Ash chuckled. “Are you serious? After what just happened?”
She sighed and ran her hands over his chest. “I’ll explain later. Can you just let me ravage you tonight?”
There was no question about whether she would get her way. She was his mate; it was settled. Some part of him knew as soon as she walked into the door of Bobby’s bar, as soon as her scent filled his lungs. No going back after this.
Rosemary might have thought she’d weaseled an invite to meet the offspring of her father’s enemy. But none of that mattered. She was his. He was hers.
Whether she knew it or not, she had been claimed by the wolf.
* * *
The sun rose over the French Quarter. Ash was alone on his rooftop overlooking Bourbon Street. Utterly spent after a night of passion with his new female, he should be sleeping it off—the booze, the exhaustion, the comedown after four orgasms in one night—but he needed to think.
And here on the rooftop is where he came to think.
Specifically, about why Rosemary wouldn’t let him undress her and please her in return. As Ash looked at the sunrise in all of its pinks and oranges, he knew he wanted to share this with her. Every morning for the rest of his life, if possible. He refused to screw this up. If she needed to take things slow when it came to her body, so be it. As long as she understood she was his.
But there was another problem. He could deal with her quirks, but could she deal with his whole laundry list of issues?
Perhaps he should just tell his brain to shut up and enjoy the ride for now. Wait for things to unfold naturally and get her parents used to him slowly. Draw it out. Let their love be the small but constant drip of water that eventually creates a beautiful canyon and nobody could imagine life without them together.
That’s it. That’s the only way. Get her, and her family, used to the whole idea, little by little.
And if that didn’t work? They could elope, move away, and change their names to stay out of the crosshairs of the legendary Lionel DuChamp. That was also a plan.
Chapter Three
Rosemary
“Daddy, Mama, I hope you don’t mind, I’m bringing home my boyfriend for dinner next week.”
Betsy and Lionel DuChamp both dropped their silver forks with a clatter onto the maple Louis XIV dining table.
“Well, sweetie, who is the lucky fellow?” Betsy asked, barely able to hide the wild curiosity behind her genteel exterior.
Rosemary could barely contain herself either, she was so excited to see her daddy’s reaction. “Ashton Boudreaux! I think you know his daddy, Jimmy?”
Then to add a little extra flair to her announcement, she sang the commercial jingle: “JB stands for Just the Best!”
The color wheel on her daddy’s face rotated from gray to beet red to rutabaga purple.
Her mother folded her linen napkin and placed it on the table. “Jimmy Chicken’s loin fruit. Well, my goodness.” Then she crossed her fork and knife at the top of her plate to indicate that she was finished eating, though she had eaten nothing. She had no more appetite for chicken.
“If you’re not gonna eat that, I’ll take it. I am famished. Ol' Ash and I had quite the night out on the town last night and I was so exhausted I slept all day and haven’t eaten a single thing since brunch at Du Monde yesterday.”
Rosemary got up and cleared away her mother’s plate and carried it back to her place at the table. She stared at her parents and waited for the ax to fall. “Well, gosh, you two. Say something. Anything!” Rosemary cajoled, with a mouthful of chicken. So much for finishing-school table etiquette.
Lionel finally did speak. He turned to his wife and said, “Betsy, I’ll be in my office.” And with that, he stood and gathered up his plate, fork, and knife and walked away.
Rosemary watched him go and then turned to Betsy, pointing a forkful of chicken thigh in the direction of her father’s back. “You know, that man is remarkable. Nothing can piss him off so bad he won’t eat.”
Betsy finally looked at her daughter straight in the eye but did not rejoin the comments about her husband. “My only child doesn’t appreciate anything we’ve done for her. She leaves my house to live in a moldy warehouse and teach kindergarten. God surely has a sense of humor.”
Rosemary stuffed her mouth with some fried okra. “Doesn’t she, though?” she said.
“Oh, Rosemary, it is too late to try to get a rise out of me with your nonsense. You fried that nerve straight away by announcing that you’re dating a child of that vulgar sneak Jimmy Boudreaux.” Betsy spat the nickname out as if it was grit in her mouth.
Rosemary was going to reply with another witticism, but she stopped herself when she spotted the tear in her mother’s eye. And there it went, down her cheek.
It wasn’t a serious bout of waterworks. Just a single tear. Somehow, that single tear was much more affecting than a full-blown sob fest.
“Mama.” Rosemary stood and rushed over to her mother’s side. “Mama, don’t cry. I was just so excited. I know you don’t like his family, but I just can’t do anything about this stupid heart of mine. I like him. I like him a lot, I think.”
When Betsy didn’t reply, Rosemary stood up straight and took a deep breath. Time to let it go, for now, she thought.
Betsy said, “I need to have a lie-down, and we’ll discuss this in the morning.” That translated to I need my Xanax and a glass of wine, and I’m going to go to sleep at eight p.m. so I can end this most wretched of days as early as possible.
Rosemary was left alone to eat two plates of chicken, sweet potato, and the best damn fried okra in the entire South. Which was
