Thunk-thunk-thunk-smack.
I snap my gaze to my feet to see that my suitcase has toppled backward down the steps and landed face-down on the sidewalk.
I suppress a listless sigh and start to retrieve it, when Patrick touches the base of my elbow, stopping me.
“Allow me,” he says, effortlessly reaching to scoop up the handle and hefting the suitcase back onto the top step. He stands to one side, pushing the door wide, and gesturing for me to go ahead inside. “After you.”
“Thank you.” Clutching my purse against my side like a security blanket, I step through the door and take in the spacious front room. I recognize it immediately from a number of Lucky’s videos, with its rich, wood-paneled walls and matching hardwood floors. A shiny, black baby grand piano is positioned in the center of the room and a few luxurious, antique sofas are perfectly positioned around it to allow simultaneously for conversation and a front-row seat for whenever Lucky—or whomever—is playing. The windows are dressed with heavy, emerald, floor-to-ceiling drapes with sheer white panels over the glass, offering privacy, but still letting in light.
“Everyone’s on the second floor.” Patrick closes the front door and joins me at my side. “The other two contest folks are already here, and they’ve picked their rooms. Would you like me to take your bag to get you settled in before we go join ‘em?”
“Sure.” Nerves twisting my stomach cause the word to come out like a squeak, and I twist the straps of my purse between my palms.
Patrick looks at me. “You’re kinda nervous about this, huh?”
I force a laugh. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
He offers another easy, dimpled smile. “Yeah,” is all he says, and then he just continues to look at me.
He doesn’t make a move to lead me to wherever the bedrooms are. His steady gaze feels kind of intimate, or penetrating, or something I can’t put my finger on, and I reflexively push my hair over my shoulder.
“You said you’re from Texas,” he prompts.
I quickly nod. “Yes. From Austin.”
He offers an acknowledging dip of his chin, scans my face for a second, and then says casually, “I’ve heard Texas girls are pretty.” Then he turns and starts strolling toward a staircase behind the piano before adding with his back to me, “That was probably the understatement of a lifetime.”
The compliment is simultaneously so nonchalant, so flattering, and so unexpected that I have no idea how to respond. I’m left speechless for long enough that even saying thank you would be awkward. But Patrick doesn’t appear to be fazed or even notice my lack of response as he starts up the hardwood stairs. I’m stuck in a momentary trance watching him disappear up the stairs while I overanalyze the compliment.
“I amnothere to hook up with anyone,” I mumble, “I am absolutelynothere to hook up with anyone.”
* * *
After droppingoff my purse and suitcase in one of the guest bedrooms on the second floor, I follow Patrick down a long, narrow hallway as the sound of music and loud conversation drifts nearer and nearer. We pass the stairwell, and he pushes open a door to reveal a scene that resembles a prohibition-era speakeasy.
Men and women mingle in groups of three and four; men wearing trousers, shirts with the sleeves rolled up and top few buttons undone, and loosened ties, a couple with black fedora hats set at dramatic angles on their heads; women wearing all manner of flashy, beaded dresses, some of them with long strands of double-wrapped pearls around their necks, others with feather boas, others still with sequined headbands. Everyone is holding a drink; either low-ball glasses, or martinis, or champagne in vintage, saucer-style glasses. They’re all chattering freely while seated on gold and red vintage couches or meandering in and out through French doors that lead to the balcony or standing next to a looming fireplace that is roaring with flames, despite it being about eighty degrees outside. One woman is perched, legs crossed with stockings and garters on full display, on a dark, walnut-brown baby grand piano while she sips from a vintage champagne glass.
And there’s Lucky, seated at the bench, tickling the keys with a smoldering cigarette deftly secured between his index and middle fingers.
“Can I get you a drink?” Patrick breaks through the trance I’m suddenly trapped in. I have a feeling these little trances I keep being overcome with are going to be a regular occurrence this week.
“Uhhh…” I wordlessly flap my jaw as I take in the scene. One of the men picks up a trombone and leans against the piano next to the woman, then starts playing an accompaniment to the melody Lucky is plunking out. I turn to Patrick with an expression that likely looks deadly serious. “That would probably be a good idea.”
He chuckles heartily, flashing me the bright, wide version of his smile, and then drapes his arm around my shoulders as though we’re old chums. “I’ll admit it’s a bit of a spectacle. Greasing the wheels’ll keep it from overwhelming you,” he says, nudging me toward a large, mahogany bar that spans the length of one wall and features a brass rail footrest affixed to its base. “What’ll it be?”
“I, um…” I stammer, my eyes fixed on Lucky, who lifts his cigarette-holding hand to caress the woman’s thigh while she leans down so they can meet in the center for a lingering kiss. When their lips part, he winks at her and then slips the cigarette in his mouth to take a long drag and continues to play. “I mean…whatever’s good, I guess.”
Patrick steps behind the bar while I lean against the front and rest my foot on the brass rail. The mirrored shelves behind it are stocked with gins, liquors, cordials, and so many other types of alcohol that I can’t even identify all of it.
Patrick rests his palms on the edge of the bar, his corded forearms on full display below his rolled-up sleeves. “Ever had a Sazerac?”
Behind me, a trumpet and saxophone join in with the casual jam session, and I’m officially in sensory overload. “I haven’t.”
“Well, you should have one.” He retrieves two low-ball glasses from below, sets them on the bar, and then turns to start retrieving bottles from the shelves. “It’s allegedly the oldest-known American cocktail and originated in pre-Civil War New Orleans.”
He quickly and effortlessly mixes up the ingredients and some ice in a shaker, then pours the drinks into the glasses, and finally garnishes them with curls of lemon. He picks them up, holds out one to me, and I take it.
“To you, Miss Texas,” he says, quirking his mouth in a half-smile that pulls a dimple deep into one cheek. We clink the glasses together. “Welcome to New Orleans, where we will likely corrupt you.”
