Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
I bite my lip, doing my best not to think about Elly doing non-virginal things or how much I want to be the one doing them with her. “Is that right?”
She nods slowly, holding my gaze. “It is.”
“Now that you mention it, the fact that you have a little girl probably should have tipped me off,” I say, playing along.
She hums beneath her breath. “It really should have. Maybe you’re not that smart, after all.”
“But I’m still cute,” I say with a wink, the sound of her laughter making my entire body feel lighter.
“You are,” she agrees, leaning closer. “But you’re also keeping me in suspense. We’re going underground, aren’t we? It’s a secret underground club in secret catacombs beneath the convent, isn’t it?”
“Close, but this is New Orleans,” I remind her, reaching for a rusted iron ring embedded in the side of the crypt. I tug, and with a groan of ancient hinges, a narrow door swings inward to reveal a second, much more modern door. I punch in my code, and it opens with an efficient click onto a stone passageway lit by gas lamps set into the wall. “If you want a lair, you build it up. The other stuff floods too much.”
“Oh my God, Grammercy, this is so cool,” she murmurs, stepping past me with an awed grin that makes me so glad she’s the woman I finally decided to share this with. I knew Elly would get it. She loves this spooky, spunky, one-of-a-kind city as much as I do. She spins back to me, giddy with excitement. “Come on. I’m dying to see what’s next.”
She reaches for my hand, and I wrap my fingers tight around hers, holding on as I close the door behind us.
“The only thing that could make this cooler is if we were dressed in 1920s clothes,” she whispers.
“I like what you have on,” I say in the understatement of the year. “The back of that dress…”
She glances my way, a teasing note in her voice as she asks, “You mean the lack of back on this dress?”
“Yeah. That,” I say as the tunnel curves to the left, seamlessly flowing into a hidden stairwell that climbs sharply upward. “I like.”
“I’ll remember that,” she murmurs as the walls close in. We make our way up steps worn smooth from generations of feet, where there isn’t room to walk side-by-side, but I’m not complaining about the chance to guide her ahead with a hand at the small of her back, right where the silky fabric of her dress becomes even silkier skin.
The feel of her bare skin beneath my fingers burns through me, making me thicker all over again.
As we rise, the sounds drift down—first the low hum of voices, then horns, and the gentle brush of snare drums. Elly glances back, wonder glowing on her face. “How do you know about this place? Is it because you’re famous? I’ve always been pretty sure being famous would be complicated and overrated, but maybe it’s not.”
I laugh. “Nah, not fame. Just local boy stuff. My choir teacher in high school sent a few of us here once we turned eighteen. Told us if we ever wanted to understand jazz and blues, we needed to hear it where it lives. Not in a tourist trap on Bourbon, but here, where it’s still growing wild in a secret garden.”
She sighs, blinking suddenly shining eyes. “Wow. That’s so beautiful. Thank you for bringing me.”
“Of course, chère,” I say as we stop at the small landing at the top of the stairs, where a heavy wooden door mutes the music from inside. “Thanks for being the kind of person who understands why it’s special.”
Our eyes lock and hold as I reach past her for the door handle, and something passes between us, a silent acknowledgement that it’s almost time to address the elephant in the room. To get honest about that kiss and what it means for our “fake” marriage moving forward.
But not yet, not until we’re somewhere private.
I push open the door. Light and sound—feral jazz mixed with hushed conversation and the clink of glasses from the bar—spills in from the other side, making Elly gasp. I watch her as we step inside, loving the chance to see my favorite place in New Orleans again for the first time through her eyes.
The speakeasy is carved from a forgotten salon above the crypt, the ceiling high and arched, the plaster cracked with time and damp but still beautiful in a crumbling kind of way. Candles glow on every surface, throwing shadows against the faded murals showing Mary kneeling by Jesus’s tomb and all the apostles gathered in a garden much like the one outside.
Small wooden tables are scattered around the low stage where the musicians play, surrounded by shadowed booths tucked into the alcoves and protected by thick velvet curtains that help muffle the sound reaching the outside world as well as any sounds being made at the private tables.