please. I can barely tell you’re up there.”
“Now what do I do?”
Colin tilted his head way back, nearly sending her toppling over before she corrected by leaning forward, and grinned at her again. “Catch whatever comes your way. And no matter what you’ve seen on TV, don’t flash the riders for beads,” he cautioned. “You’ll get us both arrested.”
“Flash them—?” she began, but she was cut off when something hit her right in the face.
She caught it reflexively and a strand of green-and-gold beads dangled from her fingers.
“Good job,” Colin said, patting her knee. “Now put them on.” She looped them over her head as a shower of beads began to rain down from the floats.
Colin caught a few, but for the most part, he kept his arms locked around her legs to keep her stable as she quickly got the hang of it. Occasionally, she’d loop a set over his head until he began to look a bit like a cheap Technicolor Mr. T.
There were marching bands, more elaborate costumes, ornate floats—just an ongoing stream of tacky, over-the-top opulence. And Jamie loved every minute of it. She’d had no idea she was such a sucker for a parade, and the crowd’s enthusiasm was contagious. This was so much better than sitting at the Lucky Gator listening to a crappy band play, and she finally understood the allure of the street party.
This was simply freakin’ awesome.
Colin kept pointing out details and providing backstory, acting as her own private Mardi Gras guide and tutor. When a float broke down, bringing the parade to a halt, Colin got her a beer from a street vendor and then danced with her to a high school marching band’s rendition of “Louie, Louie” before putting her back on his shoulders for the last few floats. She was sad to see the final one go by.
As the crowd began to pull back a little, Colin set her on her feet for the last time.
Rising up onto her tiptoes again, she kissed his cheek, surprising them both. “That was so much fun. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Want me to walk you back to the bar?”
Jamie fished her phone out of her pocket. No message from Kelsey, so she was probably still there listening to David’s band mangle another classic, and she didn’t really want to go back now, anyway.
Colin must have picked up on her mood. “Or we could head a couple of blocks up the street and watch the next one?”
A happy glow settled in her stomach. “I think I’d like that. A lot, actually.”
To her surprise, he seemed genuinely pleased with her answer. He held out his hand. “Then let’s go.”
This time, she didn’t think twice about taking it.
Let the good times roll.
TWO
They ate muffulettas bought from a food cart near Woldenberg Park as the sun went down. Jamie didn’t really care for the olives, but she wasn’t complaining. About anything.
Today hadn’t been what she’d expected—who could have expected this?—and if anyone had tried to tell her she’d have one of the best days of her life at a street party with a guy she barely knew, she’d have laughed in their face.
Colin wadded up the wrapper from his sandwich and tossed it into an already overflowing garbage can. New Orleans was a beautiful place, but it was definitely worse for wear today, with garbage littering the streets and a pervasive odor of stale beer, sweat and something else she didn’t even want to try to identify. She could relate, though. Like the city, she wasn’t exactly fresh as a daisy now either, but she was still thrumming with energy and excitement and the desire for a good time.
She might just come to love New Orleans.
That might not be a good thing.
“Your nose is turning pink,” Colin said.
Jamie wrinkled it experimentally and felt the tightness. “Great. I’m going to have a clown nose.”
“Cutest clown ever.” He reached out a finger and touched it gently, his eyebrows drawing together in concern. “Does it hurt?”
The proximity, the gentle touch, the concern in his voice...Jamie’s throat felt tight and that tingly anticipation slid up through her stomach again. “No. Not yet,” she managed to get out.
He nodded and traced a finger along her cheekbone. “You’re a little pink here, too.”
Colin was killing her. There’d been flirting all day, the friendly, teasing kind that danced along the line but never went over it, leaving her wondering if it was just his personality or genuinely directed at her. She’d scraped the rust off her own flirting skills and given it her best, but the results were unsatisfying—in multiple ways. She had no idea if she was having any effect on him at all, and if not, was it from lack of interest on his part or lack of skill on hers?
She’d been touching him for hours—even once wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing against his back as they went through a particularly dense crowd—but she wanted to really touch him. She’d found herself staring at his lips, her mouth gone dry and her stomach fluttering, but Colin never made the move. Even when he touched her—a hand on her back to guide her, holding her hand in the crowd, even once wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her in close and protectively when a couple of drunk guys got a little too rowdy—it hadn’t been more than what she’d expect from any male friend. It bordered on brotherly, for God’s sake.
And it was completely, absolutely killing her.
Surely Colin wouldn’t spend this much time with a woman he didn’t feel some attraction to? This might have started out as a step above a pity date, but he could have gone his own way at any time. The fact that he hadn’t gave her hope.
If this was some kind of game, he was playing her like a pro, but it didn’t feel like a game, and that both pleased and concerned her. Because if she was being played, she was falling for it, hook, line and sinker, and she couldn’t stop herself if she wanted to. And she wasn’t sure she really wanted to anyway.
But if Colin didn’t make a move on her soon, she was going to launch herself at him like a penis-seeking missile, probably humiliating them both at the same time.
She drained the last of her beer, wishing she had a few more in her system—just enough to cause her to lose the inhibition that kept her from acting on the ideas running wild and free through her mind.
But no, she’d just had to be somewhat responsible today.
Just enjoy this for what it is. Don’t ruin it by making a complete fool of yourself.
She was probably misreading the situation anyway. Maybe this was just some New Orleans tradition she was unaware of—a local interpretation of Southern hospitality: find a bored tourist and show her a good time.
And hadn’t she proven—conclusively—that she was really bad at reading people, unable to even pick up on the glaringly obvious, much less the subtle? She wouldn’t even be here
