Page 13 of Love Me Tomorrow

Now, we all know Savannah Rose was bound to return from her travels at some point—the girl may come from New Orleans royalty, but money can’t buy you an international visa.

It also can’t buy Miss Savannah Rose a man.

No one has forgotten the leaked footage from this past winter, least of all me. The show may be mid-season on TV, but it’s no secret that Savannah is as single as on the day she was born. (More single than I am, although that’s a story for another day.)

Continue to watch this space, Dear Reader. Now that our girl Savannah is back stateside, I can only imagine that the tea will be piping hot, and it’s only a matter of time before it’s ready to be spilled . . .

4

Savannah

Coward.

Twenty-four hours after my showdown with Owen at Inked and I’ve yet to scrub his accusation from my brain. It trails me as I park my car and head for ERRG’s main office, an Art Deco building situated in New Orleans’ Warehouse District. It dogs my heels as I step into the lobby for the first time in months, and head for the elevators.

And it’d probably follow me into our fourth-floor offices, too, if I didn’t nearly pee my pants when my coworkers pop out from behind desks and computers and bookcases to shout, “Welcome back, Savannah!”

Neon-colored streamers explode in the air, and then I’m being sidelined by a pair of arms that squeeze me in a chest-compressing hug.

“Can’t breathe,” I wheeze out, my hands flailing where they’re pinned down to my sides. “Georgie”—I knock my head gently against hers—“ease up or I’ll suffocate.”

ERRG’s executive assistant only squeezes me tighter. “Ten more seconds.”

My laugh merges with a gasp. “I don’t know if I can last five.”

“Serves you right for ditching us forEurope,” she counters flippantly.

“Move aside, Harris,” says a different voice, this one deeper, more arrogant. Jean Dufrene steps in my line of sight, his broad shoulders blocking the florescent lights behind him. “Your turn is up.”

Georgie sniffs, her curly brown hair tickling my neck, but she lets go anyway and steps back. Her honey-colored eyes pin Dufrene with an inscrutable look. “You bitched about this entire party andnowyou want to pretend that you care?”

“Oh, I care.” He taps her on the nose, like she’s a good dog that he’s hoping won’t pee on his shoes. “But only because I knew you’d bring those delicious cupcakes that I like so much.”

I barely stifle a snort when my assistant glares up at the towering Cajun chef, who’s as fundamental to ERRG’s success as she is. Jean may be the mastermind behind the menus at all of our thirteen restaurants here in New Orleans, but Georgie keeps the machine chugging along—even when I’ve been out of town with Amelie.

Coward.

Goddammit. What’s it going to take to get Owen’s stupid voice out of my head? Another twenty-four hours? Forty-eight?

Doesn’t matter.

Whatdoesmatter is thatIknow I’m not a coward. A coward would have turned tail yesterday instead of standing up to him in that hallway. A coward would find a way to ignore him forever, instead of—

“I didn’t buy them foryou,” Georgie growls, cutting off my train of thought. She’s not even five feet tall but that means nothing when you’re the child of a former New Orleans Saints linebacker. Georgette Harris might not have her father’s biceps or his massive build, but she’s nailed his fierceness down to a T. I watch as she prods Jean in the chest with a lime-green nail, then delivers a cutting once-over. “Food for thought, Dufrene, but maybe you should leave off the cupcakes? You’re looking a little . . .” She wiggles a finger at his waistband area.

Jean’s mouth tightens as he stares down at my spitfire assistant. “Hot?”

Georgie’s smile is all blinding white teeth. “I was going to sayround.”

Oh, boy.

I just barely manage to kick my grin off my face when ERRG’s notorious chef cuts me a seething glare. There’s nothing “round” about Jean Dufrene. The man might as well be a robot: he runs marathons regularly, prays to the altar of CrossFit, and walks his dogs along the Mississippi River levees twice a day like clockwork. He’s nearly as active as Georgie’s dad was when Mr. Harris played for the Saints, and yet I know something Jean doesn’t:

Georgie goads him because she’s harboring a major crush on him, and, to date, Jean has either never picked up on the clues she’s been leaving behind, like red velvet cupcakes over the last number of years,orhe’s simply not interested.

My gut tells me it’s the former.

“Can you fire her and put me out of my misery?” he grits out from between clenched teeth.

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