Devil's Food at Dusk

by Anna Martin

  Of course. Whenever Remy or Andre made their devil’s food cake, they always made a little alcohol-free version in a ramekin for Stella—with extra frosting, of course. Their little adopted niece had them well trained. She’d probably smelled it from upstairs. “Let’s go ask your momma if you can have it now or if she wants to wait until after lunch.”

  Remy pulled Stella up into his arms and charged into the kitchen like a bull with a giggling little girl hanging on to his neck. Stella’s mother Magnolia was standing by the outside door. Remy couldn’t help but grin. Magnolia was tiny, fair, and dark-haired, a carbon copy of her little daughter. She looked healthy and happy, her hair was tied up in a huge topknot with dark curls escaping, and she wore yoga clothes. Just as much as anyone else he was actually related to, Magnolia was family. Even if it wasn’t official. He loved her like a second little sister.

  Magnolia and her baby daughter had been renting the apartment above Lumiere since she’d shown up at the café one night in the middle of a massive rainstorm. Magnolia had been hugely pregnant with Stella at the time, and cowering soaking wet in the corner of Lumiere’s kitchen with a massive swollen black eye. She’d left her boyfriend back in some small town outside of Mobile and literally driven until she’d run out of cash and gas. She’d begged them for a night’s work doing dishes, but ended up living above the restaurant instead. Remy didn’t think she could’ve landed in a better place.

  “Hey, sugarbear,” she drawled when she saw Stella in Remy’s arms. “I see you’re conning your uncle into cake again.”

  “Always.” Remy laughed. “Is it okay if she has some?”

  “Just a little piece. We have to get to the studio.” Magnolia always brought Stella with her when she taught yoga at a studio a couple of blocks away. Stella was happy with some crayons, a pad of paper, and her dolls until Magnolia was finished. Remy knew she wanted to open her own place someday, but it would be a while before she had the money.

  Remy deposited Stella on her favorite stool and ruffled her dark chocolatey curls. “One small piece of cake coming right up.”

  Stella motored through her cake while Remy and Magnolia chatted over a cup of coffee. He or Andre usually sent her off with a muffin or an egg sandwich to start her day at the studio. Speaking of…. Remy glanced over at his brother. Poor Andre. He stared at Magnolia, like he’d been staring at her since he was nineteen years old, with big, sad puppy eyes.

  Just talk to her, you idiot.

  “Hey, Andre. You making Mags her sandwich today?” Andre nodded from the workspace where he’d all of a sudden been cutting his vegetables very carefully. Remy watched Magnolia’s face melt an increment at a time into a soft puddle of fondness as she watched his dumb brother. Jesus. Remy bit his lip to keep from laughing at the two of them.

  “Y-yes. Sure. What do you want in it?”

  “Can I have egg and tomato?” she asked.

  “Green onions?” Of course Andre knew exactly how Magnolia liked her eggs. Remy had no idea why he bothered asking.

  “That sounds perfect.”

  Instead of actually talking to her, Andre cracked eggs into his skillet and sprinkled in green onions and seasonings. Remy rolled his eyes.

  * * *

  It had been the day from hell. Hell. Picky customers, crowds, hot kitchen kind of hell. Topped off with a health inspection notice. They’d never failed one, not even close. But it still wasn’t the news he wanted to end his day with. Especially knowing what he had coming in the morning. Fucking Pineapple Joe’s. Remy would die before he saw his family’s legacy turned into some Mardi Gras playground with cheap plastic beads and busty waitresses in short shorts and themed shirts dancing around on the bar. Remy groaned and bit his lip. Tomorrow. Tomorrow was another day. Right then, he needed drinks. A lot of them.

  “Hey, Remy, we’re over here!” Remy saw his two oldest friends in the corner of the dark bar. They had a beer waiting for him like the amazing friends they were. Remy greeted them with hugs and thumps on the back.

  “You guys are fucking awesome. You have no idea how much I needed this after today.”

  “Long day?” Bryce rubbed the top of Remy’s head and pulled his hair out of the bun it had been in since that morning.

  “Hey,” Remy said with a laugh, batting at Bryce’s hands. They’d met in third grade, when Bryce’s family had moved from up north. Remy was more than thankful that Bryce’s dad had decided to stay. “Don’t mess with the hair. And yes. I was about to kill all our customers.”

