by Liz Talley
His torso wasn’t ripped like an underwear model, but he was muscled in all the right places. Flat belly, broad chest, and drool-worthy shoulders. Dark hair peppered his pecs and trailed down to disappear in the waistband of his pants. The words Rosemary had uttered months ago about a bed-rumpled man came roaring back. Nick would look incredible against white bedsheets. All that tanned skin and masculine yumminess.
Eden stared. She couldn’t help it.
And Nick caught her.
For a moment their gazes hung up and held.
A barely perceptible quirk of his lips transmitted the awareness. Eden turned away before she could turn the color of the oven mitt on her hand and before he could see the hunger in her eyes. She wanted to touch him. She curled her hand in the mitt. God, she wanted to touch him. Just once. Maybe even accidently.
No. Stop.
“Goodness, what happened?” she asked, diverting her attention to the vegetarian bean-burger patty she heated for Sophie’s dinner.
He strolled toward her, both shirts balled in his fist. “This little devil got me when she was washing her hands.”
Sophie giggled and used her strong leg to maneuver her chair toward the huge granite-topped island where Eden stood lining a jelly-roll pan with foil. Carefully Eden placed a serving of sweet potato slivers on the pan. “She got me yesterday. Seems someone thinks it’s funny to splash around like a fish. She should be careful someone doesn’t catch her and fry her up for dinner.”
Another giggle.
Eden caught Nick watching her. Again she was punched in the gut by his sheer masculinity as he leaned against the counter. The achy feel she got when she read a spicy book or watched a racy movie bloomed in her pelvis. Nothing like wanting to jump your boss in the presence of his child . . . while wearing a bright red crawfish oven mitt. Why couldn’t he be fat and bald? Or short with a bad complexion? Or married. Why did her new boss have to be Hot Dad Nick?
“Anything to report before you go?” he asked, looking totally comfortable sans shirt. His naked chest wasn’t bothering him in the least.
“Uh, no. Everything went well. Sophie doesn’t have homework other than working on her Mardi Gras mask. We can do that tomorrow. We’ll need some things from a craft store. I can run by tomorrow after reh—Um, after I finish some things.”
“Sure,” Nick said, pulling his wallet out of his pants, drawing her attention to the flex of his biceps. Eden swallowed hard again. She probably needed some water. Her mouth was awfully dry. “Hey, you live and work in the Quarter. Ever heard of a place called Gatsby’s?”
Oh, crap.
“Uh, sure. Everyone’s heard of it,” she said, averting her eyes.
“I went there last night. You ever been?”
“Actually I have.” No need to elaborate. Or relate the fact she knew he’d been there last night.
“It’s pretty cool. Good talent and the food’s decent.” Nick shifted and crossed his arms across his chest.
Eden ducked her head and started moving the potato wedges into perfect lines. “Yeah. The crab dip’s good.”
Eden had never felt more uncomfortable, which was silly because this was the kind of small talk they made all the time. Except normally they were, you know, fully clothed, and Eden wasn’t trying to hide a stupid secret.
“I better get going. Have to be at work by seven.” Eden slid the pan into the oven. That’s one way to avoid awkward conversations with your sexy boss. Just leave.
“You okay?” he asked, lifting himself from where he leaned.
“Of course.” She tossed the mitt back into the drawer and set the timer on the oven. “Why?”
“You’re acting weird. Is it the courtyard yesterday? There was this funny vibe, and I don’t want you to think I was coming on to you or something. I’m not that kind of guy. You’re safe around me.”
The achy want disappeared at those words. Exactly. He hadn’t been coming on to her. All her imagination because Nick Zeringue wasn’t into the nanny. Yes, exactly. “I know. I’m distracted. That’s all,” she said, jerking her head toward Sophie who watched them with curious eyes.
“You sure?” he asked, before catching on to her unspoken warning about his daughter.
“Sure,” she said, tugging Sophie’s ponytail. “Bye, Soph.”
“Bye, Edie,” Sophie said, pulling out her iPad and flipping down the small tray on the chair arm.
Nick moved behind her as she walked toward the back door near the laundry room. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said something about coming on to you. Poor choice of words, but I meant it. You’re safe with me, Eden.”
