“I love them. Thanks.” I take the bag from her and get us some plates. “Let’s eat on the balcony.”

And so, on the balcony, I listen to James and Jamie finish each other’s sentences as they tell me how they met at a jazz club. I laugh along when they tease each other about how they fought over whether Duke Ellington or Ella Fitzgerald was better—neither, by the way; they’re two sides of the same coin— and I stuff two beignets down my throat to keep from butting in with my own James stories. Because Jamie doesn’t need to hear that right now.

They’re so cute together it makes my jaw ache and my heart contract.

James is in love. I never thought I’d see the day.

He brushes a nonexistent crumb off Jamie’s chin as she states that she should get going. “I know you have a shoot to do.”

“You can stay and watch,” James offers, his voice so gentle, I almost don’t recognize it.

“Oh, no,” Jamie says with a laugh. “I don’t think I can watch you oil up a bunch of big bruisers and not get jealous. Besides, there’s an art gallery around the corner from my place that I’ve been wanting to visit.”

“Do you live in the Quarter?” I ask her.

“I live in New York,” Jamie says, sharing a quick look with James. “I’m just here for a week.”

A week? They fell for each other in less than a week?

James picks at a seam in his trousers. “She’s going back next Monday.”

“I keep telling him he should come with me to get a taste of New York life,” Jamie teases faintly.

“And I keep telling you I have to work,” James shoots back with false playfulness. There’s pain in his voice, and he can’t hide it.

An awkward silence descends. My mouth is filled with puffed dough, a coating of powdered sugar turning to paste against my tongue. James is my best friend. But I am also his boss. At times, the gulf between friend and boss feels as vast as the distance from here to New York.

I swallow down my bite with difficulty. “We only have one more shoot for the calendar after today. Maeve can help me with smaller jobs after that. You should go visit. Take some time for yourself.”

James’s pale blue eyes meet mine. And it feels like a hug. I smile back weakly. Was he worried I’d say no? I’d never deny him his happiness.

But while James sees Jamie off, I stare out over the balcony rail, watching cars pass by, and in the distance, the Mississippi rolls along like a wide, brown snake against the land, and I feel empty.

Pulling my phone from my jeans pocket, I text Finn.

I’m good for Tuesday.

He answers a few seconds later, as if he’s been waiting.

GQ: It’s a non-date. ;-)

I still don’t know what I want from him, but I can’t deny that the sight of that silly winky emoticon makes me feel a little warmer inside.

Chapter Five

Chess

 

* * *

 

I quickly find out that Finn loves seafood. As in, he’ll happily drive out of town to a roadside restaurant in the burbs to get his fix. He takes me out to Middendorf’s, overlooking the lake, for what he promises to be a feast.

We sit on the patio, and soft breezes coming off the water stir my hair. It’s one of those perfect Louisiana fall days when the temperature is in the low 70s and the sun is shining brightly. I relax with a sigh of contentment.

Finn, on the other hand, is practically twitching with the anticipatory promise of food. “Their thin fried catfish is why we’re here.” He eyeballs me. “You do like catfish?”

“Can’t comment one way or the other on it,” I tell him. “I don’t remember the last time I had any.”

“Well, you’re in for a treat.” He rubs his hands together like a little boy. “Do you want a white wine?”

“Please don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who thinks everyone who has a vagina must drink white wine.” It’s fun to tease him. He never gives in.

“It’s a pussy, Chess. Save vagina for your OB.” He flashes a quick smile. “And, no. Just so happens that every pussy I’ve taken out orders white wine. Or a club soda with lime.” He frowns, perplexed. “What’s with the club soda thing, anyway?”

“I have no idea.” I look over the menu. “I’m getting a beer.”

“Excellent.” His glee over our impending meal is contagious.

The waitress shows at that moment and practically trips over herself when she sees him. I don’t blame her; a happy Finn is almost too pretty to take in at once. You have to brace yourself and look at him in stages.

Oblivious of our covetous stares, Finn orders the beers and catfish. “Oh, and some oysters and crawfish. Could you bring it all at once, please?”

“I hate oysters and crawfish,” I tell him, as our waitress leaves.

He gasps and sags in his seat as if weakened. “Sacrilege, Chester.”

“Fried oysters are fine,” I say with a light shrug. “But raw? Nope. Salty snot pellets.”

Finn glances up at the sky. “Lord, she knows not of what she speaks.”

“And crawfish tastes muddy to me.”

“A good muddy,” he counters.

“There is no such thing as good mud.”

“Girl on girl mud wrestling.” His expression dares me to argue.

“Guy on guy mud wrestling,” I amend.

He salutes me. “Fair enough.”

The waitress soon returns and sets down two icy bottles of beer and our food. The rich scent of fried seafood rises up, and my mouth actually waters. I take a bite of paper-thin, golden catfish and moan.

“Right?” Finn says with an approving nod.

Crispy and light, it is fried-food mana. “I’m in love,” I tell him.

The corners of his eyes crinkle, and we sit there eyeing each other like happy thieves. “You know what’s weird,” I say in a low voice, as if, by whispering, I’ll make the moment last longer.

Maybe he feels the same because he answers just as softly. “What?”

“I’m having more fun on this non-date date than I’ve had on all dates this past year.” Maybe longer.

Finn’s eyes soften. “Me too.”

Somewhere around the region of my heart, everything gets all tender. I feel like I’m falling, lightheaded and confused. My fingers curl around the edges of the table just to hold on.