  “Maybe you should sell out. Take a vacation,” Shawn drawled. Shawn had been around nearly as long as Bryce. He was sarcastic and flirty, and when Remy had come out to the two of them in eighth grade, he’d answered with a casual “sweet, me too.”

  Bryce punched Shawn in the arm. “I thought we weren’t talking about that.”

  Remy shrugged. “It’s cool. It’s not gonna happen, so really, doesn’t bother me to talk about it. Not much to say anyway. I’m going to send that outsider packing. No offense, B.”

  “Fuck, Remy. I moved here when I was eight.”

  Remy grinned. “You’re still a Yank. We love you anyway.”

  Things got rowdy after a few beers, just like they usually did. Remy felt numb, and he’d definitely done his best to forget about the meeting in the morning. The bar had filled up, locals mixed in with tourists who didn’t want to suffer through any of the tourist trap bars and overpriced cafés right on Bourbon. He was about ready to call it a night and go home to pass out when he saw him.

  Damn.

  Remy felt the stranger’s presence all the way in the pit of his stomach. The guy wasn’t Remy’s type. Not at all. He was too clean-cut, too preppy. Looked like he’d probably stepped out of a suit before putting on his perfectly pressed designer jeans and that thin, tight T-shirt. But he was sitting at the bar alone, and there was just something about him.

  “Aw, dude. Rem’s got his face on. Get it.” Bryce laughed and made a low howling sound.

  “Fuck off.” Bryce wasn’t wrong, though. “I’ll see you guys later.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Shawn muttered. “See ya later.”

  Remy made his way through the crowd to the guy at the bar. Best way ever to get the impending morning out of his mind for a few more hours.

  “Hey,” he said. He slid onto the empty stool next to mister tall, sandy-haired, and handsome. He was a little slick for Remy’s taste—short hair, perfect shave—but he had the biggest blue eyes Remy had ever seen with long dark blond lashes. Awesome lips too. And dimples.

  “Hi.” He turned around. “I didn’t know you were talking to me.”

  “You aren’t from around here, are you?” His accent was nondescript. Hard for Remy to place.

  “No. Just here for a little while. I like it, though.”

  Tourist. Remy had a long and legendary history of showing gorgeous tourists a good time.

  “Just to be clear. I am hitting on you. You okay with that?” They weren’t in a gay bar, but Remy thought he was right about certain things.

  The pretty stranger grinned. “Yeah. Very okay with that. I’m Joe.”

  “Remy.” Instead of shaking his hand, he pulled a trick from the Southern gentleman’s handbook and brushed his lips over Joe’s knuckles.

  “I like that. Remy. It’s unique.”

  “So how hard am I going to have to work here?” Remy said. He was a little too drunk for finesse.

  “Not very.” Joe grinned. He leaned forward and nipped at Remy’s bottom lip. Good. Easy and hot. That’s exactly what he needed.

  “How close is your place?” he asked. He wasn’t bringing a one-night stand home to his family. He never had, and he wasn’t planning to start anytime soon.

  “Two blocks? Not far.” Joe shrugged. His shoulders were broad under his thin T-shirt. Remy was looking forward to seeing them without it. Maybe taking a bite or two.

  “Good.”

  * * *

  It was a long two blocks ba
ck to Hot Joe the Tourist’s place. He told Remy he’d rented an apartment in a building that turned out to be not too far from Lumiere. It was a little bit of world’s colliding. Remy hoped he didn’t see Joe at his cafe for brunch in the morning. Talk about awkward. He’d had a few boyfriends, but one-night stands that turned into more than one night? Not a good idea.

  It was a weeknight, but the streets were still scattered with people. General celebration never truly died down in the French Quarter, except on Ash Wednesday when the city was silent and somber and gray.

  “This is me,” Joe said. He pointed at a doorway in a coral-colored building with white trim and a lot of wrought iron.

  “Nice location.”

  Joe simply nodded. He unlocked the front door and pulled Remy up the stairs to the second floor. There were only two doors for the entire floor. Joe clearly didn’t cut corners with his vacation digs.

