Blue Bayou Final

by Kate, Jiffy

  I might never get enough.

  Chapter 12

  Carys

  When I left Maverick earlier, after fixing the bathroom, I walked downstairs to yet another catastrophe.

  The A/C in room 301 was now leaking.

  I contemplated going back up to Maverick’s room and asking him to take a look, but I couldn’t take advantage of his willingness to fix everything. I knew he’d do it in a heartbeat if I asked, but I keep reminding myself that he’ll be gone soon and I’ll be back to figuring everything out on my own. So, instead, I called Pete’s Plumbing and Heating, and relocated Sam Jones to room 303 across the hall with a lovely view of the courtyard.

  Not two seconds after I’d taken care of that, Mr. and Mrs. York called the front desk claiming their credit card had been charged twice. We’re all still familiarizing ourselves with the new software, but it’s pretty user friendly. Thankfully, after looking over their bill and the charges that had been made, I was able to credit back the amount with few repercussions, nothing free coffee from Neutral Grounds and complimentary parking couldn’t fix.

  With George at the desk until three o’clock and Jules coming in at three thirty, I locked myself away in my apartment for some baking. I know it sounds crazy, but when life gets the best of me and everything seems completely out of control, a few hours in my kitchen baking my grandmother’s recipes helps ground me.

  Sure, there’s powdered sugar covering every square inch of counter space, and piles of mixing bowls and spatulas in the sink, but my insides are as happy and content as the macarons cooling on my counter.

  Picking up the sugar-dusted recipe card, I smile and lean back against the countertop.

  Just the list of ingredients written in her handwriting is enough to take a bad day and make it bearable.

  2 cups almond flour, triple sifted...ALWAYS triple sift

  1 ⅔ cups confectioners’ sugar

  About 5 large egg whites, at room temperature, it’s even better to age them at least a day

  Food coloring (optional)

  1 cup sugar

  ¼ cup water

  Filling of your choice, see the back of the card for my favorites.

  Her favorites included Lavender Honey, Rose, and the Blue Bayou special, which is a family secret that was thankfully passed on to me from my mother: vanilla and salted caramel...The salt is most important, my mother would always say. The part you also can’t forget when making The Blue Bayou, as my mother and I came to refer to it over the years, was the perfect blue of the cookie—4 parts blue to 1-part green. When I use the brand my grandmother always used, the color comes out perfect every time.

  The final note on the front of the card is my favorite: This recipe is enough for two cookies per room.

  When my grandmother was alive, she baked for the guests every day. It was one of her contributions to the hotel that made staying here so special.

  The dampness on my cheeks doesn’t come as a surprise. Even though I feel close to my grandmother when I bake her macaron recipe, I also often feel lonely. It’s hard for me to wrap my mind around the fact that they’re all gone—my grandfather, my grandmother, and my mother. Never once when I was a kid did I picture myself here, at the Blue Bayou, all alone. It’s always been my home, and it always felt full and alive. Never once was I lonely or scared.

  Not even after my grandfather passed away. We had expected that. He’d been sick and held on for as long as he could. I got a chance to make peace with him leaving. But my mother, I thought she’d be around for a long time, teaching me everything she knows about the hotel and how to keep it running successfully. I thought I had all the time in the world.

  She was taken from me swiftly. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. She was there when I walked out the front door, headed to my classes for the day, and later that evening, she was gone.

  George is the one who broke the news. He met me at the corner and I could tell by his red-rimmed eyes something was wrong. I feel horrible saying this now, even thinking it, but I thought it was Mary. I thought something had happened to her, maybe a heart attack or stroke, things that happen to people when they get older.

  Not a car accident.

  Not my mother.

  Those were two things I’d never considered.

  The knock on the door startles me out of my memories and I glance over at the clock on the stove, realizing more than an hour has passed since I started baking.

  “Carys.”

  Maverick’s voice sends another jolt through me.

  “Shit.” Looking around at my mess, I panic and start throwing things around. Lunch. I was supposed to be making lunch. He’s right. I’m a mess—a hot mess express. “Shit.”