Even though on one hand his words had destroyed her ego, she warmed at the thought of his protectiveness. Safety. So taken for granted by many people. So craved by others. “I know.”
For a moment they stared at each other.
Then Eden reached out and gave his bare forearm a squeeze. “You’re a good guy, Nick.”
He didn’t say anything. Just watched her as she slipped out the door into the darkening evening. Raising his hand, he waved goodbye before turning around and disappearing back into his palatial house. Eden’s heart squeezed and she started to backtrack. But what would she say? What could she do? He was her boss, and he’d made a point to draw a line he wouldn’t cross. Besides, she had bigger fish to fry than her crush on her hot boss.
Like the fact that The Weekender wanted to do an interview with Lulu LaRue.
And Jess and Ryan were coming for the weekend.
And Sunny needed another three hundred dollars to help cover the co-pay for the fall their mother had last week. The fall hadn’t been serious, but the bill was. Not to mention her sister was refinishing the floors and found more repairs than anticipated.
Eden said the short prayer she said every time she cranked up her old car and pulled out of Nick’s driveway, her head full of troubles, her heart yearning for something she couldn’t have.
When she made it to the speakeasy, using the nondramatic back entrance, she found another surprise—a short, neatly dressed man with small round glasses and a clipboard.
Frenchie frowned as she jerked her thumb toward the well-dressed man. “Fredric wants to talk to you. Don’t freaking sign anything.”
The man laughed. “You she-devil. You know you’d drop your panties right now if I offered you representation.”
“Bah,” Frenchie said, wrinkling her nose and shoving past them both. Several members of the ensemble popped their heads out, eyes going wide before disappearing again. A few more heads popped out seconds later.
Eden didn’t know who the man was or why he was there, but he certainly drew a crowd.
“You wish you could sniff my panties, old man,” Frenchie said before lifting her nose in the air. “Be smart, Lulu.”
Eden turned to the older man, who extended his hand. “Hello, Miss LaRue. I’m Fredric Stall from Harmony Talent Agency.”
“Hello,” Eden said taking his hand, trying not to look confused. Talent agency? “I’m Eden Voorhees. Not Lulu LaRue.”
“I beg to differ, my dear. You are Lulu, and you’re terrific at being her.” He released her hand and turned to the women peering at them. “If there’s a place we may speak privately?”
“Uh, sure,” Eden said, trying to think where they could go. Her mind had already started chasing the bunny of hope that had hopped onto the scene. An agent? Who wanted to talk to her? “Maybe Butch’s office?”
“No. I’m not helping him,” Frenchie cried from the open door of the office sitting adjacent to the dressing room. “Go outside, you thieving bastard.”
Fredric’s mouth twitched. “She’s still mad because I never called.”
“Hah. In your dreams, you old fool,” Frenchie called.
“Let’s do go outside,” Fredric said, gesturing toward the long narrow cobbled walkway that led back out onto the street.
The ancient brick was damp, but it was as private as one could get at Gatsby’s. Because i
t was dark, it was hard to see Fredric well. Eden pulled her hoodie up against the chill. “So what’s this about, Mr. Stall? I need to get into makeup and wardrobe.”
“Fredric, if you please,” he said, pulling a clipboard from beneath his arm. “Now, this is my card.” He unclipped a business card and handed it to her.
Eden gave it a cursory glance before looking back at him. “Thank you . . . I think.”
Fredric gave her a mysterious smile. “Ah, you’ve not heard of me.”
“Sorry, but no.”
“Not to borrow lines from bad movies, but ‘I’m kind of a big deal.’” Though the words were as egocentric as they come, his demeanor was anything but. “I’m a talent agent. The best in New Orleans. Eh, probably the entire South.”
“Oh,” Eden said, looking back at the card. “An agent?”
“You don’t have representation, do you?” he asked, his warm eyes suddenly like razor wire in the flicker of the lanterns guarding the back entrance.
“I wasn’t aware I needed representation. I’ve only been headlining here at Gatsby’s for a few weeks. And I’m not acting at present. I mean, I will. Or I have. I did theatre in Jackson and will be going back to school in performing arts, but—”
“You need an agent, my dear.” His statement brooked no argument.