  “Nice,” Remy said when they walked in. He couldn’t believe just how nice it was. He didn’t get out of town all that often, but when he did, he never rented a place like the one Joe had. It was half an entire floor of a building, and even though the apartment was currently only lit by one small lamp, it was obviously enormous.

  “Yeah, I’m going to be here a bit. Didn’t want to get cramped in a tiny hotel room with no kitchen. But you don’t care about that, do you?”

  Remy chuckled. He liked the way this guy thought. “No. I don’t.”

  Joe tangled their fingers together and tugged him toward the bed. “Then come over here. It’s the best part.”

  After that things got a little blurry—the hot, sexy kind of blurry. Remy’d had quite a few beers, and Shawn had bought him at least three sympathy shots, but he hadn’t noticed how much they’d gone to his head. Joe backed him up into the bed and kissed him. Remy liked how soft and full his lips were, how they tasted a little bit like whiskey. He slid his hands underneath Joe’s shirt and pulled it up and over his head. The skin underneath was just as soft as the thin, expensive T-shirt had been. It was fair and smooth, muscled, but the kind of pretty-boy muscles that came from a gym, not from hauling crates of produce around and running a kitchen.

  The rest of him was just as nice. Remy pulled and tugged until they were both naked and sprawled on Joe’s luxurious bed. He didn’t know if he’d ever felt sheets so soft before. The combination of them with Joe’s skin, smooth and warm and springy to the touch, was everything Remy needed that night to forget the shitstorm that waited for him come morning.

  “How do you want this?” Joe asked.

  Remy figured neither one of them were especially in the mood for finesse. “I’m good with either. Your choice.”

  Joe grinned. “I like how that sounds.”

  After that there wasn’t much talking. Just skin and sweat and fingers and then Joe sliding into him hot and thick. Remy grunted at the fullness. It was exactly what he wanted.

  “Fuck.” He scraped his fingernails down Joe’s back.

  “Yeah,” Joe rasped. “I think that’s a perfect idea.”

  Remy hadn’t felt so full in months. Joe might be one hot night soon to be forgotten, but he fit Remy perfectly, all the way down to the last groaning moment.

  They fell apart, panting into the air-conditioned night. Remy lay still for a few minutes, then started to sit up and get dressed, but Joe put a hand on his arm. “You can stay. I’d like it.”

  “Yeah?” That wasn’t typical protocol for the bar hookup. Remy didn’t mind, though. “You’re not, like, a serial killer, are you?”

  Joe laughed. “Not that I know of. I’ll let you know if I get any of those urges in the middle of the night.”

  “’Kay.” Remy was sleepy, and he’d probably wake his grandmother, let alone Grace, if he slipped into the house right now. The last thing he needed was either one of them on his case about where he’d been. Remy fell back against the pillow and passed out.

  Joe Fitzgerald wasn’t hungover. He hadn’t had enough to drink the night before to even come close. But he was hot already, and sore, and he had a headache like he’d had too much to drink, so maybe he was hungover. However that had happened. He rolled over and flopped his arm across rumpled sheets. He smiled. At least he’d had a good welcome to the city of eternal hot-and-swampy. Joe looked around for a phone number, but he didn’t see one. Probably best that way. He had work to concentrate on. Didn’t have time for gorgeous hipstery types with big, dark eyes and long, sexy hair to pull. Still, it was damn hot. Not gonna lie.

  He got up and dragged his sore ass to the shower. He should’ve known better than to stay up half the night fucking before an important meeting. It was worth it, though. Who knew when he’d have time for another night like that after the deal got rolling. He shampooed his hair and got dressed in business causal—J. Crew slacks and a black Banana Republic polo because they were cut to fit him perfectly. Wouldn’t want to intimidate the property owners with a three-piece suit. Besides, if the previous afternoon was anything to judge by, he’d be walking out into a veritable hot tub anyway. No point in ruining a two thousand dollar suit by sweating all over it if he didn’t have to.

  He stepped outside his building to exactly what he’d expected. A hot wall of humidity. It made it hard to draw a breath, and when he did Joe didn’t exactly like what he encountered. Unlike the fresh, salty air of Venice Beach, threaded with waffle cones and sunscreen and car exhaust, it smelled like… weird. Some odd mix of old and stagnant, alcohol and seasonings, and some tang far too pungent for him. Joe made a face and looked up and down his block. He would kill for some caffeine.

