Page 4 of Mine to Love
Darcy offers me a subtle nod and we continue the few remaining steps to Broussard’s. Though, as we do, I sense I’ve got my work cut out for me. The position I’m offering is unique. And, while I think it would be perfect for her and her daughter, I’m not sure how I’ll ever convince her to live with me. She can barely look at me, nor be in the same three-square feet without immense discomfort. Of all the deals I’ve brokered, this might be the most challenging yetandthe most important.
“Mr. Moretti, what a lovely surprise!”Julius, the maître-d at Broussard’s, greets us as we enter the brick-walled lobby of the 1920s establishment. “Will you and your guests be dining in your private room this evening?”
After handing off Darcy and Delilah’s backpacks to the attendant for safe keeping, I glance to my right to find Darcy’s head spinning as she takes in the exquisite French-Creole architecture. She points out a few paintings to Delilah, who seems to enjoy them with equal excitement. They are of sprawling oak trees and various Southern landscapes. I can’t help but think they would enjoy the gardens at the Amato estate.
Distracted by the artwork and the sheer beauty of the place, the tension in Darcy’s body appears to release and I am blessed with a moment to admire her without causing her discomfort. “Sir?” Though, the moment is brief as Julius draws my attention back to him.
“No.” While I usually dine in a private room, I sense Darcy wouldn’t be comfortable with that. And since she loves the architecture so much… “Give us something with a view of the courtyard.”
“Ah, the Magnolia Room. Perfect choice, sir.” Julius, dressed in his black butler’s suit with a matching black bowtie, grabs three menus from behind his desk and motions for us to follow him. I step aside to allow Darcy to walk ahead of me and I follow behind her.
Cradled in Darcy’s arms, Delilah looks me up and down. Her inquisitive blue eyes are a touch darker than her mother’s, yet they bear the same shape—small and slightly down-turned. I offer the girl a smile, which she shyly reciprocates before nuzzling her tired face into her mother’s shoulder. That’s when my attention shifts to Darcy, and I notice a strange mark on her right shoulder blade. It’s a scar, to be certain. And while it’s round, like a bullet wound, it’s not big enough to be that. My eyesnarrow as I analyze the small blemish on her exposed, pale back. Though I’m unable to determine its cause before we arrive at our table.
“Here we are,” Julius says. He places our menus on a square-shaped table nuzzled between an unlit brick fireplace and an arched window. Our table is topped with a white tablecloth and has an excellent view of the greenery-filled courtyard. It’s also far enough away from the other guests to provide privacy, just not enough to trigger Darcy’s alarm bells.
“Thank you, Julius. It’s perfect.” I offer him a nod of approval as Darcy lowers Delilah to the ground. As she does, Julius quickly moves to pull out their chairs for them, but I wave him off without a word and he leaves us in silence. It’s then that I step closer to Darcy. Both of us reach for the same chair at the same time.
“Oh, sorry,” she says, withdrawing her hand with impressive, yet concerning quickness. “Did you want to sit there?” Without giving me a moment to answer, she steps back and moves to a different chair. Her quick readjustment doesn’t go unnoticed and neither does the sound of her voice. It’s sweet and sincere, gentle and tender. Though nothing is as sweet as the taste of her name on my tongue.
“Darcy.” Quickly, she returns her blue, bewildered gaze to mine. As she does, I notice things about her for the first time—like how plump and youthful her skin is, and the small beauty mark just above her lip. Collecting myself, I say, “This chair has the best view of the courtyard, and it’s yours.” Her lips part as she looks between me and the chair. It’s almost as if she’s wondering why I’m standing so close to it or why I touched it in the first place if I intended it for her. For a woman with such gentile manners, it doesn’t appear she’s met a man with the same courteous disposition. “Allow me.” I pull the chair out for her.
Darcy looks between me and the chair a moment longer, as if lost for words. Turning back to Delilah, she finds her focus in her daughter’s blue gaze. “Let me just get Delilah settled.”
“I’ll take care of her too.” Once more, Darcy hesitates. This time, she looks from Delilah to the rest of the room. I gather she’s assessing the entirety of the situation—this place, her predicament,me. It seems she’s used to playing second, or perhaps not getting attention at all. Her level of attentiveness towards Delilah suggests she is the only caregiver, which means she isn’t used to having help or being prioritized, cared for. If she were, small gestures wouldn’t throw her. Perhaps I’m reading too much into her and her body language and presumed emotions and experiences. But that is my way, my strength. Reading people, and a room, is why I’m good at what I do.
