Apples. A bowl of almonds. Giant Medjool dates. Kalamata olives. Pickled okra. Thick slabs of cheese. And some kind of little meatballs.
My stomach rumbles at the sight of it.
“Hey,” Beau greets us with a nod. “There’s food if anyone’s hungry.”
My jaw drops. Holy cow. My dance teacher made us a charcuterie board.
“Oh my God,” I murmur, mouth watering.
It hits me then that he’s had a little snack out on the table every night. Berries. Nuts. Kale chips. But nothing like this.
“Oh my God,” I say again, meaning something else entirely.
Beau doesn’t smile, but there’s something open about his expression. Something watchful. He aims this watchful stare at me. “Help yourselves,” he says, pointing to the little meatballs. “Make sure to try the boudin.”
Chapter Twelve
IRIS
It’s all I can do not to fall on the food.
And since tripping is always a possibility, I take one, small step toward the table and stop. “You—you really didn’t have to do that,” I say.
He lifts one sculpted shoulder in a shrug. He’s wearing a dress shirt again, but his sleeves are rolled up, a distracting combination of buttoned-up professionalism and masculine ease. My eye does a quick connect-the-dots from his crisp open collar and sun-browned neck to the cuffed sleeves that reveal his equally golden forearms and wrists. Defined muscles and tendons shift under every inch of exposed skin.
“When Ramon texted to say you’d be late, I knew I wanted a bite to eat, and I figured y’all could use one too, so I stopped at Champagne’s.” He gestures to the spread again. “Dig in. I should probably offer the movie star a plate and fork, but—”
“I don’t need a plate and fork,” I level, bristling a little at the movie star thing. First of all, I’m not. Not yet. My IMDB page has fewer words than a fortune cookie. Secondly, I’m no snob. And it’s suddenly important that he doesn’t consider me one.
To prove it, I reach forward and take a slice of apple and a piece of cheese. I stack them together, take a hearty bite, and close my eyes. Mmm.
Ramon steps up to the table, Sally at his heels. He nods toward the tray. “What’s boudin?”
As though he’s been awaiting the question, Beau grins for the first time since we arrived. It’s so gorgeous, I inhale a little apple. And then I cough and splutter for a few seconds.
I can see the headline now. Death by Charcuterie: B-List Actress Bites It in the Bayou.
Beau turns to me, the rare grin disappearing. “Need some water?”
I shake my head, forcing myself to recover. “I’m good,” I rasp. And then because I’m embarrassed, and don’t want everyone—especially Beau—staring at me, I point to the food. “Boudin?”
“Boudin,” Beau picks up one of the meaty balls and holds it out for us, “is Cajun crack. Are you brave enough to try it before I tell you what it’s made of?”
He quirks a brow at me, and I feel it like a challenge. Then he pops the ball into his mouth.
I’m no chicken. I’m not afraid to try adventurous cuisine, but I don’t do bugs or gonads.
I narrow my eyes. “There not, like, Rocky Mountain oysters, are they?”
Beau swallows, wrinkling his nose. “God, no.”
I want to try one, but more than that, I want to show him I’m game. I pick up one of the balls. It’s softer than I expect and warm. Like it just came out of the oven. Up close, I can see a confetti of rice and spices peppered throughout the morsel.
It smells like Sunday dinner. A savory, down-home aroma.
I bite into the boudin, and layers of flavor roll over my tongue. Salt, spice, rich meatiness, and a hint of cayenne. The flavors expand to include sweet onion and an almost earthy marrow.
I close my eyes because I haven’t had anything so rich in ages. Californians don’t eat food like this. Nothing so unapologetically greasy and, well, carnivorous.
“Mmm.” I moan, opening my eyes to find Beau watching me, his gaze focused.
The stuff is so good, I want to lick my fingers, but I resist the urge. As though he senses my need, Beau steps away and returns with a paper towel for each of us.
“Good,” I mutter and then nod. “Okay. I’m ready. Tell me what I just ate.”
His grin returns with what I think is a hint of admiration. “Nothing too terrible. At least not these days.” He picks up another piece. “Like most sausage,