Chapter 28

Maverick

Placing my book on the side table, I glance out the window. I’ve been doing a lot of this the past few weeks—reading, sitting, thinking, reflecting. Being unemployed allows you the time to do such things. I don’t have my grandfather’s journal to mull over, so I’ve moved onto books he recommended. This week’s reading material: What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.

I thought it might be good fodder, something that would help me work through the storm of emotions I’ve felt ever since I left New Orleans—left Carys—but it’s really dark as shit. Some of it makes sense though. I see symbolism with the sun. At the beginning of the book, it’s bright; and by the end, it’s gone. As their friendly conversation turns into more, the sun in the kitchen fades, showing the way love complicates things.

Thoughts about the sun naturally leads me to thoughts about Carys. She’s the sun incarnate. I miss her warmth. I thought about calling again today, to see if today would be the day she’d talk to me, but I didn’t. I’m trying to give her space and allow her to come to me, but I’m feeling antsy and unsettled, much like I felt when I escaped this place and took refuge at the Bayou.

“Fuck,” I moan, standing up and running a hand over my face and through my hair. I’ve got to get out of this funk. Shep will be here in a few minutes and he’ll give me shit if he finds me sitting in my dark office again, with only the lamp on.

He warned me last week he was considering an intervention that included pussy and beer, but I’m pretty sure my precise punch to his shoulder made him think differently.

I don’t need pussy.

And I don’t need beer.

Now, this whiskey, I think, taking a sip, it seems to be doing the trick. Also, reminding me of Carys and my night at Revelry with Jules. I really miss them all—Carys, George, Mary, and Jules. In the couple of weeks I was there, they felt more like family than my own. I chalk them right up there beside Shep, except for Carys, of course, she has her own place.

Deciding to stretch my legs, I open the front door and jog down the sidewalk to the mailbox. I need some fresh air, anyway, and it’s been a while since I remembered to check it.

Reaching inside, I’m surprised when it’s full. Usually, all I have are a few random envelopes, mostly advertisements or political propaganda. My bills are paperless and on auto-draft. And let’s face it, people just don’t send correspondence through the United States Postal Service like they used to.

I bet Carys hates that. I bet letters through the mail have a special place in her heart, right along with antique room keys. That thought makes me smile. I wish I could call her up and ask her where she stands on the topic.

Shuffling through the mail, I quickly discard most of it, tossing the envelopes in the nearby trash can on my way back up to the house, but a package wrapped in brown paper makes me pause in the middle of the sidewalk. The return address catching my attention.

123 St. Ann, New Orleans, LA

Blue Bayou.

Quickly, I rip open the end of the paper and shake out the contents.

My grandfather’s journal slips into my hand and I flip it over, staring at it. Instinctively, and without thought, I bring it to my nose and inhale. It smells like her—sweet and good. Running my hand reverently down the wrinkled leather cover, I just stare at it for a moment. A pang of jealousy hits me square in the chest. This book has been held by Carys. She wrapped her hands around it and touched the pages.

Just as I’m getting ready to bring it back to my nose for another hit, a car horn startles me, making me nearly piss my pants.

“What the fuck, Shep,” I growl, glancing up to see him pulling in my drive, smiling at his antics. I’d like to punch that cocky grin right off his face.

“Hey, douchebag, still sulking?” he asks, climbing out of his Porsche. Unlike me, Shep doesn’t shy away from public displays of wealth. He might not like his father, but he appreciates the money the man provides.

“Who’s the fucking douchebag?” I mutter, tucking the journal back into the brown paper before he can give me shit about that too.

“I brought takeout and beer,” he announces, holding up the preferred offerings. “Let the business meeting commence.”

Walking back inside the house, Shep follows and continues past me, setting the food on my kitchen table.

“Let’s eat first,” he calls out, banging cabinets like he lives here. “I’m starving.”

“Okay.” I slip back into my office for a second and deposit the journal into the top drawer of my desk. I want to hide away with it, open it and see if she left anything—a word, a response, a smudge...anything. Instead, I close the drawer and walk to the kitchen, placing what I hope is a look of indifference on my face, because I don’t want to talk about it—about her. Not yet.