Finally, Darcy turns in my direction and offers me a subtle nod without eye contact. Despite all my assessment of her, this gesture leaves me as confused as the mark on her back. Is she agreeing because she thinks she doesn’t have a choice and is fearful of disagreeing, or because she truly appreciates my gesture? Hmm, there’s nothing I love more than a challenge and nothing I loathe more than being bested by one. I wonder which Darcy will be—someone that fills me with love or self-loathing?
As Darcy makes her way toward me, she finally returns her eyes to mine. She keeps them trained on me until the very moment she turns around and prepares to sit. As she does, I gently push her chair in for her, catching a whiff of her sweet scent as I do. In it, I find notes of vanilla and something even sweeter. Perhaps, honey? And, yet, this close to her, I also smell something else. Is it blackberries?
Darcy’s scent matches her disposition perfectly. She is a natural beauty and a delicate soul. Perhaps that is why I find myself instantly enthralled by her. That and the unknown reason behind her sudden arrival in New Orleans has my interest. IfI’m to fill my home with someone’s energy, it must be an energy I admire and crave. Perhaps that’s why no one else felt right. Hers is the energy I’ve been waiting for. While I never could’ve imagined inviting a child to live with me as well, there’s something about Delilah that makes me want this even more.
Delilah represents an innocence so rare in this world, especially my dark and dangerous one. Perhaps, if Darcy accepts my offer, they could be reminders of the light—reminder of why I do what I do. Since the reminders I’ve always had—Alister and Sophia, my family—are now gone.
“And for you,” I say, as I move to Delilah. I’m sure to offer her my biggest of smiles as I maneuver the chair beside her mother for her. A bit on the small side, she struggles to climb into it. I now understand why Darcy was going to help her. Sensing Darcy watching me, I turn to her as if to ask for permission to help.
She purses her lips and reluctantly nods. “You can…you can give her a boost.” I nod. But instead of boosting her from the bottom, I place my hands around her abdomen to respect her modesty. Darcy lets out a sigh of presumed relief once I’ve gotten Delilah settled and retreated to my chair. It’s a healthy distance from the two of them. Though, with my back to the courtyard—and my attention fully on Darcy—my view is just as perfect as hers. “Saythank you,” she tells her daughter.
“Thank you,” Delilah says as she reaches for her menu. It’s almost as big as her.
“You’re welcome,” I say with a smile.
Leaning back in my chair, I prop my ankle on my knee and look to Darcy one last time before reaching for my own menu. As our eyes meet, her stomach rumbles and there is a softness in her expression that mimics the gratitude she displayed in our first meeting. “Thank you,” she whispers. I nod in silence and take the change in her demeanor as a small win. Hopefully, I cancontinue to make her feel comfortable. Or else, we’ll both leave Broussard’s full, not just of food, but of regret.
5
Having just arrivedin New Orleans this morning, I am taken aback by the city’s beauty, the elegant, historic architecture, the sophisticated culture,andthe characters. Seeing the prices on the menu before me makes me even more grateful—anduncomfortable—that Mr. Moretti, the character of most curiosity and concern, is payinganda bit more understanding of the bartender’s ire. I don’t fit in here the same way I didn’t fit in there. The twenty-dollar salad confirms it.
It’s then that I find the courage to peek around the edge of my rather large menu, noticing the attire of the surrounding guests. The men wear suits, or a variation of the ensemble. Though none are as nice as Mr. Moretti’s. While the women all wear much nicer, cleaner, and more modest dresses than mine paired with heels and understated jewelry. In contrast, I wear practical tennis shoes and lack accessories.
Making unwanted eye contact with a thin woman whose red lips convey her disgust, I shrink back behind my menu and wish I could disappear altogether. This reminds me too much of school. I never fit in there either.
As my stomach growls yet again, I place a hand over it to silence it. As I do, I feel the layer of fat covering my mid-section and suddenly notice the heat radiating between my touching thighs. I wish I wasn’t so hungry so that I wouldn’t eat so much in front of these people, in front of him. I fear it’ll only make me stand out more when all I want is to blend in. Still, I don’t know when I’ll have my next meal.
“So, what’s your preferred protein? Land or sea?” Mr. Moretti asks.
“Oh, um…I’m not sure.” I lower my menu to the table. As I do, I find him sitting with his menu closed, watching me. My brows furrow as I do a double take. “Um…” I try to focus on the pages in front of me, but his amber gaze is impossible to ignore. It feels as if he sees straight through me, and I don’t like it. Giving up, I close my menu and sigh. “I suppose land because it’s what we’re used to. We’ve never eaten seafood aside from the occasional fish from the stream.”
My answer seems to pique his interest. He raises a brow, uncrosses his legs, and scoots his chair closer to the table. “And from what streams have you fished?”
