Going Down Easy (Boys of the Big Easy #1)(7)
Elena let out a breath. “Okay, good. I mean, I know. At least, I hope so. I just . . . had to ask.”
“No, you didn’t have to ask,” Addison said. “But I really think it would be best if I wasn’t here when Gabe and Logan come in. I’ll take my lunch break during that meeting.”
Elena looked pained. “I’m sorry, Addison. I didn’t mean to insult you. This is just . . . unexpected.”
“It’s nothing,” Addison said firmly. “Gabe Trahan and I are over.”
And eventually her heart would probably stop clenching every time she thought or said those words.
Elena looked at the bouquet of magnolias. “Are you sure he knows that?”
Addison sighed. She had really hoped to get away with just never setting foot in Trahan’s again, and that would be that. But okay, she was maybe going to have to be a grown-up about this. Especially if her firm was doing the restoration of his bar.
“I’ll talk to him,” she told Elena.
“You sure you can break it off?”
Addison shrugged. “He will.”
“You sure?”
“Definitely.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I have something that always sends men running in the opposite direction. A five-year-old daughter.”
Chapter Two
Gabe wiped his hands on his jeans. He was nervous? Seriously? He’d seen every inch of the woman he was about to meet up with. He knew that she came fastest when he fucked her on all fours. He knew that she had a tattoo that turned him on instantly—it was a quote that ran under the curve of her left breast and read, “But it is lightning that does the work.” He also knew that it came from one of her favorite quotes from Mark Twain—“Thunder is good. Thunder is impressive. But it is lightning that does the work.” He knew that she never added sugar to anything, but that if you gave her honey, she’d drench whatever she had in it. And he also knew that her tongue, combined with honey, was the best thing he’d ever had on his cock. And he knew that she’d gotten the delivery of magnolias and that she was definitely feeling touched by them. He loved Addison’s fascination with all things southern and, specifically, New Orleans.
So he was in a good place. He’d given her two orgasms, French-press coffee, a lemon scone, and a bouquet of magnolias today. If she wasn’t happy to see him after all of that, then . . . he was screwed.
And now, sitting on the most uncomfortable chair he’d ever met, in the fancy waiting area of Monroe & LeBlanc, with the glass-topped coffee table covered in Architectural Digest and New Orleans magazines, he was nervous as hell.
“We should have worn ties,” he muttered to Logan.
Logan looked up from the copy of Architectural Digest he was paging through. “What? Are you kidding?”
They were dressed, as they always were, in jeans and T-shirts. One of the things they both loved best about their jobs was the lack of a fancy dress code. Gabe owned ties. It was always good to have one in case of a wedding or a funeral. But he had never in his life worn a tie two days in a row. He couldn’t imagine working in an office where he had to dress up every day.
Though he didn’t hate the dress code at Monroe & LeBlanc. After all, they were the reason that Addison put on those pencil skirts that hugged her ass and showed off her legs and the silky blouses that buttoned up the front and just hinted at her cleavage. The cleavage that was one of his favorite things on earth.
He shifted on the looked-padded-but-wasn’t-really chair and wiped his hands on his thighs again. Fuck. He really just needed to see her, to see that she was happy to see him, and . . . hell, say goodbye to her again, he supposed.
He didn’t want to do that.
And that thought alone made him groan. Shit. How had this fling gotten so out of hand?
“Relax,” Logan told him, turning another page. “They’re the ones trying to impress us. They want our money. We could show up here in potato sacks and they’d still try to impress us.”
Logan was right. Gabe’s nerves were all about Addison. And he hated that. He was nervous about seeing the woman he’d, just that morning, put on her knees in front of him in the shower and said, “Suck my cock” to? That was ridiculous.
“Gabe. Logan.”
They looked up to see Elena LeBlanc coming toward them. They both got to their feet. Elena shook their hands with a big smile.
“We’re so happy you came in today,” she told him. “We’re very excited to talk about what we can do for Trahan’s. You know how much we love your place.”
Elena had started coming to the bar because of its architecture and history. She’d kept coming because of the drinks and Gabe and Logan. That was how about 80 percent of their business worked. People happened upon the bar because of its location in the French Quarter, home of some of the best food and drink in the country, nestled along a quieter street away from the craziness of Bourbon or the tourist traffic on Decatur. There were other shops and restaurants in their area—antique shops and art galleries—that brought people over from the busier streets. Then the historic, charming look of the tavern with the weathered stone exterior, the gas lanterns hanging overhead, and the wide-open French doors, brought them inside. And from there they were hooked. The drinks, food, and general vibe kept people coming back. Either Gabe or Logan—sometimes both—manned the bar every night, and they’d built a reputation of authentic New Orleans hospitality, fun, and charm. They’d made several Best of New Orleans lists over the years, and several area tour guides recommended the tavern to their crowds of visitors.