Page 8 of Man of His Dreams

“Great! Let me talk to Kat for just a sec and then we can get started.”

“It’s just me?” Flip was surprised.

“Unless someone else shows up in the next three minutes, you get me all to yourself. Hang on.”

Tony ducked into the nearby room to talk to the young woman, which gave Flip a good opportunity to stare at him. Of course, he wasn’t dressed like Scratch; instead of a suit, Tony wore jeans and a pale-blue oxford shirt. His hair was the same dark brown as Scratch’s, but unoiled so that the curls were more noticeable. He had the same face shape, high cheekbones, and somewhat pointy chin. The same sensual lips, strong nose, and arched brows. His height and build were identical to Scratch’s. He even moved with the same confident grace and gave the same overall impression of a man assured of his own beauty and determined not to take life too seriously. The biggest difference between them were the eyes—dark amber for both of them, but Tony’s lacked the depths of sorrow that sometimes appeared in Scratch’s gaze.

And, of course, Tony was entirely real, whereas Scratch was a dream ghost.

There was a logical explanation for the resemblance—there had to be. Either Flip was misremembering what Scratch looked like, or he’d passed Tony on the street. Flip lived only two blocks away from here, after all, and even a brief encounter could have influenced his dreams.

But neither of those explanations rang true.

He was pulled out of his reverie by Tony, back in the hallway and smiling at him. “Looks like you get a private tour. Usually we charge ten bucks, but a couple of the rooms are sort of a mess right now because we just finished an art exhibition, so I’m not going to charge you. Your house tour is on the house.”

Oh, that wink was exactly like Scratch.

“That’s really nice of you. I hope I’m not keeping you from more important work.”

“Giving tours is my favorite thing, and I don’t often get to do it. So let me formally welcome you to the Bergeron-Catanzaro House, built in 1826 and named after two of the families that lived here.”

Rather belatedly, Flip had a realization. “Bergeron. That’s your?—”

“Yep. Sadly, my family hasn’t owned this place since the mid-nineteenth century. But I credit the house with giving me a career. When I was a kid, my parents used to point it out and tell me it was ours once, and that got me interested in our family history, and that got me interested in history in general. Then a job opened up here right after I finished my MA and… and, I’m sorry, you didn’t come here for the Anthony Bergeron Life Story.” He looked a little sheepish but not truly regretful.

“It’s a good story. I’m glad you told me. That connection is really cool.”

“C’mon. Let me show you around the place.”

The tour started in a large front room that had begun life as a parlor or music room. Tony launched into an explanation of who built the house and why it was designed the way it was. His tale continued as they peeked into a bedroom, a bathroom—obviously not original to the house—a dining room, a kitchen, and a long window-lined space that he said had once been the site of an organized-crime-related shootout. Although the stories themselves were interesting, what really delighted Flip was Tony’s depth of knowledge and passion for his subject.

The tour was thorough and not simply confined to the main house. Together they explored the courtyard, the gardens, and the building that had originally housed the kitchen and enslaved people. Tony didn’t try to underplay the grimness of slavery. As they stood in the lower part of that building, which had been used as an office by the man who owned the place in the 1950s, Tony spread his hands. “Some people like to argue that it was better to be a slave working in a fine house rather than in the sugarcane fields, and maybe that’s so, but the truth is that these people were forced to work hard, tolerate substandard housing, and endure assaults on their dignity, autonomy, and physical safety.”

Flip nodded. He could never hope to truly understand what enslaved people had gone through, but seeing a place where some of them had lived helped make their stories feel more real to him. “I have no clue whether any of my ancestors owned other human beings. Does it make you feel weird to know that yours did?”

Luckily, Tony didn’t seem offended by the question. “A little, yeah. But also, some of my ancestors were enslaved. I’m New Orleans Creole. My people came from France, Spain, Africa, Haiti, Sicily. I’m not proud of everything they all did. But it’s complicated, you know? Anyway, I guess if you go digging around in anyone’s family history, you’re going to unearth some hard truths.”

“Wouldn’t have to dig far with me,” Flip muttered. One generation would do it.

By the time they returned to the hallway near the front door, over ninety minutes had passed, a half hour longer than the official tour. Apparently nobody had shown up for the three o’clock, which was just fine with Flip. He’d enjoyed his time with Tony. “Well, thanks,” he said, feeling a little awkward. “A lot, I mean. This was great.”

Tony beamed. “How long are you in town? I can recommend some places to visit if you want to absorb more history. Or, you know, just eat well.” Was that a slightly flirty tone? Maybe.

“Oh, I live here, actually. I mean, I just moved here two days ago. I’m just a couple blocks away.” Flip pointed in the direction of his apartment.

“That’s great! I—” Tony paused, a blush coloring his cheeks. “Um, it’s a great city. Lots to see and do.”

It had been a long time since Flip had flirted back with someone. Eons. But Tony was so handsome and charming, and Flip felt as if they’d known each other much longer than ninety minutes. “I’d love to hear your suggestions.”

Their gazes caught. Flip had to squash the irrational and idiotic urge to pull Tony into a kiss. It didn’t help when Tony’s tongue darted out to briefly lick his bottom lip.

“Tell you what.” Tony glanced around as if someone might be listening in and then dropped his voice to nearly a whisper. “I’m tied up tonight and tomorrow, but how about if we meet here Thursday around two o’clock? I have the afternoon off, and I’ll take you on a walking tour of the French Quarter. Also free of charge,” he added with a grin.

Flip decided to be brave. “I could take us out to dinner. Just to be fair.”

“I like that plan very much.”

Plan. That word renewed Flip’s memory of Scratch, but he pushed the thought away. It was dumb to be thinking of imaginary men when he’d soon be going on a date with a real one.

---