Midnight Bayou

back. Drenched in her. “Are you going to let me stay?” he asked. “Or do I catch a cab?”
    She stared into the shadows. “Stay.”

9
    H e woke just after daybreak. She’d curved into him in sleep, but he saw that she had her arm between them and a fist curled over her heart. As if she were guarding it, he thought. The little silver key lay against the side of her hand.
    He wanted to lift that hand, gently uncurl the fingers. Bare her heart to him, he realized. He’d already lost his to her. Had lost it, he decided, the moment he’d seen her.
    It was a jolt, and a shock for a man who’d come to believe he simply wasn’t capable of love. Unless it was family or friendship. His personal crisis over Jessica, who everyone—including Jessica—had claimed was perfect for him, had convinced him he’d blown his one chance at a lasting, content relationship with a woman.
    It had been tough to swallow for a man who, at the core, believed strongly in family, in home, in marriage. And swallowing it, he realized, had been largely responsible for the restless unhappiness that had trailed after him like a faithful dog for months.
    Now he was looking at the woman who was the answer. And he didn’t think she was going to be willing to listen to the question.
    So, he’d have to persuade her. One way or the other, and sooner or later. Because he’d meant what he’d said the night before. They were going to belong to each other.
    He considered waking her up and reminding her how good they were together in bed. He couldn’t think of a better way to start the day, especially since she was warm and soft and draped around him.
    But it didn’t seem quite fair to wake her when they’d barely slept. Her workday started a great deal later than his.
    He slid away from her, with no little regret, and eased out of bed. She stirred, sighing in sleep, and rolled into the warmth he’d left behind.
    He grabbed his trousers and headed into the shower.
    In his opinion, you could tell a lot about a person by their bathroom. Hers was both rigorously clean and indulgent. Thick towels of forest green offset the white fixtures and picked up the small diamond chip pattern scattered through the floor tile.
    Lush green plants lined the windowsill, and a trio of daffodils speared out of a slim bottle of pale green.
    There were other bottles, jewel colors, and covered boxes that held fragrant oils and lotions, bath salts. She liked fancy soaps, he noted, and kept them in a pretty bowl.
    He also discovered her hot water lasted longer than his. He smiled through the bliss of a fifteen-minute shower that steamed up the room like a Turkish bath.
    She was still sleeping when he stepped out. Sprawled now over the sheets with the morning sun slanted over the lean length of her naked back. He turned his mind firmly from sliding back into bed with her and focused it on finding coffee.
    Her living area had lofty ceilings and dark wood floors. She’d sponged the walls with a bluish paint that made them look like faded denim. Against one stood a fireplace framed in that same dark wood with a sunburst mantelpiece he immediately coveted. Its woodwork was distressed, its cream-colored paint peeling.
    He understood why she’d left it that way. Its history and character came through.
    To complement the faded walls, she’d hung colorful framed posters. Advertising posters, he noted. Elegant women selling champagne, sleek-looking men toting cigars.
    A high-backed sofa in royal blue sat in the center of the room covered, as women mysteriously cover sofas and beds, with pillows.
    He admired the style she’d formed here. Old, subtly battered tables and slashing colors. And he liked seeing his tulips on her coffee table.
    He wandered through to the kitchen and found himself grinning. It wasn’t often you found black-and-white photos of nudes—male and female—on kitchen walls.
    But he was happier yet to find coffee.
    He closed the pocket door so the sound of grinding beans wouldn’t carry to the bedroom. And while the coffee brewed, he stood at her kitchen window, looking out at her section of New Orleans.
    He heard the slide of the kitchen door.
    She wore a short red robe, and her eyes were heavy with sleep, her smile lazy with it.
    “Sorry, I thought I’d muffled the coffee grinder.”
    “I didn’t hear it.” She drew a deep breath. “But I smelled the results. You making breakfast, cher ?”
    “Want toast? It’s my best thing.”
    “Oh, I