by M. J. O'Shea
“I figured. Fucking Sal. Please don’t ever confuse me with him.”
Andre grinned and punched him back. “What’s on the menu today?”
“I was thinking spicy shrimp-and-clam pasta with roasted vegetables, spinach salad, sweet potato fries with aioli, and halibut po’ boys?”
Andre made a satisfied face. “Awesome. Drunken devil?”
Remy grinned. “They revolt when we don’t make it.”
“I’ll get started on veg prep if you want to get on the batter. Last time we made it, the cakes didn’t get enough chance to soak before we had to open.”
Remy laughed. “I swear you like it when the rum seeps all over the plate.”
“Who doesn’t?”
* * *
Lumiere was a popular café. People came from all over town for Remy’s rotating menu, but what they were most known for was their devil’s food cake. It was a ridiculously tender chocolate-on-chocolate tower made from Remy’s grandfather’s recipe. Both the cake and the frosting had sour cream and tons of locally made chocolate, and the whole thing was soaked for a good hour in nearly a quarter-inch mixture of Kahlúa, coconut rum, and Frangelico. Andre probably would’ve been happy if it was two inches.
Remy went to the front room, got the big chalk sandwich board they put outside during business hours, and wrote the day’s offerings on it with drunken devil cake in extra-large writing on the bottom. He usually made four or five cakes on the days they offered it. Every last slice was always gone hours before he closed. Andre was in charge of putting the menu online; Twitter and Facebook or some shit. When Andre first suggested the idea of social media, Remy had resisted. Hard. But he had to give his little brother credit: it had been a great way to get new customers, which they’d desperately needed when they took the place over completely from their father. It was also a great way to let the regulars know what days they should come in to catch their favorite dishes. Their client base had grown since then, and Remy had seen more new faces in the last couple of months than ever before.
When his chalkboard was done, Remy started on the batter, whipping sugar and eggs, chocolate, sour cream, and flour until it was dark and glossy. He was in his own little baking world when Andre nudged him.
“What’s with those letters, man? You keep saying you’re going to deal with them. They’re not bills, are they?” He gestured to a pile of envelopes on Remy’s desk in the corner of the kitchen. They’d been gathering dust for months. Soon the letters had turned into e-mails and voice mails, more and more insistent to both Remy and his father. Finally, they’d turned into a meeting that was less than twenty-four hours away. Remy grunted, displeased.
“No, not bills. Didn’t Dad tell you?”
Probably not, actually. Tom Babineaux tended to leave Andre out of anything that could get his hot little head fired up. Not that Remy was much better in this situation. Or any.
“No. What is it?”
“Some dickhead development company from California wants to buy the building just like they’ve bought up half the quarter. Turn it into Pineapple Joe’s or whatever the fuck those tourist-trap places are called. Sell fifteen-dollar hurricanes in collectible piece-of-shit plastic pineapple cups to retired couples with fanny packs.”
“Oh hell no.” Andre made an outraged face.
“That’s what I said. And what I’m saying at the meeting tomorrow morning.”
“The fuck? Meeting? Dad took a meeting with them? Why?”
Honestly, Remy hadn’t talked about it much with their dad. Just the idea made him so angry he doubted rational conversation would have anything to do with whatever came of broaching the subject.
“I don’t know, but I’m sure as hell going to be there to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. It’s not going to happen, Dre. Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m going to be there too.” Andre’s face was getting redder by the second. His huge dark eyes got all squinted and crinkled on the sides like they always did when he was really happy or totally pissed off. Remy realized he probably should’ve waited until after the meeting was over to get his brother involved. A little white lie here and there never hurt anyone. Live and learn.
“No, man. That’s not a good idea. I’m gonna need you back here. Gerard can’t open the kitchen on his own, and if both you and I are in that meeting, it’s gonna get hostile.”
“Fuck yes it is!”
Remy clapped Andre on the shoulder. Hothead or not, it was good to have him in Remy’s corner. “Can you get the sweet potatoes and the halibut ready when you’re done with the veg? You know we’re gonna have a run on the fries and the sandwiches at lunch.”
“They love my halibut.” Andre looked smug.
Remy snorted “That’s what he said.”
He was rewarded with another punch.
* * *
An hour later the kitchen was filled with the mixed aromas of baked chocolate cakes, roasting garlic and onions, and warm sourdough rolls straight from the ovens. It should’ve been a hideous cacophony of contrasting smells, but somehow it wasn’t. The kitchen smelled like home.
Remy had grown up in Lumiere, crawling underneath his parents’ legs as they danced around, baking and cooking and entertaining customers. The old brick floors were as much his bedroom as the one at the house; the ovens had given him his first scars; the storage room had been where he’d learned his colors, pointing at the different fruits and vegetables. Sure, the ceilings could use some work and the walls had needed a new coat of white since the first Bush was president, but they’d just put in new refrigerators and countertops. Maybe the year would come that Remy could afford to do all the upkeep and not have to pick and choose which items were the most pressing. That year hadn’t come yet.
He left Andre and their line chef, Gerard, prepping away in the kitchen and went to open the front. The inside of Lumiere was dark, even in broad daylight. But when he flicked a switch, the place was bathed in the glow that gave the café its name. The ceiling was high and painted black, but draped from the rafters were lights—hundreds of different lights. Edison bulbs hanging from wires, paper lanterns of different shapes and sizes, tiny fairy lights on strings. They looked like fireflies on a summer night or hundreds of tiny moons glowing in the cool dark. Remy smiled, as he always did. He did a check of the wide mahogany floorboards, the heavy glossy tables, and the cushy wine-red velvet banquettes. All in order.
Remy opened the door, put the sandwich-board menu on the sidewalk, and changed the board inside the dining room to also reflect the day’s choices.
Lumiere was open.
* * *
He was distracted from his final check when a tiny fluffy ball of little girl came barreling into the dining area and wound herself around his knees. Remy chuckled, ruffled her hair, then leaned over to give her a kiss on the forehead.
“Hi, darling. How are you today?”
Stella grinned up at him with one of her signature toothy smiles. She’d just turned four, she was a total menace, and Remy had never loved anyone else so completely. “Good. I watched cartoons. Cake please, Uncle Remy?”
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 back 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 wi
th 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.
