Page 19 of Provoke You

“We’re all set here. Thank you.” She hung up and turned to me. “Why are you looking at me like I just posted that we’re shacking up in my hotel room all over social media.”

“You did that on purpose.” Unfortunately, she hadn’t done it for Sam’s benefit, but to mess with me. Now the idea of sex was back in my head.

“Relax. He knew I was kidding. Your precious job is safe.” She jumped on the bed. She landed on her butt with her long legs dangling over the side. My mind quickly filled in the blanks with flashes of me lying on top of her. This was a bad idea.

“So what are we doing the rest of the night? How about a movie?” She smiled.

I glared at the spread of papers on the coffee table. She wasn’t going to make this easy on me. “Fine. Let’s eat in the kitchen.”

She hopped out of bed so fast I had to shuffle back. Before I could issue any warnings about her not trying to run away, she dialed the concierge again and cancelled our room service. “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior. You’re going to love the team. Come on.” Her fingers slid across my back before she ushered me toward the door. It was the slightest touch, but effective in getting me to do what she wanted.

I followed her across the courtyard to the main entrance of the hotel. From there, she strode through a ballroom and into the next room, which appeared to be an empty bar. “This way.” She breathed out as she opened a side door and slipped in. Her cheeks blushed pink with excitement. This was important to her.

On the other side of the door, she took me through two other hallways, a left, then a right. When we reached the main kitchen area, she continued along the wall until we reached a back room set up with a table for two, complete with linens, fresh flowers, and even candles. “Here we are.”

“You knew I’d say yes.”

“What? I eat here every Wednesday. Dad started the tradition, but it’s been a while. I know it doesn’t look it, but Dad and I used to be close. Then he changed. Maybe one day he’ll join me again.” She pulled out a chair, sat, and gestured for me to do the same.

I hesitated because an intimate dinner with Ela LeBlanc wasn’t exactly in my job description. This was worse than if we had stayed in her room.

“It’s just a meal, Matt.”

It wasn’t.

As soon as I sat, our first course arrived. Oysters. “Be ready to get your socks knocked off.” She forked an oyster and popped it into her mouth. “So good.”

Our gazes met. Even when she licked the pads of her thumb and index finger, I didn’t look away. Over five thousand posts on Instagram, and not one of them ever mentioned this little ritual of hers. Just when I was about to ask about her dad, she broke eye contact to address the woman in a chef’s coat.

“Yes, he’ll have the same as me. I’m giving him a taste of New Orleans tonight.” She lowered her voice, and the server leaned toward her with a conspiratorial smile. “Whether he wants it or not.”

The woman chuckled and turned to me. “Nice to meet you. I’m Cece. I’m the executive chef here.”

“She’s also my mentor.” Ela squeezed Cece’s hand.

“Ela practically grew up in this kitchen,” Cece said in a tone more like a mother’s than a mentor’s.

In a flash, Ela went from happy grin to an actual frown that made her look years older. She reached for the bottle of champagne on the side of the table and poured her own glass.Losing the hotel was killing her.

“He’s selling the hotel, Cece.”

“Oh, sweetie, I know. Jennifer called earlier. I’m sorry.”

She took a long sip of her wine and plastered a smile on her face. “But you know what? Let’s not ruin Matt’s dinner with our sad faces. What’s next on the menu?”

Cece nodded. “Turtle soup, of course.”

“Oh yes. Wait till you try it. A lot of places around here will tell you they have the best turtle soup, but don’t fall for it. We’re the best in town.”

That spark in her eyes returned as she talked to me about some of the dishes that made her restaurant a popular choice for tourists as well as locals. The more she talked, the easier it became for me to pretend this was what any good bodyguard would do.

“Come on—you gotta help me finish these oysters.” She shoved a few shells to my side of the platter.

Crushed ice rolled off it and onto the white tablecloth. The oysters were everything she had promised, meaty and fresh at the same time.

“Do you drink?”

I shook my head when she tried to pour champagne in my glass. “Not while on the job.”

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