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The NOLA morning air greets us with its signature blend of jazz and jasmine as Ice drives me to one of his favoritehideaways. It’s a quaint café nestled between the vibrancy of the French Quarter and the hushed whispers of the Garden District. We weave through the labyrinth of cobblestone streets until we reach the unassuming entrance, guarded by nothing but a faded sign and a few potted plants.

Inside, the courtyard is a hidden sanctuary. Greenery cascades from wrought-iron balconies while the trickle of a fountain plays a soothing counterpoint to the distant city hum. Ice picks a table in the corner, strategic and secluded. From here, he can watch the entrance without making it obvious. I’m impressed by his protective reflexes. It all seems to come naturally to him.

“Nice choice,” I murmur, sliding into the chair opposite him. Scanning the menu, I spot the perfect New Orleans breakfast.

“Find something good?” he asks.

“Beignets with pralines and pecans,” I say, my mouth already watering. “What are you having?”

“Shrimp and grits with chicory coffee.”

“Really?” I scrunch my nose slightly at his mention of grits.

“Not a fan?”

“Reminds me too much ofatole.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a corn-based beverage thickened with masa, which is ground corn treated with lime. Usually, you’d add spices and sugar to it, but no amount of sweetening could ever make me like it. Myabuelaused to make it. Heratolewas supposed to be the best in Mexico, but I never developed a taste for it. Grits are thicker and heartier, but still, not my thing.”

“Everything here has a little extra soul in it.”

“A little too much soul, if you ask me,” I grumble.

After ordering, we fall into a comfortable silence. Birds chirp from their nests in the hanging baskets of flowers. The bluesky overhead is filled with puffy white clouds. It’s the perfect day to spend with someone you care about.

The waitress returns with our meals. My beignets take center stage, served hot and golden, buried under a generous snowfall of powdered sugar that leaves my fingertips deliciously sticky. Accompanying the iconic pastries is a creamy praline spread, rich with caramelized pecans, perfect for smearing on toast or croissants or a man.

I smile wickedly.

“What’s that about?” Ice asks before spooning grits into his mouth.

“Nothing.” I grin as I take a sip of creamy café au lait. “I haven’t had a breakfast this indulgent in a long time. Not since myabuelawas alive.”

“Tell me about her. What was it like growing up in Mexico? You mentioned yourabuela’s atole, but what else do you remember?”

I lean back in my chair, the wrought iron cool against my skin. “Mexico is always alive with color, sound, and energy,” I begin, my mind drifting back to the cobblestone streets of my hometown. “Myabuela, Valentina, was the heart of the small town. She knew everyone, and on Sundays, her kitchen became the town’s gathering spot.”

“Did she serve family meals?” Ice asks, his curiosity genuine, eyes softening at the edges.

“More like feasts,” I laugh, remembering the spread of food that seemed endless. “Mole rojothat simmered for hours, fresh tortillas, and tamales wrapped in banana leaves. The flavors were as bold as the stories shared around the table.”

He nods, taking in my words. The warmth in his eyes makes my heart melt. I wish he could have met my grandmother. She would’ve loved him.

“Speaking of myabuela, do you still have her watch?” I ask, shifting in my seat.

“Her watch?”

“The one she gave me. I lost it that night we…” I trail off as I give him a knowing smile.

Ice’s expression shifts, a hint of guilt crossing his features. “Yeah, about that… I took it to an antique specialist’s shop.”

“Why?” My voice is sharper. My heart hitches at the thought of losing one of the last pieces of Valentina I have left.

“I wanted to know who bought it for you.”

“Why? Trying to find out if I had another admirer?” I tease, trying to mask the worry snaking through my veins.