Page 3 of Love Me Tomorrow

“Rock ‘n’ roll time, folks!” Joe Devonsson bellows, off to my right. “Let’s do this—no more crazy shit, you hear me? If I see one more man come out of that limo wearing a ridiculous costume, I’m going to fucking lose my mind.”

You can say that again.

With feet that feel heavy like iron anvils, I trudge to my marked spot on the circular driveway. The grand mansion is to my back, the waiting limo to my front. I have absolutely zero expectations that the next five guys will rev my engine, so to speak, but Matilda’s question continues to nag me:If your dream man could step out of that limo, what would he look like?

Temptation.The word slips through my mind and clings fiercely. My dream man would look like temptation.

“Savannah, you ready?”

After a quick thumbs up to Joe, I pin a serene smile in place like the debutante I once was.

Press my shoulders back.

Pray with every bit of my soul that even if the next guy to climb out of that limo isn’t my dream man, hopefully he’ll be someone I find attractive—or, at the very least, someone who will do a damn good job of convincing me that although I don’twantto be on a dating show, I made the right decision in honoring my contract by showing up.

The glossy limo door swings open and a pair of black-leather dress shoes hit the stone driveway. One foot, then the other, and maybe I’m crazy or already tipsy on too much champagne, but my stomach dips with anticipation.

Begrudging anticipation, but anticipation nonetheless.

Black slacks appear, and I curse the set director for placing me near the walkway leading up to the mansion. Case in point: my view is nothing but limbs. But yeah, this guy—whoever he is—he’s got great legs. Thick thighs that strain the fabric of his pants. Tall-looking, too. Definitely taller than I am.

Wanting a better look, I shift up onto my tiptoes, the rasp of my sequined dress against the cobblestones echoing loudly in my ears.

Tattooed hands are revealed next. Thick, masculine fingers. A palm that could easily span the width of my back, tugging me close for a romantic dance, or a hot kiss, or a gravelly whisper in my ear.

I never cared for tattoos, not beforehim. Not before I watched him work diligently on every person who walked into his parlor. Not before I sat on that flat table, aware that I was rebelling in a way that I never had before, and felt the weight of his big hands coasting over my skin to mark me with black, irreversible ink.

I swallow hard and remind myself that Los Angeles is thousands of miles away from New Orleans.

Pull yourself together, Rose.

And maybe I would have been able to, if the man exiting the limo hadn’t stepped into the soft light just then and thrown my already teetering world straight into the abyss of chaos.

My dream man.

In the span of a heartbeat, I soak in his familiar face. The dark, tousled hair. The dark, close-shaven beard. The dark, bottomless eyes that always seem to anticipate my every move—even when I wish he couldn’t read me at all. The tattoos that creep up to the collar of his black suit, and cling to the base of his thick throat.

I’m accustomed to seeing him in jeans and flannel shirts but decked out in a tailored, black suit like he is now . . . God, he looks raw.

Savage.

Powerful.

What is hedoinghere?

Instinctively, I step back—off theXtaped to the stone beneath my feet and away from the man who isn’t supposed to be anywhere but in his tattoo shop on Bourbon Street.

Certainly not here. With me.

Amelie.

My sister’s face flashes in my mind’s eye and I wrangle my rapidly beating heart into submission, pushing the traitorous thing down until the pounding in my ears is nothing but ambivalent white noise.

He doesn’t heed the shock that’s no doubt kicked my placid smile to the curb.

No.

Without taking those glittering black eyes off me, he ambles close, all loose limbs and simmering confidence, until we’re breathing the same air, taking up the same space, existing in the same moment.

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