Her Perfect Lips: HarperImpulse Contemporary Romance

Stacy nodded, not really sure how to respond, or if his statement even required a response at all.

“So, since you lived here, you must know some great places.” He touched her wrist, a light brush of his fingertips. “Maybe you can show me around.”

He was arrogant for sure, but he was also good-looking and ambitious, a well-dressed companion with a ready smile who would do well at company cocktail parties. Those were definitely good traits in a man. Boston was not all that far from New York. If things worked out, it would be very easy for them to see one another often. They might be able to share a very advantageous partnership and maybe even something more. She met his gaze and gave him a wide smile, open and inviting. She might be able to make this work. “I could do that.”

“You know what I’d really like to see?” he asked, leaning closer to her, giving the conversation an air of intimacy.

“No, what?” she asked, doing her part and moving closer to him.

His gaze flicked over her and there was much more than just professional interest in his eyes. “Bourbon Street.”

Stacy couldn’t help but recoil. “Why?”

He grinned like a little boy. “I hear it’s wild.”

“It is…something.” She took another sip of her drink, trying to think of a way to derail this train of thought. She did not want to deal with Bourbon Street, with the stink and the sordidness, the amateur drunks and assorted vermin. “But there are better things to see in the French Quarter.” She flashed him what she hoped was a meaningful look. She’d never really been a very good temptress, but she did try on occasion. “Private courtyards and gardens.” She paused for effect. “Dark bars.”

He shook his head, oblivious to her attempt at seduction. “Yeah, but Bourbon Street. I don’t think I could miss that.”

“Hey,” a petite, raven-haired woman in a group next to them called over. She was stunning, just one of those perfect women with flawless skin, shiny hair, and deep blue eyes. The sexy girl-next-door fantasy in real life. “Did I hear that you’re going to Bourbon Street? We were just talking about walking over. We should all go together!”

“Yes,” Peter said, nodding enthusiastically. “That sounds excellent.”

The eagerness in Peter’s tone made Stacy frown. This was not a positive development. “Super,” the woman said. “What are your names?”

Stacy knew everything was lost by the way Peter smiled at their newfound companion. “I’m Peter, and this is Stacy.”

“I’m Melanie.” She looked to Peter and flashed him a brilliant, white smile. “This is perfect. Going in groups is the best, don’t you think?” She turned back to the other people she was with. “Come on everyone, let’s go!”

Peter gave Stacy’s shoulder a quick squeeze, finished his beer in one gulp, and motioned toward the exit. “After you.”

Right now she had a decision to make. She could go along with the group, return to her room and spend the night alone, or try to meet some other people and persuade them not to go to Bourbon Street. She looked at Peter’s eager grin and told herself that it wouldn’t be too bad. At least it wasn’t Mardi Gras or Jazz Fest or even a Saturday night. She could do this. And maybe he was worth it. She gave him a single nod and followed him out of the bar.

The group left the hotel and walked up Canal Street. Two blocks later, they arrived at their destination. Bourbon Street was just as she remembered—loud music and neon lights, frat boys in muscle shirts and girls in crop tops, the stench of beer and pine-scented antiseptic cleaner, the sidewalks littered with garbage and puke. Their little entourage stumbled into the first club they found, which had “Play That Funky Music” blaring from the speakers. Stacy shook her head. Some things truly never changed. Bars on Bourbon Street would play that song until some ultimate, catastrophic apocalypse finally managed to wipe the city out for good.

The barker at the door proudly announced that the club was now offering their world famous three-for-one happy hour. The vodka tonic Stacy ordered was served in a plastic cup the size of which was rarely seen outside of a 7-Eleven. It contained more alcohol than any human should probably ever consume in a single serving, and she was glad to see that in addition to the bad music, the drinking culture had not changed either.

She headed toward the back of the club, outside into the little courtyard area where the music was somewhat blunted and she was less likely to have a drink spilled over her. The others followed, people in the group talking amongst themselves and goggling at the drunken antics on the dance floor. Peter had fallen back to walk alongside Melanie, and they ambled slowly, their heads close together, taking softly. Stacy sighed. So much for the whole reason to participate in this journey. Not that she could blame him. Melanie was gorgeous. Still, the rejection stung. Not that it would’ve worked anyway. The distance between them would have eventually become a hassle.

She sipped her cocktail, watching the dance floor light up red, then blue, then green as the strobe light pulsed over the dancers. Once again, she had a choice and none of her options were all too appealing. She could go back to the hotel and try to find a new group of people to talk with, she could go to bed, or she could stay right where she was and basically drink alone.

“Let’s go someplace quieter,” Peter shouted over the music and everybody agreed.

She followed them back out onto Bourbon Street, seriously considering her next move. Should I stay or should I go now? She let the chorus play out in her head and in that one millisecond pause, a drunken man wearing only jeans shorts and plastic beads lunged at her from the crowd. She sidestepped around him and almost collided with a woman exiting Pat O'Briens. The woman squealed and Stacy veered off the sidewalk into the street. A group of tourists swept her away, forcing her backward along with them. She fought against the wave of bodies, but it was a losing battle. And then, out of nowhere, a hand grabbed her arm, a lifeline in the storm.

