Food and sex.
Apparently, there was no room for anything in between.
“Chèr,the boys went and grabbed everything they could think of. I’m sure there is something here you will like.”
“But I really want that sandwich.”
For the love of God, please tell me one of the boys had enough fucking brains cells to swing by the delicatessen and grab my woman a muffaletta!
“Devlyn, if you keep whining about that sandwich, I might just start thinking you love it more than me,” I said, shooting her a teasing glance as I grabbed a beer from behind the bar.
She huffed, crossing her arms with exaggerated drama. “Maybe I do. That muffaletta never disappoints me.”
Chuckling, I popped the cap off my beer and leaned against the bar. “Well, guess I’ll have to step up my game. Can’t let a sandwich outshine me.”
As laughter bubbled out of her, I felt a twinge of satisfaction. She might drive me crazy sometimes, but she was my crazy, and I wouldn’t trade her for the world—or even a thousand muffalettas.
The boys did me proud. After I downed my beer, I grabbed Devlyn’s hand and escorted her into the kitchen where her eyes damn near popped out of her head. The table was laden downwith every good, delicious, savory dish New Orleans was known for, all presented as if it was the Last Supper of Christ.
And maybe in a way it was, because if my woman wasn’t happy with the food or what I was about to tell her, I was sure she would nail my ass to a cross and use my body for target practice.
“Devlyn,” I drawled, pulling out a chair for her as she gazed wide-eyed at the feast laid before her, “you think this spread might keep your muffaletta cravings at bay?”
Her lips twitched into a smirk, but she didn’t answer right away. Instead, she sauntered over to the table, her fingers brushing over the plates like she was admiring a crown jewel. Crawfish étouffée, jambalaya, gumbo, and even beignets stacked high—it was a culinary love letter to New Orleans.
“You do realize,” she murmured, her gaze flicking to me, “this might just be enough for me to forgive you. For now.”
“Forgive me?” I echoed, leaning against the counter with a crooked grin. “For what,Chèr? Anticipating your every whim? Being an absolute charmer? Or—” I paused dramatically. “Not being a muffaletta?”
She snorted, finally sitting down and grabbing a plate. The familiar sparkle in her eye was back, and the faint but undeniable tension hanging in the air began to dissipate. “You might have a point there, Wade. But this better be amazing—and if it’s not, you’re running to the deli.”
I laughed and grabbed my own plate as she dove into the jambalaya like a woman possessed. As I watched her, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of nervous energy. Because tonight wasn’t just about food—it wasn’t even just about us.
What I had to say next was going to change everything.
I took a deep breath, setting my plate down as I met her eyes. “Devlyn, there’s something we need to talk about. Something important.”
Her fork paused mid-air. Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t speak.
Time for truth.
I was about to find out just how much she loved that muffaletta—or me.
Chapter Eighteen
Generally, when anyone said the words‘we need to talk’, it was never good news for the receiving person. And considering it was Wade who said those exact words, I knew whatever he needed to tell me wouldn’t be good.
So yeah, I was technically holding my breath.
“Did I ever tell you that the Crawley family owns a scrap metal business?”
I shook my head, wondering where he was going with this.
“Yep, Crawley Scrap Metal. That’s how the club and the family make money. Been doing it for generations.”
“Get to the point, Wade,” I growled, crossing my arms over my chest, waiting for the boom to be lowered when the rest of the Bourbon Kings walked into the room.
None of them said a damn word.