“I do?”
“Most assuredly. That’s why Frenchie Pi wasn’t so welcoming. She knows they’re going to have to put out if I represent you.”
“You want to represent me? And wait, they already raised my pay,” Eden said, feeling oddly defensive of the crass Asian woman who’d imagined Lulu in the first place and given Eden a shot.
Fredric made a face. “I’m fairly certain they did. What? A dollar or two more?”
Eden frowned. She wasn’t about to admit that they’d raised her only a dollar and a half more. Frenchie had said it was for now. That they’d evaluate her performances and talk about another increase later. There had been no clear date for “later.” “You think they’re not paying me what I’m worth?”
Fredric held up a copy of the Living section of The Times-Picayune. The bottom quadrant showed Lulu LaRue draped on the piano, microphone in hand. The headline read Gatsby’s Brings the Wow Factor with Their Newest Sensation. Eden hadn’t seen the article before. She reached for it, and Fredric handed it over as if he’d planned to do so all along. The man had come prepared. “You don’t seem to comprehend that Lulu’s the hottest act in the hottest club in the city. Gatsby’s reservation waiting list stretches down Bourbon Street, my dear. Getting a table is a veritable coup. I caught your show last night. I think you are superb, and”—he tapped the paper she held—“someone at The Times agrees with me.”
Eden glanced down at the paper where she splayed sexily in print. Her first inclination was mortification. What would her aunt Ruby Jean think about her sprawled out, wearing a come-hither expression in the middle of the newspaper? What would Reverend Al at the Church of Christ think? She looked . . . not herself. But the next feeling was euphoria. She was a “new sensation.” That had to be a good thing. “Uh, thank you.”
“I represent top-notch performers in the city—film and theatre mostly—and I have contacts in LA and New York. You want to stay in New Orleans and be Lulu LaRue, I’ll get you better money, better press, and make you a living legend. You want to go somewhere else, I’ll get you auditions. There’s no one else who can do what I do. You understand?”
Eden nodded, understanding that Fredric’s words rang with truth. Otherwise, Frenchie wouldn’t have let him backstage. The sharp-tongued stage manager wasn’t warm and fuzzy, but she wasn’t going to prevent anyone from Gatsby’s getting a break. “I’m not prepared to sign right now, Mr. Stall. In fact, I’m late for makeup. Can we talk at a later time?”
“Of course. Tonight I wanted to meet you. We can do great things together. And I think, even if you don’t sign with me, you should ask for more money. My dear, they’re now coming to see you. Don’t tell Derrick though. Drag queens can pitch a helluva hissy fit.”
With a tip of his hat, Fredric Stall headed toward the street. Eden tucked the business card into her pocket and stood a few minutes in the shadows of the small alley, marveling that an agent had approached her. She looked down at the folded newspaper in her hand. Maybe she should ask for more from Gatsby’s. After all, she wasn’t making very much for all the work she put into her numbers.
Maybe an agent was exactly what she needed.
And maybe she should get her behind inside and into her costume for the next number.
“Oh my gosh, you were fabulous,” Jess said, wrapping Eden into a bone-crushing hug that smelled like mojito and clean apple shampoo. “I mean seriously, sister, you were great.”
Eden blew Jess’s apple-scented curls out of her mouth and managed a breathless “thanks.”
Jess released her and stepped back, giving Ryan a meaningful look and a slight jerk of her head.
The man glanced at Jess and then reached over to awkwardly pat Eden’s back. “You were good, Eden.”
His discomfort made Eden smile. “The Brain” was like a supersexy Sheldon Cooper. Not so good with social situations or . . . touching. Unless it was Jess, of course. He couldn’t seem to keep his hands off her friend.
They stood outside Gatsby’s, midnight closing in on them, yet Bourbon Street was jumping. Drunken revelry at its finest. And oddly enough, the exuberant crowd suited Eden just fine. Tipsy people were loose with their money, which meant good tips. Of course, it also meant the bouncers at Gatsby’s had to be very aware, especially when a slurring shrew grew incensed over Eden or another performer rubbing against her equally intoxicated man. The night before last, one such woman couldn’t comprehend it was all in fun and tried to attack Eden when she shimmied a bit too close to her boyfriend. Ah, drunkenness, a double-edged sword.
