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CHAPTER THIRTEEN-FINLEY

We snagged a two-seater table on the balcony of a historic Creole restaurant overlooking Royal Street.

Below us, the French Quarter hums— laughter and jazz weaving through the air, clinking glasses and brass horns rising like a heartbeat.

The streetlamps are just flickering on, casting that warm gold glow that makes everything feel like a dream.

Koa tears into a basket of beignets like he’s never eaten and I can’t help but grin.

“Careful,” I warn, licking powdered sugar off my thumb. “Those things are loaded with sugar and unspoken regrets.”

He glances at me, powdered sugar dusting his lips. “Sweet, messy, and addictive? Sounds familiar.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Are you seriously comparing me to fried dough?”

He leans in, voice low and intimate. “I’d never disrespect you like that.”

“Oh?”

His eyes darken. “Dough can’t make me hard just by looking at me.”

I choke on my drink.

Koa grins and reaches for his napkin, gently dabbing the corner of my mouth. His thumb lingers a second too long.

“You’re impossible,” I mutter, feeling my skin go molten.

“And yet,” he says, leaning back in his chair like he’s perfectly satisfied with himself, “you said yes. Didn’t you, Red?”

“Yes, to eating,” I clarify.

His gaze drags over me. From my neck to my lips, my breasts, and my lap, lingering there before traveling back up again.

“Sure. I like eating. Let’s go with that.”

I stab a piece of blackened catfish— because yeah, we are eating our meal and dessert in one go —and dramatically chew it while flipping him off under the table.

He catches it, of course.

"Is that your Jersey girl flirting technique?” he asks, dipping his fry in remoulade. “Obscene hand gestures? Because if you want to do more than eat, I can arrange that.”

“It’s called subtlety .”

I mock scowl.

He gives me a look.

“There is nothing subtle about you, Red.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“Hell no.” His voice drops. “That’s the thing I like most.”

My pulse skips.

He takes a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Besides,” he says, licking a drop from the rim of his glass, “if I wanted subtle, I wouldn’t be sitting here picturing you riding me in that dress. The bodice pulled down and those gorgeous tits of yours, bouncing around?—”

My fork clatters against the plate.

“Koa!”

He just smirks, like he lives to make me squirm.

“Relax, Red. I’ll wait ‘til dessert.”

I stare at him, heat pooling low in my belly. “I thought this was just dinner.”

His smile softens, just slightly. “ This is.”

Then his hand brushes mine on the table, gentle, grounding.

“But someday soon, Red, I’d like dessert to involve you screaming my name. You good with that?”

I should say something snarky. I should regain control of the conversation.

But all I can do is nod—flushed, breathless, and completely undone.

And he knows it.