Chapter Ten

Upside #10: The only ghost in your life is the memory of having to pick up someone else’s dirty socks.

It was dark. Luckily it wasn’t cold, but the dark was enough for me. The only good thing about this stupid-ass tour was the fact I got two free cocktails for my troubles.

And, apparently, there was a bar stop halfway through.

God bless New Orleans law that let me drink on the street.

Jake nudged my elbow with his as we followed our group, hanging a little to the back. “She seems fierce,” he said, nodding in the direction of our tour guide.

That was one word for her. The second she’d stepped in front of our group and smashed her cane against the ground, she’d gained our full attention. And, not that Jake wanted to admit it, but she’d got a hint of fear out of us all, too.

That, and her name was Mistress Stella.

I was more afraid of her than the potential ghosts—and how I kept staring at Jake’s arms in his black polo shirt.

It was easier than you’d think in the dim street lights.

That, or I was looking too damn hard.

“Mellie? Are you paying attention?”

I blinked at him. “As a rule, probably not.”

The fall-out from the craziness of Friday night hadn’t been too bad, but it’d just been a busy day all around. Except for the meeting, I hadn’t even seen Jake until he turned up on my doorstep half an hour early.

At least, this time, I’d already had my bra on.

Progress.

“I said she seems fierce.” He nodded once again over to Stella. “She looks like she could whip some ass with that cane of hers.”

“I might buy one for work. That might make the review process a little more intimidating.”

He peered down at me, lifting his cup to his mouth. “You’re about as intimidating as a newborn kitten. No offense.”

“They have claws, you know.”

He took my hand in his and looked at my nails. “Yeah, ouch. I can see how they’d hurt a guy.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but at that moment, Stella stopped and knocked her cane against the sidewalk. We were standing on the corner of a small sidewalk right next to St. Louis Cathedral, and when I looked at the building she was about to tell us about, my eyebrows rose.

I knew this story.

“Legend,” Stella said, “of the Octoroon Mistress.”

Nobody said a word.

“What’s an octoroon?” Jake muttered in my ear.

Not quietly enough.

“Excellent question.” Stella brandished her cane in his direction, and he stood bolt upright.

I bit the inside of my cheek.

“Octoroon was the term used in the eighteen-hundreds for people who were one-eighth black and the rest white. Now, it was forbidden for these people to pursue a relationship with the elite creoles who inhabited the city, but the gentlemen were often attracted to the young ladies because they were beautiful.” She swung her cane up onto her shoulder. “In the house behind us,” she motioned with her hand toward it, “Lived a young octoroon lady we know as Julie. She was in love with a wealthy Frenchman, and while they lived together, she was not to be seen or heard by his equally wealthy friends.”

“Sounds like a bastard,” Jake muttered to me.

“For months she begged him to marry her, but he refused. Their social standing was different. He couldn’t marry her, until one day, he devised a test.” She paced back and forth a few times. “He was going to play a card game downstairs with some friends, and he told Julie that while he was entertaining his friends, she was to strip off her clothing and wait for him on the roof.”

Jake’s eyebrows shot up.

“Did she do it?” someone in the group asked.

Stella bobbed her head, her bright-blonde curls bouncing with the movement. “She did. It was cold and damp in December, but she was desperate to prove she loved him. When her lover went to bed hours later, he didn’t possibly think she would be on the roof, but she wasn’t in bed.”

A couple of people gasped.

“When he reached the roof, he found her naked and frozen in the corner; her dead body curled up as she was still waiting for him.”

“Well, shit,” Jake said under his breath.

I peered over at him. Never had I seen a grown man so interested in anything except football or porn.

“What an asshole!” someone said.

Stella nodded their way in apparent agreement. “Now, he had grown to care for Julie and truly loved her. The story says he fell into a deep depression and some say he died of a broken heart several months later.”

“He deserved that,” someone else said.

“If you look on the roof on the right night, you can see Julie’s ghost, still naked, walking back and forth across the edge of the roof, waiting for her lover.” She paused. “Her ghost is so real, the police department have received calls about her. They used to come to check it at first, but now, when they hear the address, they tell the caller they’ll get there as soon as they can. They don’t come because they know the naked lady in Royal Street is none other than Julie.”

She stopped talking, leaving our entire group in silence with only the echoes of the Quarter and surrounding streets as a background noise. Then, “Any questions?”

There were questions.

“Is that true? The ghost thing?” Jake leaned into me, moving out of the way so someone could walk behind him.

“Depends on who you ask. Some people are real certain they’ve seen her, but others think it’s just another story. The city is full of them. It can be hard to tell which ones are true and which ones are just for attention,” I replied.

“Have you seen her?”

I shook my head. “Chloe claims she thinks she saw someone on the roof.”

“Do you believe her?”

“Sure. I mean, I think you have to be looking for it to see it. I’ve grown up with the stories my whole life, so I just accept them as true. Some of the things my grandma used to tell me were terrifying.”

“Like what?”

Stella interrupted our conversation to tell us to move on to the next stop on the tour.

