her head hanging to the side, obscured by her tangled blond hair.
“I know, baby. So am I.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DEZ’S PARTNER in the club, Reggie Carney, had a certain presence about him—one that made lesser men nervous. Of course, most men were lesser, because at six foot five inches and three hundred and twenty-six pounds, Reggie Carney towered over the city, larger than life as a man...and as a New Orleans Saints offensive guard.
“I don’t like this crap the designer brought in. Too old-school twenties. Freakin’ feathers? Looks shitty,” Reggie said, picking up a peacock feather lying on the aged bar now shiny with a new patina. In his hemp hoodie and brown cords, he reminded Dez of a fairy-tale giant...holding a feather.
“You hired her,” Dez muttered, trying to pull an errant nail from the corner of the restored bar with a hammer. The contractor had missed it and the metal head would definitely snag clothing.
Reggie was supposed to be a silent partner...who hadn’t gotten that memo. But since the scourge of NFL defenses was on the money in regards to what the designer had brought in, Dez didn’t feel too irritated.
“Guess we can call someone else. Tiffany recommended her, and usually my girl’s spot-on,” Reggie said.
“Tiffany’s a stripper, Reggie.”
“Well, I like her style.”
“’Cause there’s so little of it.”
Reggie snickered. “Exactly.”
Dez finally pulled the nail loose, wishing the thorns in his life were as easily removed. That night was the quarterly meeting of the Magazine Street Merchants Association, and he was slated to speak in favor of his business. He wanted to join the group, but first he needed to help them see his establishment would draw a sophisticated crowd and meet their mission of a safe environment...and the peacock feathers and tacky metal wall art weren’t helping.
“Hey, what about that place across the street?”
“What place?” Dez asked, tucking the hammer behind the bar and straightening. He needed to call the suppliers and get them to bring another box of glass tumblers, and he had to call the state about the liquor license. Reggie would help him there. In a state crazy about football, a Saints player could probably borrow the governor’s wife for a night. A liquor license was gravy.
“That Queen’s Box place.”
Eleanor.
Saying her name in his head was like taking a deep breath.
It had been over a week since he’d seen her. Mardi Gras had passed with the usual crowds and cleanup, and he’d turned to his work at Blue Rondo, trying to put last Saturday night at the Priest and Pug behind him, but her laugh, the way the moon shone against her hair and the way she leaned into his touch haunted him.
Each night after a much-needed shower, he sank down on the piano bench, and like water from a drain spout—hard, fast and abundant—the harmony swelled and the sacred words tumbled from his conscience. He thought of Eleanor, and the music flowed, the words emerged.
All the doubts about being with her—Blakely, her past, the fact he had a business about to open—waned in that moment. The barricades on the path to wherever the hell they were headed became mere potholes, easily stepped over or avoided. Because his body craved her touch, his soul her smile, and his music her passion.
“Dude?” Reggie jarred him from his thoughts.
“Huh? Oh, the Queen’s Box?”
Reggie jabbed a finger toward the store across the street. “Yeah. That place. Over there.”
“It’s an antiques store. Not sure you’re going to find what you envision over there,” Dez said, moving some boxes from the end of the bar, heading back toward the storage room, shoving Eleanor and thoughts of her soft body onto the back shelf of his mind.
“I’m going over to take a look anyway. Never know what I might find,” Reggie called.
Dez heard the door close. “Shit.”
He wasn’t going over to the Queen’s Box because he didn’t want to see Eleanor until after the meeting that night. Somehow settling things with the association cleared a path to her. He felt like if she saw how Blue Rondo fit into the community, she could see how he fit into her world. Tonight, he’d prove he belonged in both.
He hadn’t called her or stopped by her store. His second sense told him she needed some breathing room after the ordeal with Blakely. Or maybe he pulled back because things between him and Eleanor felt too difficult? No sensible dude waded into a tangle like Eleanor, no matter how much his body demanded gratification. But he knew