Catching Fire (Hometown Heat 2)

“You’re very sweet,” he adds, his fingers tracing up and down my spine in a way that makes me shiver despite the heat.

“I’m not sure sweet is the word most people would use.”

He ponders that for a second. “Yeah, you’re right. You’re better than sweet. You’re honest, but kind.”

“Not always. I have a temper.”

“You do,” he agrees. “But it only comes out when you’re defending the people you care about.”

I narrow my eyes. “How do you know that?”

“I’ve been watching you, Miller.”

“Like a spy?” I tease.

“Like a fan, and I’ve become a big one. You’ve also forever changed the way I think about granny panties.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “You are so damned sexy in yours.”

“Hey,” I say, propping a hand on my hip. “They’re not granny panties. They’re briefs. Perfectly normal-sized briefs.”

“Granny briefs,” he says. “But like I said—big fan.”

I laugh. “Well, I’ll be sure to keep my other pairs clean so you can enjoy them all week long.”

He closes his eyes with a happy sigh. “Thank you. God, so much to look forward to.”

I laugh again, then kiss him again, then notice an older woman rolling her eyes at us as she walks by and whisper, “Are we going to be one of those couples who gross other people out?”

“Oh, I hope so. I hope they get really violently, jealously ill.” His eyes flash in that way that makes my heart flip. “Also, have I mentioned that I really like the word ‘couple’ when it applies to you and me?”

“Me too,” I say. “I never—” I’m cut off by the sound of my stomach growling loud enough to be heard over the burst of applause from the crowd gathered around the jugglers a dozen feet away. “Geez. Sorry.”

“No worries. Are you going to make it to dinner, or do we need emergency snacks?” he asks, threading his fingers through mine as we start across the square, taking in the elegant blue spires of St. Patrick’s Church reaching toward the blushing sky.

The sun sets later now than it did earlier in the winter, but it’s still going to be dark long before we arrive at the restaurant for our seven o’clock reservation.

After further investigation, it became clear that not only did Naomi intentionally book one hotel room for two nights to play cupid, she also made reservations at her favorite New Orleans restaurant, The House of the Four Brothers. The concierge slipped an envelope under our door with the details while we were asleep. Inside was the time and location of our dinner reservation, as well as a gift certificate for a nearby clothing store. Naomi thought of everything, even our clothing—or lack thereof.

At first, I balked at the idea of accepting any more of his sister’s generosity, but Mick insisted Naomi would be insulted if we rejected her gift.

So, with reluctance, I allowed myself to be coaxed into a black sundress from the store’s sale section, while he selected khakis and a blue button-down that makes his eyes look even more stunning than usual. Then we’d asked the shopkeeper to refund the rest of the money to Naomi’s credit card.

Honestly, I still feel weird about letting someone I barely know spend so much money on me, but Mick’s comment about letting Naomi do what gives her joy makes sense. If I were rich, I’d rather spoil the people I love with my money than use it all up myself. I’d rather make sure people I know who are struggling have groceries and nice Christmas presents for their kids than drive a fancy car or own a mansion.

Besides, it sounds like Naomi can afford to do both—spoil us and herself—so who am I to tell her she can’t treat her brother and his girlfriend after a brutal drive.

His girlfriend.

I’m Mick’s girlfriend—it’s still so weird, and awesome, that I kind of want to pinch myself every time he threads his fingers through mine.

“How about some peanuts?” He pauses in front of the cathedral, where food vendors, fortunetellers, and people selling crafts fight for space to spread out on the paving stones.

I shake my head. “I’m fine. I can make it until dinner.” I let my gaze drift over the colorful mix of people, my eyes lingering on an old woman with bronzed skin and a purple scarf knotted in her brown-and-gray-streaked hair. A deck of tarot cards rests on a battered trunk in front of her beside a sign that proclaims “Tarot Readings Here.”

I’ve never seen a fortuneteller in real life before, but that isn’t a big surprise. I haven’t seen much of anything, really. I went to Pensacola, Florida, once with my mom when I was little—long enough to fall head over heels in love with the ocean—and camping near Hilton Head half a dozen times with my cousins, but that’s the extent of my world travels.