His Secretary's Surprise Fiancé

Adelaide hadn’t been at all surprised when Dempsey’s real father had shown up to claim him. She’d known as soon as she’d met Dempsey—way back when he’d saved her from a beat down in a cemetery where she’d gone to play—that he was destined for more than the Eighth Ward. In her fanciful moments, she’d imagined him as a prince and the pauper character like the fairy tale. He had the kind of noble spirit that his poor birth couldn’t hide.

And even though she wanted to think she was destined for more than her tiny studio still a stone’s throw from St. Roch Avenue, she was determined to make it happen because of her hard work and talents. Not because of all the wealth and might of Dempsey Reynaud.

“Through here.” He waved her past the open door to another bedroom, the floor plan coming back to her now that she’d walked through the finished house. She recalled the two huge bedrooms upstairs and, down another hall, the in-law suite with a separate entrance accessible from outside above the three-car garage.

She didn’t remember the den where he brought her now. But he didn’t seem to be showing her the den so much as leading her through it to another doorway that opened onto the upstairs gallery. As he pushed open the door, moonlight spilled in, drawing her out onto the deep balcony with a woven mat on the painted wooden floor. A flame burst to life in the outdoor fireplace built into the exterior wall of the house, a feature he must have been controlling with the app on his phone. An outdoor couch and chairs surrounded the fireplace, but he led her past those to the railing, where he stopped. In front of them, Lake Pontchartrain shone like glass in the moonlight, a few trees swaying in a nighttime breeze making a soft swishing sound.

“I haven’t spent much time here, but this is my favorite spot.” He rested his phone and his elbows on the wooden railing, staring out over the water.

“If this was my house, I don’t think I’d ever leave it.”

There was so much to take in. Lights from Metairie and a few casino boats glittered at the water’s edge. Long docks were visible like shadowy fingers reaching out into the lake, while the causeway spanned the water as far as she could see, disappearing to the north.

“I wish I had more free time to spend here, too.” He turned to face her, his expression inscrutable in the moonlight. “But someone might as well make use of it. Move in for the next few weeks, Adelaide. Stay here.”

Normally, Dempsey wouldn’t have appreciated an interruption of a crucial conversation. But Evan’s announcement of dinner had probably prevented another refusal from Adelaide, so he counted the disruption as a fortuitous break in the action.

Now they ate dinner in high-backed leather chairs in the den, watching highlights from around the league. They attempted to name the flavors in the naturalistic Nordic cuisine with ingredients specially flown in to appease Gervais’s fiancée’s pregnancy cravings. The white asparagus flavored with pine had been interesting, but Dempsey found himself reaching for the cayenne pepper to bring the flavor of Cajun country to the salmon. You could take the man out of the bayou, but apparently his palate stayed there. Dempsey’s birth mother may have been hell on wheels, but before she’d spiraled downward from her addictions, she’d cooked like nobody’s business.

“I can’t believe you have Gervais’s chef making meals like this for you.” Adelaide took more asparagus, finding her appetite once she’d glimpsed the kind of food prepared by the culinary talent being underutilized by Gervais and his future wife. “That is another reason I could never live in this house. I’d weigh two tons if I could have dishes arrive at my doorstep with a phone call. What a far cry from takeout pizza.”

“I think you’re safe with asparagus.” He’d always thought she’d eaten too little, even before he started training with athletes who calculated protein versus carb intake with scientific precision to maximize their workout goals.

His plan for dinner had been to keep things friendly. No more toying with the sexual tension in the air, in spite of how much that might tempt him. He needed Adelaide committed to his plan, not devising ways to escape him, so he would try to keep a lid on the attraction simmering between them.

For now.

If she moved into his house, he would spend more time here, too. He’d keep an eye on her over the next few weeks, solidify their friendship and learn to read her again. He’d taken her friendship for granted and he regretted that, but it wasn’t too late to fix it. He’d find time to help her with her future business plans, all while convincing her to stick out the rest of the season.

“You don’t understand.” She pointed her fork at him. She’d put on one of his old Hurricanes T-shirts about six sizes too large for her, her dark hair twisted into a knot and held in place with a pencil she’d snagged off his desk. She still wore her black pencil skirt, but he could only see a thin strip of it beneath the shirt hem. “I peeked in the dessert containers while you were finding a shirt for me and I already gained twelve pounds just looking at the sweets. There is a crème brûlée in there that is...” She trailed off. “Indescribable.”