I take Fiore to the French Quarter in the bright midday sun. The bodyguards are with us, but I make sure they stay back, out of our way. She clings to my hand as we make our way to a little patisserie that I like, walking on the sidewalk, under the balconies. Almost every place is a business, advertising by hanging heavy signs overhead.

Fiore is quick to point out the funny ones, especially the one that reads “Hotel Beaucoup — Haunted and Not Haunted Rooms Available”. She thinks the sign is funny, her lips lifting as she reads it aloud.

“Are the rumors of ghost hauntings true?” I ask.

She slides me a look. “It depends on whether you believe in them, I suppose. But I swear, I’ve been in the Lalaurie Mansion over on Royal Street and I’ve felt the presence of spirits. Oh, and don’t even get me started on that hotel on St. Louis Street… they used to have the slave market there.”

She shivers. I try not to roll my eyes. I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe in anything that isn’t concrete. But Fiore seems entertained by telling me about the various voodoo shops around town, so I just let her without comment.

“Wait,” she says, tugging my hand toward a doorway. The sign over our heads simply reads The Bakery. “This place makes the best beignets in the world.”

“Is that so?” I say, cocking a brow. “I’ve never tried one.”

Her eyes go wide. “What? Oh, you have to!”

She pulls me inside the tall wood and glass doors, insistent. As soon as I step inside, I’m nearly assaulted with the incredible scent of sweet fried dough. At one end of the cafe, there are customers standing behind a glass partition and watching the white-coated employees cut dough.

They throw it into a deep fryer, where it sizzles and pops, before dumping the beignets onto plates and dusting them with powdered sugar from a tin shaker. At the other end, the line of customers stretches to a cash register where people pay the receive fresh beignets.

Fiore pulls me into line, eagerly watching the employees work. I smile. “How many times have you seen this?”

She looks at me with a grin. “I used to come here after going to Mass every Sunday.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Catholic Mass?”

Her cheeks color. “Yes. My father insisted that the whole family go. Or at least, he did before my mother died.”

“I didn’t realize that you were religious.”

She shrugs. “I’m not, not particularly. I think that the only reason we even went was my mother. I think that having God looking over my mother’s shoulder was appealing to my father.”

I nod. The line moves quicker than I anticipated. I fish my wallet out of my slacks and pay the cashier for a steaming hot plate of fried dough and two coffees. I hand the two paper cups of coffee to Fiore and follow her to a little table.

It’s nice here, by the windows. Bright sunlight streams in, people walk by outside. At the table next to ours, a bunch of middle school aged girls giggles over their paper cups, sliding me secretive looks. Fiore sees me noticing the young women.

“Tempted?” she asks, taking a seat.

I huff a laugh. “I think not.”

One corner of her mouth crooks up in a smile. “Sure, you say that now. What will you say in a few years, though?”

She takes a beignet, cupping her hand underneath to catch the powdered sugar that falls off the top. She closes her eyes and takes a bite, letting out a mmmm of satisfaction. I feel as if I am being tested, even though she acts as if it doesn’t matter.

Reaching out, I grab her chair and pull her close. “Give me a bite of that.”

She opens her eyes and arches a brow, but she offers it to me. I take a bite, the sweetness hitting my tongue first, followed by the fatty deliciousness of the dough.

Swallowing, I sip my coffee.

“It’s pretty good,” I admit with a shrug. “And Fiore?”

She looks at me questioningly.

“A few years from now, I will still have my hands full with you, I think.” I give her a winning smile. She rolls her eyes, but I think that the little flush I see in her cheeks means that my comment didn’t go unheard.

She pushes the plate of beignets toward me. “Have another.”

I do, following the sweetness with more bitter black coffee. I think to myself that Fiore and I are very much like beignets and black coffee. She’s all sweetness, I’m strong and bitter.

We suit each other in a way that’s every bit as strange as sugary doughnuts and coffee.

“Now I’m in the mood to spend some money,” I say as we walk back outside. I look at her. “I want to see you in some expensive lingerie. Do you have any recommendations?”

She ducks her head, her cheeks glowing pink. “Maybe.”

“Lead the way,” I instruct.

We stroll and shop. There’s plenty to see, showcased in the windows of the shops on Royal Street and Decatur Street. Art galleries, jewelry shops, antique shops. I enjoy seeing her point at things in the shop windows, commenting on whether or not they are practical, or whether or not they would be a good purchase.

She does take me into a fine lingerie shop. I insist on watching her try on some corsets and garters. To the delight of the saleswoman, I insist on buying everything that Fiore touches.

After all, what is the point of having a lot of money if you don’t spend any of it?

We leave the shop, the bodyguards each carrying bags with the name of the boutique emblazoned on them. I follow Fiore as she continues window shopping, paying special interest when she stops before a pricy jeweler’s shop. Though she is merely browsing, I do notice that her eye catches on a beautiful rose gold and emerald ring.

