Midnight Bayou

think I had a taste of your best thing last night.” Still smiling, she sauntered toward him, slid her handsaround his neck. “Gimme another,” she said and lifted her mouth to his.
    She’d woken lonely, sure he’d gone. She never let men stay the night in her bed. It was too easy for them to slip out the door. Better to send them along, to sleep alone, than to wake lonely.
    Then she’d seen his shirt, his jacket, his shoes, and had been delighted. Too delighted. When a man had that much power, it was time to take some back. The surefire way was to cloud his mind with sex.
    “Why didn’t you just roll over and wake me up, sugar?”
    “Thought about it.” Was still thinking about it. “I figured since you’re working tonight, you need more than ten minutes’ sleep. But since you’re awake . . .”
    She laughed and slipped away. “Since I’m awake I want coffee.” She opened a cupboard door, sent him that knowing glance over her shoulder. “Maybe if you ask nice, I’ll fix you some breakfast.”
    “Do you want me to beg standing up, on my knees or completely supine?”
    “You tickle me, Declan. I’ll make you some toast. Le pain perdu,” she added when his face fell. “French toast. I got me most of a nice baguette.” She handed him a thick white mug filled with black coffee.
    “Thanks. Since you’re good in the kitchen, we won’t have to hire a cook when we get married and raise our six kids.”
    “Six?”
    “I feel obligated to uphold the Sullivan-Fitzgerald tradition. I really like your kitchen art. Not the usual spot for nudes.”
    “Why?” She got out a black iron skillet. “Cooking’s an art, and it’s sexy if you do it right.”
    She got out a blue bowl. He watched her crack an eggon its side, slide white and yolk in, one-handed.
    “I see what you mean. Do it again.”
    She chuckled and cracked a second egg. “Why don’t you go on out and put some music on? This won’t take long.”
    They ate at a little gateleg table she had tucked under one of the living room windows.
    “Where’d you learn to cook?” he asked her.
    “My grandmama. She tried to teach me to sew, too, but that didn’t stick so well.”
    “I’m surprised you didn’t open a restaurant instead of a bar.”
    “I like to cook when I like to cook. Do it for a living, do it all the time.”
    “There’s that. How did you end up running a bar?”
    “I wanted my own business. You work for somebody else, they say do this, don’t do that, come here, go there. That doesn’t set with me. So I went to business school, and I think, what business do I want to have? I don’t want to sell souvenirs, don’t want a gift shop, don’t want to sell dresses. I think, all those things sell in New Orleans, but what sells even more? Pleasure sells. A little harmless sin and a good time, that’s what people come to the Big Easy for. So . . . Et Trois.”
    “How long have you had it?”
    “Let’s see now.” She’d already eaten her toast, so speared a slice from the four she’d piled on his plate. “Going on six years now.”
    “You opened a bar when you were twenty-three?”
    “Hey, how do you know how old I am?”
    “Remy.”
    She looked up at the ceiling. “ Et là! Gonna have to take a strip off his ass for that. Man oughta know better than flapping about a woman’s age. What else he flap about?”
    Declan gave his breakfast his undivided attention.“This is really great. What do you put in this stuff?”
    She said nothing for a full ten seconds. “I see. Men just can’t stop themselves from crowing about their sexual exploits.”
    Uneasy, for himself and his friend, Declan replied, “It wasn’t like that. It was nostalgic. And it was sweet. You meant something to him. You still do.”
    “It’s a good thing for him I know that. And that I feel the same. Do you remember the first girl you got into the backseat, Declan? Do you remember her fondly?”
    “Sherry Bingham. A pretty little blond. I loved her desperately through most of my junior year in high school.”
    She liked him for coming out with a name, instantly. Even if he’d made it up. “What happened?”
    “She dumped me for a football player. Left tackle. Jesus, a football player with no neck and the IQ of a pencil. I’m still pissed off at her. But to get back to you—and by the way, you’re really good at deflecting personal questions, but I was a lawyer. Anyway, how did you manage to pull it off? Twenty-three’s pretty