Page 37 of She's Like the Wind
The driver pulled into traffic, navigating the cramped, crooked streets of the Quarter like a pro.
“No, but I’ve been meaning to.”
Gage loved Indian food. I’d been planning to take him there for his birthday. I’d even scoped out the menu, thought about what he’d like. But that day had come and gone a month ago—unmarked and unspoken.
“Then I’m glad I chose it.” Jonah smiled with satisfaction as he loosened the collar of his linen shirt slightly and added, “I know the family that owns it.”
“I know a little about you,” I told him shyly, feelinga little stalkerish since I’d looked him up on the Internet.
“Looked me up, did you?” He leaned back and studied me with amusement.
I shot him a look of mock exasperation. “I needed to make sure I wasn’t going on a date with a serial killer.”
He let out a soft laugh. “And what did you find out about me?”
I pressed my back against the plush leather of the car seat. “That you’re planning on opening a speakeasy.”
“Ah, Saints & Sinners.” He launched into talk of the project—a speakeasy-style bar opening behind one of his flagship restaurants in the CBD. “We’re playing on New Orleans’ Catholic and hedonistic heritage. We’re thinking moody indulgence with gilded altars, dark corners, and drinks with names like Confession or Original Sin.”
I let my eyes rest on him, thinking. He was a gorgeous man. Olive skin, trim body, high cheekbones, blue-gray eyes. He was a package and the complete antithesis of my rough-edged ex.
Stop thinking about Gage! Focus on Jonah. Handsome, rich, refined….
“I’d love to try Original Sin.” I tilted my head, infusing my words with a flirtatious tone that I didn’t feel.
He kept the conversation moving. Hetold me about an Italian wine bar and bistro he was planning to open in the Garden District, and about a pop-up collab with a New York chef that was already generating press.
“I like concept-driven spaces,” he continued. “Design that tells a story. Vibe is everything now—people eat with their eyes first. You sell lingerie, you know how it goes.”
He liked to hear his own voice. Nothing wrong with that, and it actually worked for me. I liked to listen. I felt that Jonah would not be comfortable with silences.
Like Gage used to be.
Damn it! I needed to stop thinking abouthim. This wasn’t healthy. It was also counterproductive when I was on a date with another, very appropriate man.
I nodded, smiled when it felt right, and listened politely, wondering if I should give up the fight and let my mind go where it wanted to. Every time Jonah spoke, I compared him to the man who wasn’t interested in me.
Gage wouldn’t care aboutconceptorPR buzz.
He wouldn’t build things because oftrendsor foroptics.
He wouldn’t be caught dead in a linen suit—no matter how hot Jonah looked in it. He wore Carhartt to job sites and smelled like sawdust and sweat, and occasionally the cedar-scented soap he used.
Gage could talk for twenty minutes about 19th-century joinery and get this quiet glow in his eyes like the wood was telling him secrets.
Jonah was brilliant and polished, like one of his restaurants with dim lighting and expensive plates that were more art than food.
Gage was the guy who’d take you to a hole-in-the-wall for gumbo and insist it was the best in the city—and he’d be right.
“Does it ever feel like a lot?” I cut in gently. “The business. The constant expansion.”
Jonah’s eyes danced with pleasure. “No. I love it.” Then he winked at me. “I get restless when things sit still too long.”
I gave another polite smile.
Gage didn’t get restless. He was self-contained. He could sit still and watch the sunset quietly. He didn’t run after change, no, he restored buildings—he didn’t make them new…just whole again.
By the time we got to Saffron, two things were clear. Jonah was having a great time with me, and I wasn’t over Gage.