  “What are the chances there’s gonna be a Starbucks around here?” he muttered.

  It turned out the answer was that chances weren’t good. And he was going to be late if he kept looking for somewhere, anywhere, that served some decent coffee. Instead, he got out his phone’s GPS and plunked in the address for Lumiere. He knew it wasn’t far. He just had to get there before his skin steamed right off.

  Good thing the French Quarter was tiny compared to the urban sprawl of Los Angeles or even Atlanta. He was still sweating by the time he got there—pitting in his damn polo probably. At least it was black. Joe liked to feel ready for meetings. Not flustered and hot and in desperate need of coffee.

  There were three men in the darkened dining room, two facing him, the other sitting with his back to the door, waiting for Joe amid antique Southern charm and dim, scattered lights. He had to say he understood the appeal of Lumiere as it stood. To a point. Didn’t matter. Joe had work to do.

  “Good morning, I’m Joe Fitzgerald. From Pineapple Joe’s.”

  * * *

  All three stood and pushed their chairs away from the table. The one facing the back wall turned and fuck, fuck of fucking course. Remy. From last night. Remy, whose eyes were no longer sleepy and fucked out but laser-sharp and angry. Fantastic. Joe cocked his head to the side and gave Remy an ironic smile.

  “Ready to get started?”

  Chapter Two

  They weren’t ready to get started. Joe had forgotten where he was—in the land of coffee and chitchat for five hundred fucking years before anything of interest ever got accomplished. How many ways could he be reminded that he hated the South? Yeah. A lot.

  “Welcome,” Tom Babineaux said. He, at least, looked polite. Remy didn’t. Joe couldn’t believe the difference between the Remy from the night before, all soft and sexy, and the Remy standing in front of him practically oozing hostility. Tom proceeded to introduce Remy and the younger son, Andre, to Joe. Awkwardly.

  “Joe from Pineapple Joe’s. How precious.” Remy rolled his eyes.

  “My name is probably what got me the job, to be honest,” Joe said. He tried to keep it light and friendly by smiling. Remy didn't go for it. The look he gave Joe was hot enough to melt glass—and not in the good way. Not in the last night way. Joe’s neck heated. He forced himself to maintain a neutral expression. How, how could the one man in the entire city he picked to
take home happen to be the one who’d been giving him the cold shoulder over mail and e-mail for months? Of course it would be Joe’s luck. And any chance he had of sweet-talking these people into making a deal that he’d be able to take back to corporate was probably gone too.

  Remy probably thought Joe had gone to the bar to “meet” him on purpose. Hell, it’s what he would’ve thought, what he would’ve done, if he’d actually planned it well enough. Doubt he’d be able to convince Remy of that, though.

  The three Babineaux men looked alike, amusingly so. They all had the same olive skin, long elegant nose, big dark eyes, and strong jawlines, as well as heavy, straight eyebrows that made them look sexy and mysterious, and those long, thick lashes. Joe remembered watching those lashes fall against Remy’s cheeks when he came, how he’d closed his eyes and moaned.

  Stop it. As if he needed his hormones to make this situation any worse.

  Each man wore his hair differently. Tom, the father, was graying at the temples and kept his hair only long enough to wave a bit, and Andre’s curled out of a tiny stub of a ponytail, but Remy…. Remy had all that long, luscious hair that was so much fun to tug on when it was down. Too bad that probably wasn’t ever going to happen again. At the moment it was tied up on the top of his head, with little wisps curling out and around his gorgeous face. Guy was hot. Angry, but hot.

  Joe cleared his throat.

  “Mr. Fitzgerald,” Babineaux Senior said, inclining his head politely. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  “Thank you. I have these for you,” Joe said, rummaging in his bag and extracting the proposed takeover packets, one for each of them.

  “I’m not staying,” Andre snapped. He exchanged a loaded look with Remy and stood. He pushed his chair in and stomped toward what Joe assumed was the kitchen. Okay, maybe Joe didn’t want to sleep with that one. He was hot, but really? Who pulled a bratty move like that in a business meeting?