Page 30 of Saving Saul

The moment we step through, an older Black man with a giant stature and mischief in his eyes leans in and hands Selene a drink. Then he turns to me, smiling wide.

“Well, now. That’s the best costume I’ve seen all night. Not everyone can pull off Thumper’s itty-bitty yellow bikini,” he chuckles. He hands me a drink, then leans in conspiratorially. “Baby girl, you’ve made this old man’s night.”

I arch a brow, unsure if he’s flirting or just impressed by the outfit. I cast a look at Selene—dressed tokillas Eliza Doolittle—and she merely shrugs.

“Thank you, sir. Our father lovedBondmovies, particularly those with Sean Connery from the seventies.”

He nods and offers his hand to help me up on a nearby barstool. When he turns to help Selene, she turns around and talks to some cute guy who looks just like Regé-Jean Page.

She’s trying to get laid while I’m stuck talking to Grandpa.

I turn and plaster on the brightest smile I can muster while he leans against the stool beside me. “I’m Cecil Boudreaux, the owner of this establishment for the past fifty years. May I ask you your name? If it’s anything other than Beautiful, it’s a misnomer.”

I giggle at his old-man charm. It’s surprisingly what I need tonight.

“No sir, I’m afraid it’s not. My name is Tessa Baptiste.”

Before I can say anything, he grins and offers his hand. “ Tell me baby girl—are you related to Charles Sinclair Baptiste by chance?”

My breath hitches, my fingers tightening around my glass.Daddy.

I smile, but it wobbles at the edges. “Yes, sir. He was my father.”

Cecil slaps his thigh and lets out a booming laugh. “Well, hell! I figured so, you look just like him. Your daddy was the best damn saxophonist ever to play Bourbon Street. In the eighties, he played my Big Room with B.B. King and Ray Charles. The man had the magic, and you look just like him.”

It wasn’t until recently that I could think about Daddy without feeling like I dived into a pool of water that was too shallow. The memories would overwhelm me. But now I can remember without cracking my head open on the despair of knowing he’s not coming back.

I must look sad because Mr. Cecil gives me a proper side hug. “Listen, anything you want is on the house tonight, OK. I owe your daddy from the many games of Tonk that he whooped my butt in but never made me pay. He was a good man. If you need anything, you can ask any of the waitstaff dressed in a white top and black pants for big Cecil, and they'll get me. Our host for the night, Marcus, is about to announce the costume contest winners. I wouldn’t be surprised if you won.” He says the last words with a wink.

“Yes, sir.” I squeak it out between a small trickle of tears.

After he leaves, I take time to get on the dance floor. The joy on everyone’s face cheers me up. It’s jam-packed, and Selene is long gone, bumping and grinding with her cutie from the bar to Cardi B and Meg the Stallion’s “WAP.”

Oh, so now she wants to loosen up!

I don't join her; instead, I sit at one of the bars, people-watch, and drink delicious rum and cokes.

I’m knocking back my third when the music cuts out, and a voice—his voice—fills the space.

I choke on my drink.

No.

It can’t be.

My heart slams against my ribs, and my breath catches as I turn toward the stage. The world around me blurs.

And there he is.

Saul Mensah.

Except here, it’s Marcus.

The man Istarted believingI’d never see again.

He stands there, a mountain of muscle and raw magnetism, towering at least six feet five inches tall with pure, unrelenting masculinity. His smooth, flawless brown skin gleams under the stage lights. His sharp jawline, dusted with a fresh trim of facial hair, looks even more defined than I remember.

The air shifts, thickening, pressing against my skin like a warning—or an invitation.

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