The tourists continued on their journey, but Stacy was held in place, firmly anchored by that strong grip. The hold on her arm was a little too familiar for a stranger and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to thank or berate her rescuer. She turned, and her breath caught when she recognized her savior. “Hello, Ten.”

“Hey, Stacy.”

He grinned and every single part of her tingled. He was as attractive as she remembered—tall and strong, with rich, chocolate-brown hair, and a twinkle of mischief in his startling green eyes. The years had changed him only slightly, taking away the softness of youth and adding hard ridges and planes to his handsome face. His hair was a little too long, and he had a two-day beard, but the scruffiness didn’t take away from his almost poetic good looks. And though she would never admit it out loud, just the way his thighs filled out his well-worn blue jeans sent a thread of wicked heat trickling down her spine. Ten was the stuff of all kinds of naughty fantasies, and a few of her favorite ones instantly flashed through her mind.

“There you are,” Peter called, cutting through the never-ending stream of people. “We thought we’d lost you.”

“Sorry,” Stacy said, though she wasn’t. She’d forgotten all about him. She gestured toward Ten. “I ran into an old friend.”

Peter looked from her to him, back to her. He held out his hand to Ten. “Hi, I’m Peter Walker.”

Ten glanced at her, a million silent questions in his raised eyebrow. Are you with him? Should I step back? Do you want me to get rid of him? She answered them all with a slight shake of her head.

Satisfied, he turned back to Peter with his charming, professional smile, the one that had got him a lot of tips—and even more phone numbers—when they’d worked together. He dropped her arm and took Peter’s hand. “Tennyson Landry.”

Melanie joined them then, sliding up close to Peter. She was followed by the group, and they created a little cluster in the middle of the street. People flowed around them, to-go cups in hand, beads around their necks.

“It’s so good to see you,” Stacy said, touching Ten’s arm. She couldn’t quite believe he was there, but his bicep was hard and firm and very real under her fingertips. “Do you still live here?” She wouldn’t be surprised if he had moved. New Orleans was a transient city. People came, hung out for a while, and then left for better jobs, better homes, ‘real’ lives. Just like she had.

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “I’ve got a little place up on Magazine now.”

She smiled, ridiculously pleased to see him again. The huge crush she had fostered and fed five years ago had obviously not dwindled over time. He still made her weak in the knees, gave her skin that deliciously tight, tingly feeling. She probably could have spent the entire night grinning up at him like a fool, but Melanie stepped in, standing very close to Ten.

“We wanna go someplace fun,” Melanie said, giving him one of her brilliant smiles. “Do you know anywhere good?”

Stacy was about to give Melanie a few key suggestions on where she should go, but Ten put his hand on her shoulder, capturing her attention.

“Let’s have a drink,” he said, his eyes never leaving Stacy’s. “It’ll be nice to catch up.”

Plastic beads whizzed past her head, crackling on the pavement. A group of men on the balcony above chanted “Show your tits!” to a bunch of women below, and every time one of them obliged, they were showered with beads and adoration. Bourbon Street would never change, and she was sick of it already. She nodded to Ten. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

He took her hand, gave it a gentle tug. “Come on.”

She caught Melanie’s frown out of the corner of her eye and a little malicious grin curved Stacy’s lips. It was probably a character flaw that made her dislike the other woman so much, but she wasn’t about to fight that feeling. She laced her fingers through Ten’s and let him lead her away from the garish lights and drunken vulgarity.

“What were you doing on Bourbon?” she asked, as they turned onto St. Peter and headed toward the river. No self-respecting local went to Bourbon Street unless they absolutely had to.

He looked over at her, a huge grin on his handsome face. “I could ask you the same thing.”

She shook her head, smiling even as he pulled her close to get around a woman puking next to an overflowing garbage can. “I’m just a tourist now, in town for a convention.”

He raised an eyebrow, amusement flashing in his eyes. “Is that right? So, what? Are you trying to get sloppy drunk and sleep with the locals?”

She glanced over at him. Well, maybe one local. “That is a solid plan.”

He laughed with her as they turned onto Decatur, and then headed back toward Canal. A frenzied Cajun tune blasted out of a souvenir shop on the corner, bright Florissant lights illuminated the sidewalk. “I was just stopping in to see a friend at work. I don’t spend much time in the Quarter anymore.”

There were so many things she wanted to ask him. What he was doing now, where he was working, what he had been up to for the last five years, but their conversation was cut short when they approached a dark alley, a long corridor tucked between two buildings. Stacy looked around, trying to orientate herself. The fire station was still there like she remembered, and the House of Blues a little farther down, but she had no memory of this place.

“Is this new?” she asked, as he led her down the narrow alleyway.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s only been here about a year.”