“I’m starving,” Eden said, drawing her friends down the street, away from the bustle of the Quarter. Toward Esplanade sat her new favorite tourist trap—Port of Call. The place kept late hours and had the best burgers. She swerved around Corky, a homeless man, and his dog Elmo. Corky shamelessly used the beagle mix to get change dropped into his worn top hat. The man spent every night there, raking in plenty. Eden had bought him a sandwich the first night she’d encountered him . . . and then she realized he was a fixture and not so hard on his luck. The city was full of down-on-their-luck scammers.
Ryan stared at the man and fished into his pocket. Eden winked at Corky as Ryan dropped a ten-dollar bill into the hat.
“And God bless you, sir,” Corky cried.
Before Ryan could blink, he was accosted by Sandra, a thong-and-pasty-wearing photo opportunity carrying a lacy parasol. Two seconds later, a man coated in metallic paint showed up to con his few dollars from Jess’s softhearted boyfriend.
“Come on,” Eden said, pulling Ryan from the grasp of Bourbon Street’s “performers” and maneuvering them toward the outer French Quarter, which was quieter if not any less pungent. “You’ll give away every dime if you stay much longer.”
Jess put her arm around her big nerd’s waist. “I love how bighearted you are, babe.”
Ryan beamed and dropped a kiss atop Jess’s head. “And I love how you—”
“Good Lord, stop it already,” Eden said, faking a shudder.
Both Ryan and Jess dropped their arms and looked sheepish.
“I’m just kidding. Y’all being happy makes me happy.” Eden quickened her step. Usually she went to Port of Call with some of the other performers. Never alone . . . though she sometimes walked home by herself since parking her car close to Gatsby’s was too difficult. A couple of times she’d had Jimmy, the guy who drove a pedicab, peddle her to her apartment, but only on decent tip nights. She still had to watch her nickels and dimes. But after signing on with Fredric Stall the day before, she was hoping for a slight reprieve. Hailing from a naturally suspicious family meant she’d hemmed and hawed (and slightly panicked
) over the terms of the agent/talent agreement. As she read through the complicated jargon, she’d wished for Lacy’s counsel. As a paralegal, Lacy had been familiar with all sorts of contracts and had helped Eden file medical forms and any other confusing documents that came her way. Eden thought Lacy would have approved of Fredric. He’d actually rolled up his sleeves before entering a meeting with Butch and Frenchie to renegotiate her salary.
Less than ten minutes later, the three of them were seated in the busy late-night restaurant with two orders of Port of Call’s infamous grog and a light beer on the way.
Jess put her paper napkin in her lap and shot the stink eye to the women ogling Ryan. Eden couldn’t fault the women surrounding them. The former physics state rally winner looked like a movie star with his shaggy locks, tanned skin, and bright smile. Eden knew what kind of body lay beneath the khaki pants and ice-blue polo shirt thanks to a long weekend in Pensacola last fall. If being a boat captain didn’t work out for the man, he could always model.
Jess gave up with a shrug and fastened her brown eyes on Eden. “You’re juggling a lot, E.”
Eden raised one shoulder. “I’m used to multitasking. It’s one of my many talents.”
“True,” Jess said, accepting the globed drink the waitress passed to her. “But what about school? Are you able to keep up?”
Eden’s face must have given her away.
“E, you didn’t,” Jess said.
“I had to,” Eden said, taking two chugs of the potent brew the waitress had set in front of her. Her empty stomach begged her to slow down even as her mind screamed, “Escape!”
“That’s why you came down here. For school. And to act and stuff. Why would you give up school and not the job as the nanny? Haven’t you had enough of changing diapers and wiping drool?”
Jess had a point, but she couldn’t understand the way things had fallen into place. And she wouldn’t understand the loyalty Eden now felt to Nick and Sophie. “I know. But I can’t leave them. Sophie had such a hard time when her other nanny left. She’s just started to trust me, so I can’t—”
