Remington (The Theriot Family 1)

I sent him up ahead of me simply because I wanted to watch his round ass in his perfectly fitted pants. That was a mistake. I immediately started contemplating whether we could find a quiet corner where I could do some of the filthy things I was thinking about with him.

That was a risk I couldn’t take. I had big plans for the Landrys and their allies, which meant I needed to keep a low profile with law enforcement. I couldn’t run the risk of getting arrested for public sex. Maybe another time we could come back and I could indulge—

I stopped myself before I completed the thought. He was only mine for two weeks. I could always bring someone else here, but that held no appeal. Henri understood the call of this place. It wouldn’t be any fun to debauch someone here who’d just as soon hook up in a club bathroom.

I led Henri to the history section, and after much perusal he chose a book about New Orleans at the start of the twentieth century. I found a beautiful collection of photographs of historic homes in rural south Louisiana. I paid for the books, and we continued down Decatur Street.

Henri stopped suddenly in front of an antiques shop that had a silver tea set surrounded by lots of smaller silver pieces in a window display. “These are gorgeous.”

The shop was filled with all kinds of things that might be located an estate sale, and I could tell he was intrigued. “Would you like to go in?”

“I would enjoy that, but if you—”

“I’m here to show you the city. Let’s explore.”

I insisted on purchasing Henri a tea set and some candlesticks he clearly longed for. Once our items were wrapped up, we continued exploring the Quarter. I took him into a voodoo shop that was run by authentic practitioners unlike most of the more touristy shops.

When it was lunchtime, I brought him to a little café that, in my opinion, had the best muffalettas in town.

He seemed as impressed with them as I was. We lingered over lunch, sharing a praline sundae and doing plenty of people watching. During the rest of the afternoon, I took him into Jackson Cathedral, bought him a sketch from one of the street artists in Jackson Square, and gave him a tour of the World War II museum.

I enjoyed everything we experienced, but none of it compared to curling up with him in my favorite chair when we got home. Just spending time being close to him made me as happy as the hottest sex I’d had with other men.

Lounging at home with Henri felt so domestic. Other than exercising my skills in the kitchen, that wasn’t like me. Henri was bringing out parts of me I’d pushed aside. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d enjoyed a day more. It might not have happened since the Christmases of my childhood or during carefree summer days my family spent at a beach resort along the Mississippi coast.

As the day had begun, it had taken me a while to stop reaching for my phone, wanting to check in with my brothers and cousins, worrying that things were falling apart without me. I had to keep telling myself it was just one day, and they could handle things, but the more time I spent with Henri, seeing the city through his eyes, the more I fell under his spell and forgot about all the responsibilities that weighed on me.

When it came time for dinner, I considered our options. “I could take you out anywhere you want,” I told him, “or I could order food, turn on the heaters on the balcony, and we could sit out there and eat, just the two of us.”

16

Henri

I didn’t have to think about my answer for even a second. “I like the second choice. The balcony sounds perfect.”

“Then I’ll order dinner, and we’ll find a bottle of wine and enjoy the evening.”

I wanted to tell him that no matter where we went, I would enjoy the evening as long as I was with him, but would he know I was being sincere? And if he did, would he like it?

As we sat on the balcony, enjoying the best etouffee I’d ever had and an amazing king cake Remy had ordered from his favorite bakery, I knew without a doubt I was falling for him. Leaving him was going to break my heart.

Remington offered me the last petit four from our dessert tray. As I savored it, he said, “Tell me what happened that brought you to New Orleans.”

“You want to know more about how I ended up selling myself?”

He shook his head. “Financial desperation did that. I want to know what happened that made you stop reading thrillers.”

I hadn’t told anyone the whole story, but for some reason, I wanted to tell him. “I grew up in Birmingham. My dad skipped out on us when I was a toddler. I don’t remember him, and I’ve never tried to find him. My mom was a nurse, and she was amazing, both at her job and at taking care of me. I never doubted how much she loved me. We weren’t well off, but we had enough. I was always quiet. I preferred reading or just being in my imagination to hanging out with groups of kids, so I didn’t have a lot of friends. When people bullied me, my mom showed up at school and didn’t leave until the situation was resolved to her satisfaction.”