  “I can hear you cussing all the way out here. Just let me in.”

  Turning around once more, I cringe at the white powder clinging to every surface, and then look down to see that I’m wearing a good amount of it myself. Walking to the door, I dejectedly open it, wincing. “Hey.”

  He’s standing with one arm braced on the doorframe and I can’t help ogling him. At his full height, he towers over me and I love it. I’ve always been a sucker for the tall, dark, and handsome type, and Maverick totally fits the bill.

  “Can I come in, or did I catch you at a bad time?” The smile on his face tells me he’s only asking out of politeness.

  “It’s a mess, I’m sorry,” I preface, opening the door wider so he can step inside. The door opens directly into the kitchen so there’s no skirting around the disaster zone.

  “I really wouldn’t have you any other way.” His voice is low and husky as he walks inside, doing a full 360 as he takes in the small space. Then, he turns to me and backs me against the now closed door. “Mess,” he says in a gravelly tone that reverberates straight to my core, right between my legs. Dipping his head down, he captures my lips with his, kissing me slow and sure, taking what he wants.

  Thank you, God, for this door.

  I lean into the hardwood for support as my hands grip his shoulders, needing to touch him, anywhere and everywhere.

  Just as I’m getting good and into the kiss, he ends it, pulling back enough I can see the satisfied smirk on his face. “You promised me lunch.”

  Clearing my throat, I try to get a grip and pull myself out of the haze Maverick seems to induce every time I’m with him, especially when he’s standing this close and I can smell him. Damn, he always smells so good. My insides literally want to cry at how good he smells—woodsy, warm, and a hint of leather. I want to bathe in it—him.

  “Is this why you always smell so sweet?” he asks, stepping out of my personal space and closer to the counter where the macarons have been cooling.

  “Uh, no. I mean—” I stutter, brushing my shirt and shorts off, trying to make myself presentable, all while trying to remember how to use my legs, because that kiss left them feeling like Jell-O. “You think I smell sweet?”

  “Delectable, like the most decadent dessert.” His mouth curls to one side as he leans against my counter, probably getting powdered sugar on his jeans.

  “Stop that,” I admonish, pulling him away from the mess.

  He laughs, letting me guide him where I want him, which is the small table near the window. “What?”

  “Don’t tell me I taste like dessert and expect me to make you lunch. It’s not gonna happen.”

  The lunch. The lunch might not happen.

  Sex, on the other hand, is totally possible.

  I sigh, brushing my hair out of my face and cringing again at my appearance. I should go freshen up and make myself presentable, but I don’t want to leave Maverick waiting. “Sorry, I should’ve already had lunch prepared. I got a little sidetracked.”

  “A little?” he asks, scanning the kitchen. “I’d say a lot.” He smiles up at me with his perfect, white smile. The scruff that’s grown on his jawline since he’s been here accents the strong lines and sets off his blue eyes. He’s really something. Also, the way he’s
looking at me like he doesn’t have a care in the world or no other place he’d rather be does something to me. “What have you been baking?”

  Instead of telling him, I decide to show him. Walking over to the counter, I pick up my pastry bag full of delicious icing and pipe some onto one of the cooled cookies. Placing another on top to complete the process, I return to him and ask, “Do you like macarons?”

  “Can’t say I’ve ever had one.”

  “Really?” I ask, thinking surely he’s had one at some point. He seems like a well-traveled, cultured kind of guy. And lately, macarons are all the rage. My grandmother would be pleased as punch at their popular resurgence.

  “Really,” he deadpans, his gaze locking onto mine. It’s moments like this—simple, carefree, everyday moments—when he looks at me with so much desire and depth, I have to force myself to remember he’s only here for a while.

  Don’t get used to being looked at like that, Carys.

  Don’t make this into anything more than it is.

  A fling.

  We’re just having a little fun.

  I sigh. “Well, you’re in for a treat.”

  “Will it spoil my lunch?” The way he waggles his eyebrows makes my stomach flip. He’s so bad, so bad he’s good. And all I want to do right now is spoil his lunch.

