Lie to Me (Pearl Island Trilogy #4)(15)

“Anything is lighter than the bread pudding they serve here. Plus, the stroll will help walk off dinner.”

“True,” he said. “Ice cream it is.”

~ ~ ~

How do you define happiness? The question still played through Chloe’s mind as they stepped from the ice cream parlor a couple of blocks from the restaurant. With the long days of summer fast approaching, the sun had yet to fully set. It colored the sky over the brick and stone buildings that lined both sides of Avenue B, more commonly known as The Strand.

She breathed in the evening air, and thought: This is happiness.

Her life in Galveston was good. Simple. Maybe it wasn’t everything she wanted it to be, but it was wonderfully lacking the complex games of power and emotional maneuvering she’d left behind.

Her sense of happiness increased as Luc stepped to the sidewalk beside her.

“I can’t believe you talked me into plain vanilla,” he grumbled, scowling at his waffle cone.

“Wait until you taste it.”

He hesitated, looking doubtful, then brought the cone closer to his mouth. His tongue flicked out, giving the scoop a lick. His brows shot up. “Holy cow.” He pressed a hand to his mouth, staring at the treat. “This tastes homemade. Seriously. Like the hand-churned stuff my great uncle used to make.”

“You had hand-churned ice cream as a kid?”

“Sure,” he said off handedly.

“Tell me about it,” she encouraged, fascinated. “Was it during family parties?”

“Try crawfish boils and pig roasts out on the bayou.”

“You’re so lucky to have had that.” She sighed as they started walking down the wide sidewalk, past businesses that had closed for the night. She could almost see a big Cajun family gathered beneath the shade of towering cypress trees, smell the food, and hear the live music being played while it cooked. She would trade every meal she’d ever had in a five-star restaurant for a memory like that.

He, however, looked at her like she was nuts. “Do you have any idea how much work it is to hand crank ice cream?”

“I thought you said your great uncle made it.”

“Otis made it. But we kids had to churn it. Some days I thought my arm would fall off before the stuff was ready.”

“Was it worth it?”

“Oh yeah.” He gave his ice cream another lick. “But this is easier.”

They passed another couple who’d stopped to check out the display in an antiques shop. Luc glanced around, noticing the charm of the area for the first time. “Is it always this quiet here?”

Humor stole over her face. “Not exactly New Orleans, is it?”

“Not exactly,” Luc agreed, wondering how people lived here without going crazy from boredom.

A murmur of voices drifting from the open door of a gallery emphasized more than broke the stillness. Walking by, he saw casually dressed art enthusiasts enjoying wine as they admired paintings of beach scenes and sailboats. A far cry from the drunken revelers on Bourbon Street shouting for women to show off their attributes.

Past the gallery, quiet descended once again. He glanced sideways and saw Chloe eating her ice cream, looking completely at peace.

It suddenly struck him: He was walking side by side with Chloe Davis through an idyllic slice of Americana—eating ice cream cones. After a dinner date where she’d hung on everything he’d said.

The idea startled a laugh out of him, earning a questioning look from Chloe.

“Sorry.” He shook his head. “It’s just…this isn’t exactly how I expected things to go when I got here.”

“Oh?” Her white teeth took a nibble of waffle cone, conjuring a few tantalizing images of her nibbling on him. They continued for several paces before she laughed. “In case you didn’t notice, that ‘oh’ spoken with a questioning inflection is what’s called a conversational gambit. To which you’re supposed to say, ‘Why, yes, Chloe, what I was expecting was…’”

As if he could carry on a coherent conversation while watching her eat a rather suggestive-looking cone. He cleared his throat and managed, “It’s… complicated.”

“How so?”

He debated what to tell her. He knew he had to say something, but God, Chloe was looking at him with big hazel-brown eyes while ice cream glistened on her lips, making him want to taste them. Did he really have to bring all this to an end? What if he didn’t tell her tonight? What if he waited until morning? Maybe then he would have a chance to taste those lips before their date ended.

That seemed like a brilliant idea.

Searching for a stall tactic, he glanced around. “Is that live blues I hear?”

“Probably,” she said. “There’s a new club up the street that frequently brings in bands. Do you like blues?”

“Are you kidding?” He brightened with thoughts of spending an hour or two in a club listening to music with Chloe. “I grew up in the French Quarter. I’m pretty sure it’s in my DNA.”

He froze the second the words left his mouth. Shit! He’d just tipped his hand. Glancing sideways, he saw the inviting, I-really-like-you sparkle fade from Chloe’s eyes.

“I thought you said you grew up on Bayou Lafourche.”

“No,” he sighed. “I said my family lives on the bayou. I didn’t say I grew up there.”