Page 13 of Steal My Heart
“She’s probably hustling in Jackson Square.”
Positioning myself behind the man, I bring a plastic bag over his head. He struggles in a futile attempt to take in a breath. I hold the bag taut until all the fight leaves him and his body goes limp.
“Here’s the problem when you assume: you make an ass out of you and me.”
Chapter Four
Remi
“I see travel and adventure in your future,” I muse, examining my client’s palm. “Perhaps related to military service.” A safe bet considering this guy’s fit build, military-tight haircut, and ramrod posture.
“Woah, you really are psychic,” he says in awe.
Not psychic, but I am good at reading people.Usually. Well, except for last night when I made out with my Mr. New Orleans’ mark. Ugh, and here I am, still thinking about that man.
“Do you know?” he asks, and I realize I’ve missed the question.
“I’m not sure, but what I’m getting is that there is someone in your life who might not be happy about your trip.” I’ve felt nervous energy from an older woman seated at a bench across from us; I’m guessing either the mama or grandmama.
“My ma. She’s worried about my deployment and what’ll happen… Do you know what’ll happen?” He eyes me hopefully.
“See this line?” I trace the palm line closest to his thumb. “This is your lifeline. You have a nice, long one, indicating longevity.” Which isn’t complete BS, as I taught myself at least the basics of palm reading. “My advice? Don’t let someone else’s fears become your own.”
If a palmist, a therapist, and a hustler walked into a bar…
My little kitchen timer buzzes, and I release his hand. “That’s our time. I hope you take away something from this reading.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
I’m like maybe three years older than this guy, tops, but that’s a Southerner and a ma’am for ya. “You’re very welcome. Take care.”
He goes to join his mama when I notice it. “Excuse me, you forgot your phone.” Sure, I could’ve swiped it, but then his mama would worry even more, and I can’t have that on my conscience.
Jogging back over, he grabs his phone from the card table. “Thank you,” he tells me sheepishly.
“Now this time, really take care,” I tell him with a smile.
I duck under the table to grab my water from my tote bag, startling when I pop back up.
Noooooo.
“Didn’t mean to scare you. I’d like a reading.” Angelo Calvani takes a seat in the client chair.
“I’m sorry, but I’m closing up shop,” I tell him, trying to disguise my voice with a thick Cajun accent.
He reaches inside his jacket, and I freeze, spotting a gun holstered by his side. He pulls out a hundred and slides it over. “For the overtime.”
I shrug, forcing my hand steady as I grab the bill and stick it in my pocket. “Your hands, sir.”
He places his hands palm-side up on the card table, and I make a show of examining them. “Do you have a particular question in mind?”
“How to find a woman.”
My eyes flutter to his, those baby blues pinning me to my chair. I play it cool, ignoring the way my heart pounds like a drum. “Have you tried a dating app?”
Not even a hint of a smile. “I suspect this particular woman tries to avoid digital footprints.”
“Perhaps this woman has her reasons,” I vaguely reply.