  “Hasn’t anyone ever told you to eat dessert first?” I ask coyly.

  Maverick’s gaze intensifies and I see his jaw twitch, the muscles flexing. “Well, then maybe I’ll have you instead?” He stands and I take a step back, but he counters my move until I’m flush against the counter.

  Swallowing hard, I place the cookie at his lips. “Bite.”

  He does, and I watch as one of his dark eyebrows arch in intrigue, devouring the rest of the cookie, making me squeal at his eagerness and earning a wicked grin. When he darts his tongue out and licks my fingers, heat shoots straight to my core.

  Who knew eating macarons was so erotic?

  “What the hell was that?” he moans, walking around the counter—looking for more, I’m assuming—leaving me melting right where I stand.

  “Ahem.” I clear my throat, trying to sound unaffected when I reply, “Macaron.” After a few more seconds, I’m able to regain my composure and I follow him around the counter. “The, uh, Blue Bayou special, to be exact.” I smile, happy he liked it. It would’ve been hard for me to not take it personally if he hadn’t. I mean, it’s my grandmother’s recipe and I baked it. Come on.

  “Make me another,” he demands. And it’s hot, like really, really hot.

  What the hell is the matter with me?

  “So pushy,” I tease, squeezing between him and the counter to pipe more filling onto half the cookies and not missing the hardness of his body when I do.

  Focus, Carys. Make the man a macaron.

  “Where’d you learn to bake like this?” he asks, leaning over my shoulder, watching my every move, his scent and voice consuming all the oxygen in my space and making me feel a little lightheaded.

  “Uh, well, my grandmother used to make them for all the guests. I remember being little and standing on my little step stool, helping her mix the filling. She’d never let me make the batter for the cookies, though.”

  With his chin practically resting on my shoulder, he asks, “Why?”

  “It’s not easy. Macarons are a very finicky cookie. You have to hold your mouth just right to get them to turn out.” I laugh at my own joke. “But when I was older, my mother helped me perfect the art. I’ve baked them ever since. It’s like therapy. I do it when I’m stressed and I need to take my mind off things.”

  “Hmm,” he sighs. “I don’t want you to be stressed, but I’m definitely going to need more of these. They’re amazing.”

  After I finish putting each tiny cookie together, Maverick steals a few more, and I force myself to not watch every lick of his tongue. I try to not picture him throwing me on the counter and eating me with as much earnest as he did the tiny blue cookies. I don’t succeed, but somehow, I manage to keep my clothes on.

  Switching gears and having a proper lunch accompanied by great conversation helps redirect my thoughts.

  “So, tell me about the books in the lobby.” Maverick leans back in his chair and places his napkin on his plate, which is completely clean.

  I push my own clean plate away, feeling satisfied and full and more content than I’ve felt in a long time. Between the baking and Maverick, I think I’ve found my perfect remedy. He’s given me the distraction I needed to really clear my head, even if I did refill some of the empty space with thoughts of him.

  “We’ve always had books in the lobby. When I was little, I had my own shelf. My grandfather would read to me in the afternoons when someone else was working the front desk.” I allow myself to remember for a moment—his olive complexion and the smell of his pipe. Of course, he didn’t smoke in the hotel, but he always had tobacco in his pocket for the smoke breaks he and George would take.

  “Then,” I continue, “my mother started buying books at estate sales and used bookstores and my grandfather kept adding shelves. After Hurricane Katrina, one of my mother’s friends, who owned a bookstore down the street, left and never came back. So, my mom salvaged what she could, and that’s how the collection got as large as it is now. We haven’t really added much in the past few years.”

  Sighing, I think about that, along with the macarons, all the small touches that have been neglected.

  “People love them. I’ve heard several guests comment on them as they pass through the lobby,” Maverick says. “Stuff like that makes the Blue Bayou unique, memorable.”

  “Like a place people want to come back to,” I add, remembering a long-forgotten conversation between my mom and grandfather. “That’s where the name came from, you know?”

