long necks off an empty table and cast a glance over my shoulder at my uncle Daniel’s band, still churning out zydeco. Hot Guy played a mean bass. Uncle Daniel seemed to like him, smiling and grooving with him during a couple of hot bass solos, as did those listening to him, who clapped long and loud after each song.

Damn. I wished I could remember his name. He’d told me when we were lying there under the table, but I’d been so discombobulated by the events that had led us to being under the table in the first place that I’d promptly forgotten. Uncle Daniel had mumbled it into the mic before they’d started playing but Daniel wasn’t known for his enunciation.

Was it Corwin or Corbin? Cormack? I wanted a name to go along with my fantasies. He looked vaguely familiar but at the same time screamed pure out tourist to the south, let alone to bayou country.

Tourist or not, he was a hot one.

He was about six feet, with broad shoulders, soulful brown eyes, dark brown hair that was a little on the short side, and a short, well-trimmed beard. It was a nice, scruffy look. I’d never really been one for clean-shaven pretty boys. I was a bad-boy kinda gal, something I had to keep a tight rein on.

I loved my Uncle Daniel, but I knew exactly the type of guys he hung out with.

Yes, Mr. Corwin or Corbin or Cormack Something-or-Other was dangerous.

And damn if the boy didn’t know it.

The band was blaring as I made my way from table to table. After rolling around on the floor with Hot Guy I’d snuck out to my car and found a change of clothes—a requisite black t-shirt with Evangeline’s written in neon pink across the boobs and a pair of black cutoff shorts—and had washed my face and hands, then stifled enough yawns and downed enough cups of coffee to keep up with the crowd. Remy had tended bar at Evangeline’s for ages, but I’d slip behind to help him pour the easy ones when I wasn’t needed on the floor. I’d already served and cleared for the dinner crowd, and those who came for the music mostly wanted beer, sometimes Hurricanes (usually ordered by tourists who mistakenly think they’re still in New Orleans), and a whole lotta bourbon.

As I reached down to scoop up some wet napkins, I felt fingers pinch my ass. I turned around lightning fast, like a cobra, and grabbed the familiar arm. Pinning it behind the regular’s back was child’s play. Jimbo groaned even as his trucker’s hat fell to the floor.

“Aimee, baby,” he slurred, and I ignored the stench of Jim Beam on his breath. “How you gonna do a fella like that? You know you’re my everything.”

I shook my head and dropped his arm. He was lucky. Since I was a teen, I’d been helping my uncle with this place, taking over management when my grandmother Vivien died a few years back. Evangeline’s had started out as Vivien’s mother’s place—my great-grandmother Evangeline Harris had created a place in the bayou everyone raved about for generations, with her down-home cooking, zydeco music every week, and delicious desserts that people drove from miles around to eat. Learning self-defense had been Uncle Daniel’s number one caveat before I could work here. There was no way I was gonna let the old coot get away with pinching my ass, or the ass of any other girl who might walk into Evangeline’s.

“Jimbo, times they are a changin’,” I said lightly, but with a firmness in my tone. “You can’t grab a woman’s ass. I catch you touching any woman in this joint and you’ll be out. Don’t matter that you’re a major contributor to our rent each month, you’ll no longer be welcome.”

“You can’t talk to me that way, Missy.”

I snorted. “I can, I will, and I did. Now I suggest you head on home and sleep all this off before I call Sheriff Trudeau. He would be more than happy to make sure you sober up.”

Who I wouldn’t call would be Deputy Brad Lamell, the biggest ass this side of the Mississippi, and my (ugh) first boyfriend. I’d always sworn I’d never date a musician, but dating Brad right out of high school hadn’t been the wisest choice, either. The man had an ego that would sink the Titanic it was that large and heavy. He’d been dating Mireille Dubois for the last month, but she’d moved to New York and started a real estate company up there; since then, he’d given hints about wanting to rekindle things with me.

Not a chance.

“Darlin’ you’re breaking an old man’s heart,” Jimbo said, wiping the sweat drops off his bald spot.

“Then I’m doing my job,” I said, handing him his ticket and twisting so I could find a way to stare up at the stage. I managed to catch a moment when the new guy was grinning from ear to ear, bobbing up and down on his feet in time to the music as my uncle brought up the tempo. Yes, I was drooling just a bit. “We’ll be open tomorrow like always. You just sober on up and when you can hold a civil, hands-free conversation, you know we’ll be ready.”

“Mebbe I jus’ won’t come back,” Jimbo whined.

“Yeah, right. I make the best pie in the state and my uncle makes the hottest music. You know you can’t resist either,” I said. “And so long as you pay your tab and keep those paws to yourself, you’re welcome here. Now get on home before you do something else stupid.”

I strode away, made change for another table and then delivered some cold Budweiser to a third. Everything was typical, outside of the new brown-eyed stranger who was playing the bass with skill and finesse that old Lawrence could have only dreamed of. Hot Guy was sending my pulse way up high but I told myself for the hundredth time I shouldn’t accept his offer of a drink.