I turned, but there was no grip on my flats, and I slipped on a damp cobblestone. I squealed. Jake grabbed hold of me with one arm, wrapping it tightly around my waist so I didn’t go ass down onto the street.

“I’m starting to think you’re a walking liability,” he murmured, lips way too close to my ear for my liking. “And I really, really need to invest in that bubble wrap.”

I coughed, blushing, and wriggled my way out of his grasp. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Thank you. It’s wet.”

He raised an eyebrow at me.

“The stone. The stone was wet.” I cleared my throat. “We should catch up.”

He held out his arm. “Fine, but you’re holding my arm. I don’t want to be responsible for you getting into a fight with the sidewalk.”

I glanced down at the muscled arm he was offering me. I couldn’t take that. I’d be distracted by the bicep all night.

“Mellie. Hurry up, or we’ll lose the group.”

Looking forward told me he was right—they were almost out of sight.

Against my better judgment, I looped my hand into the crook of his elbow and held onto him. He rested his arm against his body, tucking my hand right against him and almost trapping it in place.

I tried to focus on not falling on the cobblestones. Really, I did, but it wasn’t my fault that heat slowly trickled across my skin from where my fingers were resting on his arm. It wasn’t my fault that heat carried a bolt of electricity that almost made me feel like I was on fire, like all the hairs on my body were now standing to attention in shock.

It wasn’t my fault that the way my arm kept bumping his meant that eye contact was out of the question.

And it definitely wasn’t my fault that this new, close proximity to hard, defined upper arms combined with the hint of rich aftershave and mint made my heart beat a little bit faster.

I was in the middle of New Orleans, and the only scent I could truly focus on was him.

Lavender on his shirt.

Mint on his breath.

The woody, musky aftershave on his neck.

I couldn’t focus a bit on the next story Stella told us. All I could do was make sure I was looking anywhere other than at Jake, because this schoolgirl crush I had going on was a little more than just that.

In the middle of the French Quarter, I admitted something to myself.

I was wildly attracted to Jacob Creed.

I was wildly attracted to my boss. To the man who literally had control over a part of my life. To a man who’d seen my boobs and declared them lovely.

Who looked at my signature clumsiness with nothing more than amusement—not annoyance, like so many other people had and would do.

A man who held doors for me, bought me dinner, and refused to let me walk on cobblestones without taking his arm.

All right, so the last was for my own safety—and probably that of others, too, let’s be honest—but still.

He was a gentleman.

He’s also your boss, you daydreaming moron.

Ah, damn the smart, rational part of my mind.

I shook off that line of thought before I got so far down it I’d drown and not come back for any kind of air. I was definitely in trouble if I didn’t get myself under control.

We moved to the next place on the tour, the Lalaurie Mansion. Even Jake had to have heard of this one. I didn’t know many tourists who came here who didn’t know.

“What happened here?” he asked, dipping his head as Stella introduced the building to us and everyone but him seemed to know it.

“You know nothing about this city, do you?”

“I tried to tell you…”

I sighed. “Haven’t you ever watched American Horror Story? The third season is based on witchcraft and covens here.”

He simply turned his head and blinked at me.

I blinked back.

Man. Our faces were close together.

I cleared my throat and looked away.

“Madame Delphine LaLaurie. LaLaurie Mansion.” Stella smacked her lips together and adjusted her tan hat. “It’s claimed this house is the most haunted in North America.”

The street lights flickered above us, and I rolled my eyes. Great timing.

“Born Marie Delphine Macarty…”

I trailed off my attention as Stella began the backstory of one of the most notorious women in the city’s history. This was the reason I hadn’t wanted to come on the tour—not because New Orleans wasn’t fascinating, but because I knew all this and more.

Instead of listening, I ran my gaze across the huge house on the corner. One of the windows was boarded up, and the cast iron railings that wrapped around the first-floor balcony was decorated with a handful of flower boxes. The orange flowers and greenery trailed over the sides of the boxes, swaying in the gentle breeze.

I tucked my hair behind my ear. I’d heard it all before, from the young slave girl who supposedly fell off the roof after being whipped by Madame LaLaurie to the fire that broke out and revealed the torture of numerous slaves.

Apparently, though, Jake really hadn’t. He watched, mesmerized, as Stella dramatized everything with the inflections in her voice and the odd hand gesture. She stuck to the classic story, none of the embellishment of fiction or Hollywood.

I liked that.

It was more authentic that way.

And I could barely stop looking at Jake. There was something…endearing, about his interest. About how his gray eyes flickered almost silver in the dim lights on the quieter street. How his jaw twitched and his lips curved down when the story got gruesome.

How he felt standing next to me…

“I’m starting to rethink moving here,” he murmured, still staring at the mansion.

I looked up at Jake and quietly laughed. “Don’t worry. Nobody skins anyone alive here now. At least, not that I know of.”

He jerked his head around and stared at me.

“Any questions?” Stella asked, scanning the group.

“Yes,” Jake answered. “Is it time to stop for a beer yet?”

Stella grinned. “You have fifteen minutes. The bar is right there.” She pointed to the building a few feet away from us.

“Perfect.”