“So,” Shep says around a bite of food, once we’ve opened every container and popped the top on some beers. I said I didn’t want beer, but I lied. It’s good. Between this and the two fingers of whiskey I had earlier, at least I don’t feel as wound up as I’ve been lately.

“So,” I return, taking a heaping chopstick full of Moo Goo Gai Pan and shoving it into my mouth.

“I talked to Ros today,” he starts, quirking an eyebrow.

“So,” I reply again, only this time with distaste. I don’t give two shits about Ros.

“Just thought you might be interested in some information she passed on.”

I wait, chopsticks midair and motion for him to continue.

“Apparently, your father took a trip to New Orleans last week.”

My heart drops into the pit of my stomach as I immediately imagine him walking into the Blue Bayou, harassing Carys...forcing her hand on something she doesn’t want...acquiring the hotel. My mind goes to the worst-case scenario before I squeeze my eyes together and take a long drink of beer in an effort to clear my head. “What else did she say?”

“Well, I guess it didn’t quite go as planned. She said before he left he was talking about what a pussy you were and how you never can close a deal.” Shep pauses to roll his eyes and mutter expletives under his breath. He hates my father almost as much as I do. “Anyway, I guess he felt confident he’d walk in, lay it on the line, and Miss Matthews would roll over and give him what he wanted.”

Talking about Carys and my father...and her rolling over and giving him anything has me seeing red. I tighten my jaw so hard it hurts, grinding out, “And?” He needs to keep talking before I flip this fucking table and ruin our dinner.

“Didn’t happen,” Shep says smugly. “He got back a few days ago and was royally fucking pissed. She said he canceled his meetings for the day, one being with her, and wouldn’t return her calls. His assistant, some guy he brought in from Peterson’s, who Ros has been fucking, gave up the deets. He told her when Mr. Kensington got back he said the deal was off. He called a meeting with the prospective buyer later that day and has been in a shit mood ever since.”

My heart is back up in my chest where it belongs, beating soundly, full of pride.

I don’t know what happened, but I can take a guess, and I wish I’d been there to see it. The new vision of Carys handing my father his ass on a silver platter has me grinning from ear to fucking ear.

“That’s my girl.”

Shep gives me a wink and continues stuffing his face.

Best news I’ve had in a long time.

“Let’s talk about this new venture,” I tell him, feeling rejuvenated and ready to kick some ass.

After we discuss our ideas and go over the properties I collected information on when I was in New Orleans, Shep sits back and nods, quiet for longer than usual. “I like it. I think this is going to be a good investment.”

“You sure?” I ask, knowing I’m asking a lot of him, needing his financial support to follow through with what I want to accomplish. Most of the cash flow will come from our clients. We plan on orchestrating deals—a matchmaking for property owners of sorts.

“It might take a while for us to see a return on investment. We might need to acquire a few of these properties on our own and do some upgrades, just basic improvements, to make them more attractive to possible buyers,” Shep says thoughtfully. “But I’m on board. One hundred percent.”

“It might require going to New Orleans occasionally,” I warn. “Seeing that the properties we’re considering are all within the city limits.”

“I’m okay with that.” Shep sighs, taking a swig of his beer. “I’ve been wanting out of this damn city for a while. You know that.”

I nod. “Okay.”

So, we’re doing this.

Shepherd Rhys-Jones and I are going into business together. I mean, we should’ve seen this coming ten years ago when we started swindling our classmates out of money, selling everything our parents sent us, but up charging due to delivery fees. I always wanted to give them a break and sell stuff cheap, but Shep was the one who wanted to monopolize on the supply and demand.

We balance each other out.

I’ll keep us on the straight and narrow and he’ll make sure we don’t get fucked over.

It’s a match made in heaven.

After Shep is gone and the kitchen is cleaned back up, I stand at the counter, looking out into the great room. I love this house, but since I’ve been back, it hasn’t felt like home. Since I found the Blue Bayou, nothing else feels quite right.

