Page 3 of Provoke You

So that’s why he’s pissed at me.

I untangled the sheets off me and stood a little straighter. “I don’t have the key.”

“Are you sure? Look in your pockets.” His voice was strained.

I stuck a finger in the small pocket of my blouse and shrugged. “I’m wearing a sequined skirt. That means no pockets. So yeah, I’m sure.” I relaxed my stance. Somehow, I got us here. If that was the case, I could get us out.

He scoffed. “I didn’t sleep a wink because of you.”

“Wait. Did we…you know?”

“No,” he said it way too quickly, as if the idea repulsed or petrified him. I couldn’t tell which. “Keeping up with you was exhausting enough. You didn’t fall asleep till three in the morning.”

I pressed my lips together and touched my free hand to my forehead. “It’s been a while since I had a drink. I guess I overdid it. Sorry. How about this? Take me home, and I’ll make sure you get compensated for your troubles.”

“First we need a key.”

“Yes! I like how you think.” I bounced on my toes, and the room spun a few times. I needed another kick of adrenaline, or coffee.

His features softened a bit at my display. “Let’s get some coffee in you first.” He reached for my wrist and wrapped his fingers inside the handcuffs to protect my skin. “Come on.” He ushered me out the door and through a long corridor that led to the small kitchen.

“I’m assuming this is your place?” I asked. The place didn’t scream bachelor pad. It was clean and furnished in a mix of leather and linen furniture. Everything in it felt fresh and new, not at all lived in.

“It is.”

“Weird question. Are we still in New Orleans?”

He chuckled. Shaking his head, he inserted a coffee pod in his Keurig and got it started. He seemed less annoyed than before, and that made me relax a little. The smell of coffee that promised to set me right didn’t hurt either. As soon as the brewing light went off, I reached for the mug and drank.

“To answer your question, yes. We’re still in New Orleans. Do you do this a lot?”

I recognized the tone in his voice. So judgy, though I couldn’t blame him. “Okay. Let’s start over,” I said in my sweetest voice. “I’m Ela LeBlanc.” He blinked at me. No signs of recognition. “As in LB Industries? I don’t think there’s a soul in the French Quarter who doesn’t know the LeBlanc name. My family owns a collection of boutique hotels around New Orleans.” I glanced at my bare feet. “I have like half a million followers on Instagram. Come on. You really don’t know me?”

“I’m not on Instagram, but I can see why people would follow you. Last night I got a good taste of what your escapades look like. How do you do that every day?”

“Judge much? I only go out on weekends.” Or used to. Dammit, all that progress gone with one drink. I finished my coffee and gestured for him to get me another one.

“Today is Wednesday.” He grabbed my mug.

“Oh, right. And your name?”

“Again, the name is Matt Cole.” He shook my hand, and my headache let up a little, or maybe the coffee was already kicking in.

“So we hung out a bit. Good. Any idea where I got these?” I jiggled our hands. The mention of our time together made the crease on his forehead return.

“When I found you, you already had them around your wrist.”

I cleared my throat. “Where was that?” I knocked back the rest of my second coffee and sauntered back to his room.

“Bourbon Street.” He followed close behind me.

When I peeked behind the headboard, I found my phone on the floor. He groaned when I bent over to reach under the mattress and dragged his arm with me. “Phone,” I mumbled by way of explanation.

“Well?”

“Got it.” I sat on the bed next to him, feeling better than I had when I first woke up.

Some good news—I had half a battery and a bunch of bars—livin’ the life. I pulled up Insta and scrolled through my feed. The usual images flashed across the screen. All my parties were the same, full of beautiful people who were there for the free drinks and crazy stunts. Why couldn’t I remember calling them?

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