  Maverick’s brows pinch together and he leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Where?”

  “Blue Bayou, it’s an old song that was popular in the sixties, just about the time my grandparents bought the hotel.”

  I watch as a slight bit of recognition moves across his face.

  When I hum a small piece of the verse it makes him smile.

  “That’s the song George was just whistling earlier.” He points toward the hotel.

  “My grandmother loved that song. She told my grandfather she wanted a place people wanted to come back to, so they named the hotel after the song.”

  Maverick’s expression is thoughtful as he looks out the window into the courtyard. “This place is really something, Carys. I know things seem hard right now, like everything is a mess, but really, you just need to do a little maintenance and, in the meantime, get people here. Show them what they’re missing out on by staying at the mainstream hotels. Join forces with people like Micah Landry and your friend CeCe, draw people to the Quarter. I promise, they won’t want to leave once they’re here.”

  I laugh, his words making me feel hopeful and a little nervous. It’s kind of earth-shaking having someone believe in this place as much as I do. “Where does that passion come from?” I ask, unable to take my eyes off him—the way his face lights up when he talks about something he cares about. He obviously cares about this place. I don’t know why, but I’m glad.

  It’s Maverick’s turn to feel the spotlight on him, but I don’t feel bad. I’ve answered a lot of personal questions today. It’s only fair that the tables turn.

  “My grandfather,” he admits, shaking his head. “He was a true maverick, in every sense of the word—independent, unorthodox...a bit eccentric. Unlike my father, my grandfather was honest and forthright, always looking out for the good of everyone. If he believed in something, it didn’t matter if it was going to make him money or not, he went for it—all in.”

  Listening to Maverick talk has quickly become one of my favorite pastimes. I love the cadence and smoothness of his voice. I love the way his eyes dance with expression, helping him tell his story.

  “You’d make a
good politician.”

  “What?” Maverick’s face morphs to distaste. “No fucking way. I’m not a bullshitter.”

  “No, you’re not a bullshitter, but you’re very charismatic when you speak. People love that.”

  He huffs a laugh.

  “Your grandfather sounds like a wonderful man,” I tell him, bringing back the slight smile that makes his eyes seem to sparkle.

  “He was.” His words are simple, yet strong—full of conviction.

  “When did he die?” I ask, wanting to know everything about the man sitting across from me.

  “About a year ago, nearly six months to the day of when we lost my mom.”

  “I’m sorry.” Those aren’t perfect words, but they’re true. I am sorry. I’m sorry for any hurts that have ever befallen him.

  “I’m sorry too,” he replies with sincerity. “I’m sorry we have these things in common, but it’s nice to have someone to share memories with. It’s nice talking to someone who looks at me with understanding instead of pity.”

  We sit there in silence for a long moment. His eyes never leave mine.

  “You know,” Maverick finally says, thoughtfully, breaking the silence. “I think the reason I’m so passionate about the Blue Bayou is because I’ve seen the end game of places like this. Thanks to my father, I’ve been in on the demise of many businesses. I’ve watched as the light leaves people’s eyes, as their dreams and lives are demolished, making room for someone else’s. Usually, it’s greed that wins out, and that’s never settled well with me.” He sighs forcefully, leaning back in his chair. “It’s what sent me running here. I came here trying to figure out my life, trying to find a balance between who I know I am and who I’m expected to be.”

  “Have you found it?” I ask, completely enraptured by his honesty.

  “I’ve found something,” he says with a small smile. “I’ve found this place, and it’s speaking to me like nothing has in a long time. I guess that’s why I want to help you bring it back to its glory days.”

  I laugh, not because it’s funny or silly, but because what he just said speaks to me—to my soul. Taking a deep breath, I reply, “I think you’re good at this...taking something that’s a little rough around the edges and seeing what it could be. Maybe that’s your calling—what you’re looking for—it could be a balance between what you’ve learned from your father and what you’ve inherited from your grandfather. Maybe you should start going in and helping people find ways to save their business.”