Maybe she has more plans in mind than I know about. Or maybe, given her naiveté, she’s just glad to be out of the house for once. I purse my lips as I imagine Fiore wearing my ring.

Would that be the same as having her wear a collar? They are both the same shape, made of the same thing.

But one of them makes me the master, and the other makes me…

What? The husband? The partner?

My lips turn downward. “Let’s go get a drink. I’m tired of window shopping.”

“Sure,” Fiore says agreeably, grabbing my hand again. “Whatever you want.”

Whatever I want, indeed.

We head inside a place that I know, a cocktail bar named Tonique. Even though it’s sunny outside, it’s dark in here, making me squint for a minute as I step inside. The walls are painted black, the bar stools in ill repair, their red leather cracked. The place is small, just a horseshoe-shaped bar and two big chalkboards listing what the specials are.

There is no one here at the moment, just a lone bartender. The guy looks up from polishing glasses and nods to acknowledge us. I usher Fiore over to a seat, looking up at the specials listed on the menu board.

Fiore leans over to whisper in my ear. “I’m not old enough to order anything in here.”

I smirk. “You’ll be fine.”

I pull out a couple of hundreds from my wallet, sliding them across the bar as the bartender walks over. He looks at the money, raises a brow, and asks, “What can I get you two?”

I point to Fiore. “She’ll have a Ramos gin fizz. I’ll have a Vieux Carré.”

The bartender looks at Fiore. I can see in his face that he thinks she is too young to be drinking, but his eyes flit to the two bills I put down. He nods and turns away to begin making the drinks, no further questions asked.

He makes my Vieux Carré first, putting the finished product in a rocks glass. He then makes the gin fizz, which takes a considerably longer amount of time. When he finishes and pours the frothy confection on a highball glass, he presents it to us.

Fiore’s eyes widen as she takes in the drink before her. “What is it?”

“Gin, orange blossom, lemon juice, cream, a whole egg—”

“An egg?” she repeats, screwing up her face.

“Just try it,” I say, pushing her glass toward her. “You’ll like it.”

She grabs the straw and takes a hesitant sip, smiling as soon as the foam hits her mouth. “It’s good!”

I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t order you something that you wouldn’t like.”

I sip my cocktail, savoring the rye whiskey and cognac. Fiore takes another sip, then looks at my drink. “What’s in yours?”

“Rye whiskey, cognac, some other things. They make the best one I’ve ever had here.”

“Here, like New Orleans?” she asks.

I smile. “No, here like this particular bar.”

“Oh.” She looks around, wrinkling her nose up. “It isn’t much to look at, honestly.”

I cock my head at her. “When you are old enough to start appreciating cocktail bars, you’ll realize what a treasure this place is. That I promise you.”

She drains her drink. “Can I have another one?”

I give a huff of laughter. “Sure. But do me a favor. Take it easy on this one. There is enough gin in those to get you properly drunk if you down them fast enough.

Her cheeks flush. “Okay. I wouldn’t even realize that they have gin in them, if not for the name.”

“Can she get another?” I say to the bartender.

I see her gaze wander again. Snaking out an arm, I pull her chair closer to mine. She smiles when I put my arm around her.

“This is nice,” she says, laying her head down on my arm.

“What was your favorite part?” I ask.

She purses her lips, thinking. “Mmm…. I don’t know. Maybe getting to force your first beignet on you?”

While the dour, cynical part of me expected her to say that her favorite was the lingerie shop, the secret, lighter side of me rejoices at her answer. So simple, so uncomplicated.

Could she really be as extraordinary as the image I’m slowly building in my head?

Sure not.

And yet, she says stuff like this.

Fiore gets her second drink from the bartender and sips it slowly, obviously enjoying herself. For the first time I can ever recall, I suddenly find myself wondering what someone other than myself feels.

I look at her pink cheeks and sparkling blue eyes, at her blonde hair and small stature, and I wonder if she has feelings for me.

“This part is pretty good too,” she says, unbidden. She glances at me, a sly grin on her face. “It’s good to spend time with you when you’re not working. I like you like this, all relaxed. You should be this person more often.”

“Would you fall in love with me if I were more relaxed?” I tease.

She goes as red as a beet, stammering her answer. “I… I don’t know…”

My smile widens to a grin. “You feel something for me. I know you do.”

She looks away, toying with the straw in her drink. “Maybe.”

“Maybe what?”

She shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t know. Half the time I hate you. Half the time…”

“You what? You love me?” I ask, surprised.

“No!” she protests. Then she takes a deep breath. “I don’t know what I even feel the rest of the time. All I know is that I don’t want you to be gone for too long. I… I start to miss you, you know?”

I sip my drink, enjoying her bashfulness. She is surprising, my Fiore. I pull her closer, enjoying this moment. She leans her head against my chest and I know a moment of happiness.