Easy Melody (Boudreaux 3)

Let’s face it, I’m itching to get my hands on Declan’s house. And it has nothing to do with the man himself, and everything to do with the magnificence of this space.

Okay, it has a little to do with Declan.

My shower is quick. I don’t have to wash my hair, thank God, because that’s a project. I examine my skin, and grin when I see fingerprint bruises on my thighs, where he held my legs up so he could feast on me for what felt like an hour.

The man has mad oral skills.

Then again, so do I, and he hasn’t given me much of an opportunity to show those off yet. That’s going on today’s agenda.

I smile as I finish drying off, hang the towel, and walk out of the bathroom to find Declan sitting on the bed, a tray before him, and the remote to the television in his hand.

“You look all soft and pink and… happy,” he says, tilting his head to the side as he takes me in.

“I’m all of those things,” I reply and climb on the bed to sit next to him, my back against the headboard. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Cereal,” he says proudly, gesturing to the Fruity Pebbles and a carafe of milk on the tray. “And coffee.”

“Yum.” Is it possible that we both love kids' cereal for breakfast? Because if so, I’m marrying him right now.

If I planned to get married, that is. Which I don’t.

“Are you just humoring me?” he asks as he engages Netflix on the TV.

“Nope, I love this stuff.” I pour myself a heaping bowl and settle back to munch. “Is this your favorite?”

“One of them.” He takes a bite and flips through movies. “My very favorite is Cap’n Crunch.”

“That stuff will tear the roof of your mouth up.”

“And yet it’s so delicious, we eat it anyway.”

I nod. “Oh! That one!”

“It’s a chick flick,” he says, moaning in agony. “Are you going to make me watch it? What about Pulp Fiction?”

“Never seen it,” I reply. “I want the romance.”

He blinks, sizing me up. “If you watch Pulp Fiction, I’ll watch your girlie movie.”

“Deal. Mine first.” I pour more cereal and settle in next to Declan as the opening credits begin. “This is nice.”

“Cereal and Netflix?”

“Yeah.”

He smiles and nods, kisses my forehead and opens his mouth, waiting for a bite of mine. I spoon some into his mouth. “Yours is better than mine.”

“It’s the same as yours.”

“Better,” he says with a shake of his head.

***

“Are you sure about this?” I ask him the next afternoon as we drive out of the city toward the Bayou. Declan decided this morning that I was going with him to have dinner with the family. I’ve discovered that once Declan gets his mind set on something, talking him out of it is futile.

I admit, I’m curious to meet his family. I mean, it’s not really that big of a deal. There will probably be a few other people there, and I can hold a conversation with just about anyone.

“I’m sure,” he replies lazily and lifts my hand to his lips. “They’re not scary.”

“I’m not scared,” I reply. Much. “It’s just a bit early to introduce me to your family, don’t you think?”

He slides his gaze over to mine, cocks a brow, then returns his attention to traffic. “What do you think?”

“I guess you wouldn’t have invited me if you didn’t think it was a good idea.”

“Exactly. You know me well enough by now to know that I rarely do anything I don’t want to,” he says and kisses my hand again. “Have you been out here before?”

“No.” I shake my head and gaze out at the trees, the swamps. “It’s so different out here.”

“You grew up here and never took a trip out to the Bayou?”

“That’s right.” I wrinkle my nose. “Are there ‘gators out there?”

“Most likely,” he says. “I promise not to toss you in with the ‘gators.”

“Gee, thanks.”

We settle into a comfortable silence, listening to satellite radio. We sing along to songs we know, and Declan shares stories about some of the musicians he’s met.

“So you used to do studio work in Memphis?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He nods. “Still do, sometimes.”

“That’s awesome, Declan.”

“I prefer to perform live.” He turns off the main road and points to his left. “There’s the inn.”

“Wow.” I’ve never seen anything like it. It looks like something out of a fairy tale. Huge oak trees form a line with a brick path between them toward a large, two-story mansion with a deep front porch and a welcoming red door. “You grew up here?”

“In the summers,” he confirms. “We stayed in the city during the school year. My youngest sister, Gabby, made it into an inn about four years ago.”

“It’s beautiful,” I murmur as he pulls in to the driveway leading to the house. There are other buildings on the property, and from what I can see, gardens bursting with a riot of color. But it’s the trees that have me transfixed. “These trees have to be hundreds of years old.” To say they’re massive is an understatement. They more than dwarf the house, and several of the long limbs are so heavy they rest on the ground.

“That they are,” he replies with a smile, parks next to a row of cars that I assume are guests of the inn, and turns me to face him. “If at any time you’re uncomfortable, or if you just want to leave, you say so and we’ll go.”