My Best Friend's Mardi Gras Wedding

by Erin Nicholas

  My Best Friend’s Mardi Gras Wedding

  Boys of the Bayou

  Erin Nicholas

  Copyright © 2019 by Erin Nicholas

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  ISBN: 978-0-9998907-8-3

  Editor: Lindsey Faber

  Cover design: Angela Waters

  Cover photography: Lindee Robinson

  Models: Daniel Smith and Hannah Fitzpatrick

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  More from Erin Nicholas

  About the Author

  1

  There were naked breasts everywhere. Literally.

  It was Mardi Gras on Bourbon Street in New Orleans.

  So yeah, lots and lots of naked breasts. And naked other things.

  And Josh Landry didn't care.

  For possibly the first time in his life.

  Okay, that wasn't one hundred percent true. They were naked breasts. But as he handed yet another woman a strand of beads, Josh was already pushing past her.

  A nearly identical strand of plastic beads smacked him in the face a moment later.

  What the fuck? He looked up at the balcony where a group of drunk frat boys were throwing beads down to the street. Another one went whizzing past his ear. Jesus, they weren’t supposed to wind up to throw the things. And did he look like he had tits?

  Josh took a deep breath. He liked Mardi Gras. Mardi Gras was great. Mardi Gras was a hell of a good time.

  Until it had made him a huge sap.

  And celibate. He couldn't forget that.

  He hadn’t been with a woman in a year. His friends were past concerned. They were convinced he had a brain tumor.

  But that was all about to end. He was going to be with a woman tonight. The woman. The one he’d met last Mardi Gras. The one who he hadn’t even slept with and yet couldn’t stop thinking about. The one who was supposed to be here tonight at the same spot where they’d met last year.

  Well, they were if they were both still interested. And single.

  And able to get to the fucking bar.

  This was his fourth trip down Bourbon on this particular mission and it would be his last, dammit. He was bartending at Trahan’s until one a.m. and he’d taken a twenty-minute break every two hours to walk this path—okay, scratch and crawl his way along this path—to get to Bourbon O’s to see if she was there. Thank God his bosses were good friends of his and gave him a lot of slack. Leaving a bar, any bar, in New Orleans short staffed on Mardi Gras was a dick move.

  He emerged from the crowd on Dumaine onto Bourbon. He knew better than to try to walk up the entire length of the most popular street in the city, but there was a point where he had no choice but to join the insane mass of revelers.

  He was sure the crowd wasn’t any bigger this year than any other, but he’d never noticed, really. Because he’d never resented them before. He was a bartender. He loved a party. He joined right into all of this usually. He loved New Orleans and seeing new people come and experience the city. Mardi Gras was his favorite time of the year. Until now. Because all of these drunk-off-their-asses revelers were between him and the woman who had occupied his thoughts for nearly twelve full months.

  But of course he was going to keep making this trek all night. Until he found her or the clock struck midnight and officially ended Mardi Gras. Because the fact that he had to fight a Mardi-Gras-in-New-Orleans crowd for eight blocks from Trahan’s Tavern on St. Peter to Bourbon O on Bourbon was like a man being willing to swim the Nile, climb Mount Everest, and cross the Sahara for true love. That was fucking romantic as hell. He was finally living up to the Landry name when it came to matters of the heart.

  He laughed and shook his head. It had been bound to happen eventually. You couldn’t live with the Landrys and Morelands for twenty-eight years and not become a starry-eyed imbecile.

  He just really wanted this story to have a happy ending.

  She had to be there.

  Josh growled at a group of fifty-somethings that had just stopped in the middle of the street to pose for a selfie.

  “Oh, would you take our photo?” one of the women, wearing a Birthday Girl sash and tiara, asked. It had to be her fiftieth birthday, if not sixtieth.

  The fact that she’d braved Mardi Gras to celebrate the milestone actually impressed Josh. Mardi Gras on Bourbon Street in New Orleans was not for the faint of heart.

  And regardless of the fact that these people were holding him up on his mission, how could he say no? They were hardly the only ones in his way. And he was not just a born-and-bred Louisiana boy who believed that Mardi Gras was an experience everyone should have at some point in their lives. He was also a French Quarter bartender and, well, a big believer in having a hell of a good time whenever he could. How could he not encourage these women with their bright-orange Angie’s Birthday Bash T-shirts? They were all clutching Hand Grenades, the powerful drinks served at the Tropical Isle bar, and he could tell these weren’t their firsts.

  He gave the birthday party a big, good-ol’-boy grin. “Okay, girls,” he said. “Let’s do this,” even as someone slammed into him from the back. He gritted his teeth.

  It was part of his calling in life to make sure people left New Orleans and the great state of Louisiana with huge smiles, fond memories, and commitments to get back as soon as they could.

  Just like the woman he’d sent back to Iowa a year ago with a huge smile and a commitment to get her pretty ass back here as soon as possible.

