French Quarter Kisses. Zuri Day
“You are definitely easy on the eyes.”
Inwardly, Pierre cringed at the unimaginative line and purposely avoided her flirting. “Describes the restaurant’s decor even better. A very relaxing atmosphere.”
“So I’ve heard. Looks like it will be a couple months before I can find out for myself, though. Can’t believe you’re that booked up.”
“Me either. It’s crazy.”
Rachel took a step closer, her barely covered breast brushing Pierre’s upper arm. “Are you sure there isn’t a way I can...try it out any sooner? Like, as soon as possible?”
Pierre didn’t think Rachel was talking about food. He deftly shifted away from the touch as he took in the large breasts spilling over a tight tank top, wondering how she could be so top-heavy and still manage to walk.
“There’s a waiting list on our website if you’d like to add your name. So far there have been no cancellations, but it could happen.”
“What about a late-night snack after hours? You could join me in the private room at my bar. Drinks on me.”
“That’s a generous offer, but I can’t accept. After putting in eighteen-hour days six or seven days a week, the only place I want to go after locking up is home. And since this is my first day off in almost a month, I’d better get back to this workout.”
“Sure thing, gorgeous. Just remember, you always have a free drink waiting at Crescent Moon. Not that you couldn’t afford to buy one. Just showing you some neighborly love.”
It soon became clear that neighborly love wasn’t the only thing Rachel wanted to show. After smiling at Pierre, she walked over to the horizontal crunch bench and lay down. The thong-like leotard she wore left little to the imagination.
Pierre focused on his friends. He deposited the weight back into its holder and strolled over to where his sous chef, Riviera, was doing push-ups on a mat. He dropped down beside him, determined to shake off the constant self-imposed pressure of making his business a success. For him it was not enough to have a great restaurant; Easy Creole Cuisine had to be the best restaurant of its type anywhere. Period. Ensuring that, while juggling other contractual commitments, had sent him to the gym. Misery loves company, so he’d brought along some of the staff, including his out-of-shape manager, Ed, who looked clearly out of place as he held up a wall.
“Come on, Ed!” Pierre aligned his body with Riviera’s and matched his quick rhythm. “I want every member on the Easy team to be in shape.”
“Yes, Chef, but one day at a time, okay?” Ed palmed both hand weights he’d been pumping, then used a towel to mop up the sweat that ran down his face. “The last time I saw a gym was in high school.”
“Remember the prize,” Riviera panted, still doing push-ups, but more slowly.
“An all-expense-paid trip to Vegas,” Pierre reminded them.
Ed ambled across the floor. “If I keep my knees down, am I a punk?”
“Folks might laugh at you,” Riviera warned.
“Let them.” Pierre moved next to Ed and placed his own knees on the floor. “When you’re fit and healthy, you’ll have the last laugh. Twenty-five. Let’s go. No excuses.”
They finished working out. Pierre endured the guys’ ribbing when Rachel insisted on giving him her card before he left the gym. He could appreciate a confident, assertive woman, one who knew what she wanted and went after it. Rachel seemed up for a good time, which right now was all he could give a woman. Unlike the disheveled one who’d claimed to be a reporter, Rachel sent a message that was abundantly clear.
Pierre’s current schedule left little room for anything happening in a bed besides sleep. But in a month or so, when the Chow Channel tapings ended and he was confident the kitchen could run smoothly without him, then he’d see.
An hour before the Bayou Ball was set to begin Roz was no closer to being ready than she’d been two hours ago. She loved red and black, except when red went with carpet, black preceded tie, or like tonight, the colors were part of the requested dress code. Heels. Makeup. Social small talk. Who needed that when life was happening all around you?
More importantly, who needed to chance seeing the guy who’d broken your heart barely one year ago? In going to the Bayou Ball being held at the Ritz Carlton hotel, running into her ex, Delano Richard, was inevitable. He never missed a moment to be the center of attention, the city’s mover and shaker with all the answers, whose business savvy had made him a multimillionaire. When they first met, Roz was a new edition to the city’s number one newspaper. Just beginning her journalism career. Eager to impress. She’d been relentless in her pursuit of the businessman and the story. Transplanted resident promising to restore the famous Ninth Ward, the neighborhood most negatively impacted after Hurricane Katrina. She’d covered him off and on for a year. Developed a friendship that continued past that. And then it went further, to a relationship that Roz thought could go all the way to the altar.
Until she learned that Delano wasn’t the man she thought he was, but was using her position and the glowing articles she wrote to enhance his reputation and advance his agenda. He’d counted on love to keep her blinded to his true social-climbing motives until it was too late. Until he hooked his star to a beautiful socialite, broke up with Roz and broke her heart.
After a six-week whirlwind courtship, the spoiled rich girl had tossed him to the curb. He’d tried to come back to Roz, but that wouldn’t happen. Delano had taught her to never, ever mix business with pleasure. And to not trust pretty boys with her heart.
Roz straightened her shoulders. Melancholy morphed into resolve. She’d sworn the last tears over this breakup had been shed long ago. She wasn’t going to dredge up more of those emotions. In fact, she was going to cover them up with a sexy dress, some killer heels and a change up from her curly do. Ugly memories of the ex added to frustration at the hard-to-reach celebrity chef she hadn’t even wanted to cover. She practically flung the stylish, yet safe, pantsuit she’d planned to wear off her bed and stepped into the walk-in closet. Once there, she released the towel from around her freshly showered bod and reached beyond her normal casual fare for a dress she’d bought on a dare and never worn. It wasn’t her style, which, according to the cousin who’d bet money she wouldn’t buy it, was the point. Roz pulled it out, turned to the mirror and held the silky, silver maxi with the thigh-high split against herself. She swallowed a lump of shyness, beat back insecurities left over from a childhood of being teased, and took the look even further with a pair of designer stilettos she’d worn only once. The strappy sandals beaded with Swarovski crystals matched the dress perfectly, added just the right amount of bling to the diamond teardrop necklace and matching earrings that she donned for every fancy occasion.
Next she marched into the bathroom and grabbed her curl conqueror from the cabinets below the sink, a gift from the same cousin who’d lost twenty dollars on the dress bet. Roz could count the times she’d used the deluxe flat iron on the fingers of one hand. But she handled the tool and her curls like a pro. Thirty minutes later her hair was straight and long, curled only on the ends, cascading over her shoulders and down her back. When she took a final look in the mirror, all toned and sleek and sexified, she hardly recognized herself. After reaching for her crystal clutch, she flung locks of hair behind her as she headed for the door. Feeling confident and looking the part, she now felt ready to step into society and hold her own against anyone in the room.
Five minutes inside the hotel’s ballroom and Roz thanked the gods that she’d changed outfits. All New Orleans’s who’s who were present. She quickly recognized people she’d grown up with, knew socially or had met in a professional capacity. Unfortunately, one of the first to approach her as she sipped a sparkling water was just about the last person in the room with whom she wanted to converse.
“Hello,