Page 18 of Gator (Bourbon Kings MC #1)

The next morning, the air was thick with unspoken challenges as the crew gathered in The Bourbon Bar’s back room.

Donut, as promised, was up to something—his hands buried in a tangle of wires, duct tape, and what suspiciously looked like an old karaoke machine.

Braveheart leaned against the wall, arms crossed and skeptical.

“What exactly are ye building, MacGyver?” Braveheart asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Donut grinned widely, his teeth flashing like a shark’s. “A masterpiece, mate. Somethin’ that’ll dazzle Devlyn so hard, she won’ even think about incinerating us.”

Juju crouched by the table, his finger poking through a stack of notes. “And you’re sure this... whatever it is, won’ make things worse?”

“Relax,” Donut shot back, flicking a screwdriver in Juju’s direction. “This is my pièce de résistance . Trust the process.”

“I trust the process about as much as I trust Thore at an open mic night,” I muttered, grabbing a cup of coffee.

The crew chuckled. Though Thore didn’t bother defending himself—probably because the last time he’d tried stand-up comedy, we’d been banned from three bars on Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras.

Still, there was no denying Donut’s enthusiasm had a way of rubbing off. Even Worm, who’d spent most of yesterday sulking, was peeking over Donut’s shoulder.

As the hours ticked by, Donut’s “masterpiece” began taking shape.

It involved fairy lights, a highly suspicious amount of glitter, and a series of pre-recorded messages that, frankly, had me wincing.

At one point, I leaned over his shoulder and whispered, “Are you sure this won’ end with me being skinned alive? ”

Donut smirked, shoving a small disco ball into my hands. “Gator, my man, you gotta have faith. Trust me—Devlyn’s gonna love it.”

Faith, I thought grimly, was in short supply. But then again, Devlyn had always thrived on spectacle, and if anyone could deliver, it was Donut.

By the time the sun set, the contraption was complete, and we stood back to admire Donut’s work.

It was... something, alright.

Glimmering, gaudy, and definitely a fire hazard.

But who knew—maybe it’d do the trick.

“Alright, boys,” I said, clapping my hands. “Let’s see if this circus act can keep my woman from torching us all.”

“Hold up,” Juju piped up. “Where’s the food?”

“Food?” Donut asked, confused.

“You didn’t get food?!” Worm shouted incredulously.

“Seriously, Donut,” Braveheart moaned. “The woman’s been eating twenty-four seven since she got here. You don’t give her food and she will incinerate all of us.”

“Braveheart’s got a point,” Thore said, looking around the bar. “We gotta get some food in here, fast.”

“Alright,” I groaned, rubbing the back of my neck.

“This is fucking NOLA for crying out loud. Our town is known for its food. Everyone head out and buy as much as you can and meet back here in an hour. In the meantime,” I gulped and maybe whimpered a bit as I looked toward the stairs. “I’ll go keep her busy.”

My brothers snickered as they saw my dejected face.

I slowly made my way upstairs, nerves jangling in time with the chaotic noise of the bar.

Opening my bedroom door, she sat there, lounging on an old leather chaise that had more duct tape than upholstery, her fingers flipping through a book she was reading.

Her eyes flicked up to meet mine—a dangerous mix of amusement and irritation sparkling in their depths.

“I’m hungry,” she drawled, her voice dripping with faux patience.

I swallowed hard and plastered on a grin, trying to ignore the way my palms were already sweating. “Well, Chèr , I’ve got the boys hunting down the finest New Orleans has to offer. You’ll be fed like a queen in no time.”

Her eyebrow arched, unimpressed. “And in the meantime?”

My eyes darted to my bed, and for the first time since I was ten, I wanted to run to my m?man and hide.

Gulping, I muttered, “How about a little entertainment?”

She leaned back, her lips twitching with the hint of a smirk. “You don’t sound too happy about that,” she accused, but she rose to her feet anyway, moving toward me with a predatory grace that made my stomach twist.

“You know me. I’m always down for a little fun.”

Her smirk deepened, revealing just enough teeth to send a shiver dancing down my spine. “Let’s hope your idea of fun doesn’t disappoint, Gator.”

An hour and three nut dumps later, I stumbled slowly down the stairs, praying my dick didn’t fall off.

“Wade, can we go get that sandwich? You know, the one I like so much,” Devlyn jabbered on as I rolled my eyes.

Woman had a two-track mind.

Food and sex.

Apparently, there was no room for anything in between.

“ Chèr, the boys went and grabbed everything they could think of. I’m sure there is something here you will like.”

“But I really want that sandwich.”

For the love of God, please tell me one of the boys had enough fucking brains cells to swing by the delicatessen and grab my woman a muffaletta!

“Devlyn, if you keep whining about that sandwich, I might just start thinking you love it more than me,” I said, shooting her a teasing glance as I grabbed a beer from behind the bar.

She huffed, crossing her arms with exaggerated drama. “Maybe I do. That muffaletta never disappoints me.”

Chuckling, I popped the cap off my beer and leaned against the bar. “Well, guess I’ll have to step up my game. Can’t let a sandwich outshine me.”

As laughter bubbled out of her, I felt a twinge of satisfaction. She might drive me crazy sometimes, but she was my crazy, and I wouldn’t trade her for the world—or even a thousand muffalettas.

The boys did me proud. After I downed my beer, I grabbed Devlyn’s hand and escorted her into the kitchen where her eyes damn near popped out of her head. The table was laden down with every good, delicious, savory dish New Orleans was known for, all presented as if it was the Last Supper of Christ.

And maybe in a way it was, because if my woman wasn’t happy with the food or what I was about to tell her, I was sure she would nail my ass to a cross and use my body for target practice.

“Devlyn,” I drawled, pulling out a chair for her as she gazed wide-eyed at the feast laid before her, “you think this spread might keep your muffaletta cravings at bay?”

Her lips twitched into a smirk, but she didn’t answer right away. Instead, she sauntered over to the table, her fingers brushing over the plates like she was admiring a crown jewel. Crawfish étouffée, jambalaya, gumbo, and even beignets stacked high—it was a culinary love letter to New Orleans.

“You do realize,” she murmured, her gaze flicking to me, “this might just be enough for me to forgive you. For now.”

“Forgive me?” I echoed, leaning against the counter with a crooked grin. “For what, Chèr ? Anticipating your every whim? Being an absolute charmer? Or—” I paused dramatically. “Not being a muffaletta?”

She snorted, finally sitting down and grabbing a plate. The familiar sparkle in her eye was back, and the faint but undeniable tension hanging in the air began to dissipate. “You might have a point there, Wade. But this better be amazing—and if it’s not, you’re running to the deli.”

I laughed and grabbed my own plate as she dove into the jambalaya like a woman possessed. As I watched her, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of nervous energy. Because tonight wasn’t just about food—it wasn’t even just about us.

What I had to say next was going to change everything.

I took a deep breath, setting my plate down as I met her eyes. “Devlyn, there’s something we need to talk about. Something important.”

Her fork paused mid-air. Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t speak.

Time for truth.

I was about to find out just how much she loved that muffaletta—or me.