  Like tonight.

  She should be just down the block, in fact.

  That sent a shot of adrenaline through him, and he hurried to get the women positioned for the photo. Four phones were thrust into his hands and Josh sighed.

  The women giggled and the five friends gathered around birthday girl. He made sure to angle the photo so that the Bourbon Street sign over their heads showed up in the photo. “Okay, one-two-three.” He shot three photos on each of the first three phones.

  But as he finished the countdown on the fourth phone, the six women—who were old enough to be his mother—lifted their shirts and flashed him their breasts. Their naked breasts.

  He blew out a breath. But took the photo. He’d spent Mardi Gras in New Orleans every year since he’d turned eighteen. This wasn’t the first—or last—time he’d see breasts he didn’t mean to see.

  Josh handed them all beads. “Looks like you girls know what you’re doin’ down here,” he said honestly.

  They all laughed again and Angie took her phone back from him. She checked the photo and showed the other girls. They all grinned and nodded. Josh shook his head.

  “I gotta go,” he told them. “But…be good, okay?”

  “Good?” One of the women wrinkled her nose. “Really?”

  “I didn’t say to behave,” he told her with a wink. “I said be good. At whatever you’re doin’ tonight.”

  She nodded her head with a big grin. “Got it.”

  He laughed and turned to continue working his way through the crowds to Bourbon O, the bar where he’d
met Tori last year. He’d been working there at the time. Over the past few years, he’d poured drinks in six of the bars along Bourbon, but Bourbon O was his favorite. And it was by far the nicest. If a bar had strong liquor and live music, they could get away with being just this side of nasty on Bourbon. Tourists didn’t care. In fact, the “dive bar” ambiance seemed to be almost expected. But Bourbon O was a step—or ten—above most on the street. Not that Josh hadn’t had fun and made really good money at those “dive” bars. He’d just worked his way up the street as his reputation for being great at the important combination of bartender, bouncer and bring-’em-back guy grew. He flirted when that was called for. He talked sports, or fishing and hunting, or any other topic that was appropriate if that was called for. He could also listen to anyone cry over nearly anything as long as they had a drink in their hand. He was great for business, period.

  And he was now working for two of his best friends. Gabe and Logan Trahan owned Trahan’s Tavern over on St. Peter. It was off Bourbon—several blocks off Bourbon, in fact—but they did very good business. The tavern sat on a corner just across from Jackson Square and had more than their fair share of tourist traffic and local regulars. Of course, Logan and Gabe were like Josh—good at flirting, having intellectual conversations, or sympathizing, depending on the situation. And until they’d met their wives, they’d done their part in “entertaining” the female tourists in the Quarter too.

  Now, though, it all fell to Josh.

  He grinned. Okay, maybe not all to him, but he did his best to “help out.”

  At least until he’d met Tori.

  Josh picked up his pace down the street as images of the gorgeous brunette who’d sat at the bar at Bourbon O for nearly four hours last Mardi Gras flashed through his mind.

  Please be there.

  He was one block away and finally allowed himself to acknowledge the fact that Tori might not be there.

  One year, two weeks, and six days ago…

  * * *

  “I want to see you again.” His hands cupped her face and he took her mouth in a slow, deep kiss. “Tell me I can see you again,” he said against her lips.

  “I live in Iowa.”

  But the way she melted into him like she was a pat of butter and he was a hot piece of cornbread told him that she wouldn’t mind doing…all of this again.

  “Yep. And there are roads in between here and there, Tori.”

  She moaned softly, the sound he’d imagine she’d make when presented with a huge slice of chocolate cake she didn’t think she should have. But wanted.

  “It’s really hard for me to get away. It’s really hard for you to get away,” she reminded him.

  “But not impossible.”

  Okay, it was close to impossible. He had two jobs, one for a business he was a partial owner in, and a big, overly involved family that expected a lot from him. She was a veterinarian. The only one in the little farm town in Iowa where she lived. A lot of people depended on her not just to keep their pets healthy, but also to care for the animals that were their livelihood. This weekend away was her first in two years. And it was only three days.

  She blew out a breath, running her hands up the sides of his neck and into his hair. “I wasn’t expecting any of this.”

  “Me either.” That was a huge understatement. He’d certainly noticed her the moment she took the stool across the bar from him, but there was no way he could have expected the connection, the way she made him laugh, the way he wanted to make her laugh.

  It had been two days. They hadn’t even gotten naked. They’d just sat and talked and flirted and laughed. For hours. And he wanted a hundred more days with her now.

  She sighed as he kissed the side of her neck. “This is just the romance of New Orleans,” she said.

  “And I was the first Southern boy who grinned at you?”

  She laughed. “You’ve been the first a lot of things but no, not that.”