My mother’s biggest mistake had been having that first drink with my biological father, whomever he might be. All I knew was he’d been a musician my mom met on the road, when she was seventeen. She didn’t even know his name. She’d flung herself at him, he’d taken her up on her offer. As the story goes, the condom broke, my bio dad left town without telling my mom his name and boom—nine months later, I’d arrived.

My mother.

My chest tightened at the thought of her. I wasn’t sure where she was right now, truth be told. Even Uncle Daniel, who often paid for her bail when she went totally off the wall, claimed to be out of contact with her for the last few months. Not like she’d been around much throughout my life, anyway. Seemed like every time Mom got her act together and came home for a while, she’d find yet another guitarist or drummer or lead singer and would go off into the wide blue yonder, “following true love.” In truth, she was nothing but a desperate groupie, and I hated her for that. Hated her for not giving me a regular home life with bologna sandwiches and apples in brown paper bags, new shoes at the start of the school year, a dress for prom… If it hadn’t been for my dear departed Grandma Vivien and my uncle, then I really wouldn’t have had a hope of making a life at all. The reality of life in Pontmaison was just like the swamps it lay near—pretty on the surface, but underneath it all the alligators would chomp right through you.

I made my way behind the bar and poured a couple of cold ones for the couple there, keeping one eye on the stage, admiring how Hot Guy’s ass looked in his tight jeans as he moved to the beat of the music. Suddenly I heard my name called.

“You know, those were some mighty fine reflexes there with Jimbo,” the familiar and annoying voice added.

I groaned and turned on my heels to see Brad. He was tall and loved to lord that over me, and maybe some girls fell for that sandy blond hair and that wide grin, but I had no interest in the deputy even if he’d been sniffing after me like a bloodhound since I was sixteen. I’d finally given in to his pestering for a date right out of high school, and we’d gone out for six long, miserable months before I’d had enough. I’d been firm in the break up—clear as a bell, as in, “I no longer am in a relationship with you, it’s over”—but Brad wasn’t one to have a girl break up with him. Oh no, his precious ego couldn’t stand for that, which was likely the only reason he’d set his sights on me once again now that Mireille had left.

“Heya, Brad. You know better than anyone I can take care of myself. You’ve seen me in action before. It’s a survival skill in this job.”

“I hear you, but if you were my gal, you wouldn’t need to make ends meet being in this shithole.”

The comment stung a little—Evangeline’s wasn’t the Ritz, but it also wasn’t a shithole by any means. I gave him a one-shouldered shrug as I rinsed off glasses behind the bar. “Yeah, well, you don’t want me. Not really. You just want a woman barefoot and pregnant in your kitchen.”

He grinned and I was sure there was some woman out there who wouldn’t have her skin crawl seeing those dimples, but I wasn’t one of them.

“But you’re so good in the kitchen,” he said smarmily. He opened his mouth—presumably to keep flirting—but I cut him off.

“You here on pleasure or business, Brad? Should I get you a drink?”

He seemed to get the message. “Pleasure, and yes to the drink.”

I poured him a double of bourbon, slid the drink down the bar to his waiting hand. Before I could turn to go, Brad started talking to me again.

“You know Tallulah’s getting married on Saturday.”

I knew. Brad’s younger sister had sent me an invitation. She’d also asked me to bake the wedding cake. “I’m glad for her. Dizzy’s a good guy. He’ll make a nice husband.” Dizzy Galliston and I had been in the same class at school. His name was actually Desmond, but none of us called him by his real name since that time he’d spun around on the tire swing in the school yard so many times he’d upchucked on the playground. He was a nice guy, cute in an egghead sort of way. I’d never been attracted to him but Tallulah was smitten. And I absolutely adored Tallulah. She couldn’t help her brother was an A-hole.

“I’d like you to be my date to the wedding.”

Brad’s statement took me by surprise. I was just about to tell him I’d be his date when hell froze over (maybe a little more politely than that if I could manage it) when his father Elmer Lamell walked into Evangeline’s. Elmer was a regular. After his wife left him years before and moved to New York, he’d come in daily for some home cooking and a slice of cake.

“Hey, Mr. Lamell,” I said. “A little late for supper, but might I get you a drink? Or cake?” I glanced over at the tray of desserts. The cake wasn’t to be seen. I turned back to Elmer and gave him a rueful grin. “Sorry. Seems the cake was popular tonight, but there’s cheesecake left, or my chocolate truffles.”

“Darlin’, you know the way to a man’s heart. I’ll take a slice of your cheesecake. And gimme a few of them truffles to go.” He patted his son on the shoulder, then gave me a dopey grin. “Speaking of hearts, did Brad here ask you a certain question yet?”

I frowned. So Elmer knew Brad was going to ask me to be his date to Tallulah’s wedding? And the way Elmer was grinning up at me said quite clearly he expected me to accept his son’s invitation.

Was Elmer hoping Brad and I would get back together?

Nervous tension ate at my belly, then dread made my limbs grow heavy. If Elmer was expecting me to get back together with Brad but that didn’t happen, would my bank loan be in jeopardy?

Could I lose my shot at my bake shop if I didn’t go out with Brad?