At that thought, I walk into my office and take the journal out of the drawer. Leaning against the desk, I pull it back out of the brown paper package and run my hand along the leather. Bringing it to my nose, I inhale again, wondering if it was just my wishful imagination that thought I smelled Carys on the pages.

No.

It’s definitely her.

And it makes my throat tighten with the visions her scent brings.

Carys smiling.

Carys laughing.

Carys’ blue eyes.

Carys’ long blonde hair.

Carys moaning beneath me, on top of me. Her soft pale skin under my hands.

Heaven.

That’s what it was. My two weeks at the Blue Bayou with her was like a slice of heaven or maybe a taste, just enough to let me know I want to go there. I want to live there.

Flipping it open, I go straight to the back, where I know there are blank pages to be filled, and my heart stops. Beautiful, swooping handwriting fills half a page.

July 2nd

I miss the way you tell me things without saying a word. I miss the feeling of complete contentment when I’m with you. I miss the way my skin zips with electricity when you walk into the room. I miss the way you felt like an old friend. I miss the way you tease me and challenge me to be a better version of myself. I miss feeling like I can take on the world when you’re by my side.

But I’ve been doing it.

I’ve been slaying dragons and taking charge of my life.

You helped me do that.

A wise man once said that love is a risk and trust doesn’t come cheap.

So, I’m sitting here, asking myself:

Is this relationship worth that risk?

Is it worth feeling vulnerable?

Is it worth forgiving?

Reading Carys’ words is like having a piece of her here and I immediately feel elated and sad all at the same time. So fucking sad, because I miss her. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell her the truth from the beginning. The day I got the papers, I should’ve told her about them and we could’ve worked on a solution together, or she could’ve at least known what she was facing. I did her a disservice by not telling her, and for that, I’m sorry.

I wish I knew what her answers are to those questions. I wish I could hug her and tell her how much I feel for her. I wish I had another fucking number besides the hotel.

We never had a reason to exchange phone numbers. I thought I’d get it before I left. I pictured a tearful goodbye, filled with kisses and promises of seeing each other again in a few weeks. I didn’t picture everything going so terribly wrong, and now, I’m terribly unequipped.

Walking over to my desk, I sit down and fire up my computer. Immediately, I open Facebook and search out Carys’ old profile. But when I get there, the photo I’ve come to love is gone.

I pause, my mouse hovering over the new image and I swallow down a lump in my throat.

It’s Carys and Jules.

She’s mid-laugh and it looks like Jules is the one who took the picture.

My eyes take in every aspect of the photo—the way the light is hitting her hair, the shape of her lips, the crinkle in her nose. Rubbing my chest, I try to ease the longing I feel seeing her beautiful face. It feels like a lot longer than a month since I’ve seen her and there’s something different about her. The thought that she’s changed and that I missed it kills me.

I can’t quit staring at her and it might be a bit stalkerish, but I hover my mouse over the photo and right click, saving it to my computer.

Scrolling down the page a little further, hungry for any information about her, I notice where she’s changed her profile and it now says she’s the owner of the Blue Bayou with a hyperlink, which I immediately click.

There’s a new cover photo and albums. It’s completely revamped and it looks great—inviting, cozy, eclectic—everything the Blue Bayou is.

As I follow the website, I’m pleasantly surprised when I see the new design, so open and fresh, with a button for reservations. Instinctively, I click it and go to two days from now.

Booked.

Just for kicks, I plug in a bunch more dates and every one of them shows no vacancy.

Picking the journal back up, I flip through it again, wanting to re-read Carys’ entry before I try to call the hotel, and that’s when I see it. On the very last page is another note in Carys’ handwriting.

Grand Re-Opening

Blue Bayou Hotel

123 St. Ann, New Orleans, LA

July 6th

Come for a taste of the French Quarter.

Come back to the Blue Bayou

Without a second thought, I pick up my phone and hit redial.

“What’s up man? You already reconsidering?” Shep asks, obviously half asleep.

“Sorry if I woke your ass up, but I need you to pack a bag.”

“Where are we going?”

“Blue Bayou.”