“Of course.”

“Stop holdin’ out on me.”

***

I sleep late the next morning. My biggest vice is sleeping late on the weekends. I despise the alarm clock. I open my eyes slowly and stretch in the soft king sized bed, then lie on my back and stare out the French doors at the bright blue sky.

As I begin to ponder what might be on today’s agenda, my doorbell rings.

I glance at the clock and scowl. It’s nine in the freaking morning on a Saturday. Who in the world could be ringing my bell?

I climb out of bed and don’t even bother to throw a robe over my tank and pink frilly panties. Whoever is stupid enough to show up at my place at this hour is just going to have to take me the way they get me.

It’s most likely Savannah anyway. She always was a morning person.

I hate that.

I yank the door open and scrub my free hand over my face. “Seriously, Van, you just left here like six hours ago. Did you forget something?”

“Savannah was here until three this morning?”

I drop my hand and stare up in shock at a grinning Eli. His whiskey eyes are shining as he takes in my sleepy appearance, from the top of my ratted head, down my braless front, making my nipples pucker, thank you very much, to my pink tipped toes. On his way back up, his jaw drops when he sees my panties.

“Yes,” I squeak and cross my arms over my chest. “She and Declan came over for dinner and ended up staying. We always could talk for hours.”

“Did I wake you?” he asks, his voice low and intimate as he steps toward me. I move back, letting him inside, and close the door.

“No, I was just waking up.” I bite my lip. “Um, what are you doing here?”

“I need a favor.”

I feel my eyebrows climb into my hairline as I watch his eyes smile, but he purses his lips to keep the smile at bay. It’s…endearing.

“A favor?”

“Yes, dawlin’, a very important one.”

I tilt my head and feel my lips quirk into a half smile. “I’m listening.”

“I need an escort around the Quarter this mornin’.”

I prop my hands on my hips, and Eli’s eyes slowly sober, heat, and move from my eyes to my mouth and down to my breasts. He swears under his breath as I remember that I’m showing him way more than I should and recross my arms.

“You need an escort?”

He nods and catches my gaze in his again. “Yes, please.”

“I don’t know my way around,” I reply softly.

“I do.”

“So, why—”

“I’d like to show you around our neighborhood, cher,” he says softly. “What do you say?”

I chew my lip for a few seconds, and finally smile gratefully. I’ve been dying to walk around and explore the famous French Quarter. “I’d be happy to escort you.”

“You might want to choose a different outfit,” he says, as he gestures to my clothes. “I would hate to have to beat every man we walk past into the sidewalk for looking at you.”

I wave him off and turn to walk into my bedroom, but hear him mutter, “Although, you look amazing in anything you wear.”

This is not helping my nipples calm down. I close the door to the bedroom, lean back on it, and take a deep breath. This man is pure walking temptation. But he didn’t touch me. He smiled and invited me on a tour of the neighborhood. Sure, he checked out my chest, but I am braless, and my damn body reacts to him on a purely visceral level.

I can control myself for the day. No problem.

I nod and mentally pat myself on the back, then quickly tame my hair, brush my teeth, and pull on some denim capris and a blue sleeveless blouse. On my way out of the bedroom, I grab the green hat Eli bought me the other day, and slip my feet into a comfortable pair of Toms.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

Eli is standing at my window, his hands in the front pockets of jeans that mold to his bottom and thighs just perfectly. His black T-shirt is stretched over his broad shoulders, and his dark hair is still wet around the collar from his shower.

He turns and smiles when he sees me holding the hat.

“Good plan. It’s going to get hot today.”

“It’s hot every day,” I reply with a wry grin. He hands me my handbag and escorts me down to the sidewalk.

“This way.” He leads me to the right, his hand in its spot on the small of my back, and within two blocks, we’re at Jackson Square, in front of the St. Louis Cathedral where jazz musicians play enthusiastically on a variety of instruments, palm readers are just setting up their tables, and artists have set up their canvases on the iron fence surrounding the beautiful park that holds the large statue of President Jackson on his horse, giving the square it’s name.

“It’s beautiful down here,” I murmur, and smile at a man as he plays his saxophone.

“That it is,” Eli agrees, and leads me around the park toward a green building with a green and white awning and dozens of round tables with chairs under it. “We’ll start with breakfast.”

“There’s a long line,” I reply, and eye the line of people waiting patiently for a table.

“It moves fast,” he assures me, and leads me to the end of the line. “And it’s worth it.”

“Okay, tell me about Café du Monde,” I request, reading the sign on the awning.

“Best beignets in New Orleans,” he assures me. “This place has been here forever and hasn’t changed much.”