Page 33 of She's Like the Wind

The house had a wide front porch with mismatched rocking chairs, original wrought iron railings, and gas lanterns that hissed softly at night. The paint was a dignified gray-blue, the shutters weathered just enough to look intentional.

“Late 1800s.”

“I love this.” She smiled at me. “I know there are some newer constructions, especially post-Katrina rebuilds—but the charm and prestige of this area are still centered around a home like yours.”

“You know your history, baby.”

She shrugged sheepishly. “The woman who owned Aire Noire before me, Madame Marguerite, gave me history lessons.”

I wondered what Barb would think about my house that smelled like wood polish and old paper, where the furniture was simple—leather, wood, heavy pieces with history. There were a few family portraits on the walls and several framed architectural sketches, old maps of the city, and books stacked in towers I kept promising myself I’d organize one day. There was a record player in the corner. A half-fixed lamp. A worn flannel on the back of the couch.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t cold. It was the kind of home that felt like it had a heartbeat.

No, Barb would find it was not sophisticated enough. Too blue collar, despite its price tag.

By the time we left the restaurant, I was raw with frustration. Not at the self-obsessed lawyer—at myself, for thinking I could just move past Naomi.

But I had to try.

I couldn’t have her.

I just had to get my dick wet, and then…then my connection with her would break. It was just that I hadn’t had sex in months, and the last time I did was with her.

Don’t think about that, Gage. Barb might be vapid but even she doesn’t deserve you thinking about another woman while you fuck her.

We ended up at her place in the Warehouse District—sleek, cold, minimal.

She poured more orange fucking wine.

I drank it.

We kissed.

It was fine.

Clinical.

Hands went places, clothes hit the floor, and I went through the motions, hoping that if I pushed hard enough, I’d feel something. I’d want the woman naked with me.

I didn’t.

By the time she was urging me inside her, Istopped. She made a sound—half confusion, half frustration.

“Everything okay?” she asked, breathless.

“Yes…no.” I pulled away.

She sat up, scowling as I reached for my jeans. “What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry.” I meant it, even if it sounded like bullshit. “This isn’t working.”

“What?” She looked at my hard cock.

How do I tell her this is not for her?

This was for a woman who smelled like orange blossoms, the woman I couldn’t stop thinking about.

“I’m so sorry, Barb.” I put on my shirt.