  He gave her one of those Southern-boy grins. Southern boys couldn’t help flirting with pretty Yankees. And pretty Southerners, for that matter. But it was especially fun to give the girls who spent their time above the Mason-Dixon line a taste of Southern charm.

  “I just think maybe I’m getting...swept up in things. This is all so different from my usual weekend.” She laughed softly. “My usual life. I’m probably going to get off the plane in Des Moines and realize that this was all just…like a dream. And I’m guessing the second another girl takes that stool and asks for your specialty, you’ll forget my name.”

  That made his gut clench. No way would he forget her.

  He blew out a breath. “At least tell me you’re going to give me your phone number so we can keep in touch. And I can work on talking you into coming back down here.”

  She looked at him for a long moment, then rose on tiptoe, and pressed her lips to his. Then she stepped back. “I think the spell will wear off, Josh. I really do. And I don’t want to be sitting at home, waiting for you to call, and then be heartbroken when you don’t.”

  “I will.”

  She gave him a little smile. “And if you do, I won’t know what to do with it. With you.”

  “I can give you a very long list of things you can do with me.”

  There was a flicker of heat in her eyes even as she shook her head. “I know you will want to call. I believe you. It might last for a while. But, I think that…” She sighed. “We both have lives. Very different lives. It’s probably better to leave it at that.”

  Maybe that would be better. But he didn’t want to do that. At all.

  He probably shouldn’t say what had just come to his mind. But he was going to. Because he came from a long line of very passionate, romantic, slightly crazy people. And this idea was all of those things.

  “Meet me next year.”

  She frowned, clearly puzzled. “What?”

  He nodded. “We’ll give it a year. And then, if we’re still thinking about each other and want to see each other again, we’ll both show up at Bourbon O on Mardi Gras. If we’re both there, we’ll know.”

  She stared at him. It was a wild suggestion. But it was…safe. If one of them showed up and the other didn’t, no harm, no foul. If neither showed up, the world would go on. There were four million things that could keep them from getting together again. But there was the…possibility of it.

  He wanted at least that much.

  That was extremely romantic. His dad would be very proud. So would his mom. And his grandma, grandpa, aunts and uncles… yeah, the family was going to love this story.

  They would, of course, also all be the assholes giving him shit if she didn’t show up next year. But that was a risk he was willing to take. The Landry family lived by the motto that the only things worth doing were the things that made your heart pound.

  “That’s—” Tori shook her head.

  “Come on. At least agree to that much. Give me this crumb,” he said, grinning and stepped close to her again. “Let me cling to this for now. If it really does fade as soon as your plane takes off, then so be it. But at least this way there’s a chance if it doesn’t fade.”

  She laughed. “Okay. Fine. Next year. Mardi Gras. Bourbon O.”

  He kissed her long and deep. Then said, “I’ll be there.”

  She’d just smiled.

  * * *

  She hadn’t believed him. But she’d played along. He’d realized that even at the moment.

  Now he was dodging beads and boobs, making his way down Bourbon, on his way to see her.

  And there was a very good chance she wouldn’t be there.

  Fuck.

  His family was going to give him so much shit about this.

  Thirty minutes earlier, two blocks away…

  * * *

  Tori was supposed to be the Best Man.

  If she was, she would be having drinks at some place called Trahan’s right now. Tori didn’t even care what they served there, only that it would be off Bourbon
Street. And she’d be talking to Andrew and his friends. And not babysitting Paisley and her friends. All of whom made Tori want to stab her eardrums with the tiny colored plastic swords that were skewered through the pineapple chunks at the top of their drinks.

  Correction—all of whom made her feel like someone was stabbing her eardrums with tiny plastic swords.

  The subjects of their conversations were bad enough—how could anyone talk this much about shoes?—but the talking also never stopped. And then there was the giggling. And the squealing. Holy shit, the squealing.

  It got louder and more frequent the more of the icy, pink and green drinks the girls consumed.

  Andrew owed her big time.

  It was interesting that the guy from out of town was celebrating off Bourbon, while the girl who had grown up in New Orleans was the one getting shit-faced on the infamous party street. Paisley struck Tori as more the mint-juleps-on-the-front-porch type than the doing-shots-and-flashing-her-boobs-for-beads type.

  But she’d become that second type tonight. On Tori’s watch.

  Thanks, Andrew. At least he was going to be the one dealing with Paisley’s puking later. And her hangover tomorrow. Tori couldn’t imagine the Southern princess hungover. Yikes.

  Tori took a tiny sip of the pink concoction she held. And grimaced. She was a beer girl, when she drank at all. This was, obviously, meant to be consumed quickly and after several other drinks.

  But this was one of those places on Bourbon. It had the neon-on-steroids lights, the crowds of people, the overpriced-but-loaded-with-liquor drinks in collectible glasses that you’d never want to see again after spending the early morning hours kneeling next to the toilet.

  What the hell were they doing here? Paisley was a rich girl. Classy.