A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. “You’re all charm tonight, Mr. Duchesne.”
“Honey, I’ll be whatever you want me to be tonight.”
This time I trailed my finger down his freshly shaven cheek. “How about just a guy showing his girl a good time.”
“Done.” He offered his arm, and I took it.
The sun was setting, and I was confused as hell. Simon waved to a guy at a security checkpoint, and we cruised into a large lot surrounded by barbed wire fences. Hundreds, or maybe thousands, of shipping containers—gray, black, tan, red, orange, and blue—were stacked in rows and awaiting transport to their destinations.
“Where the hell are we?”
“Patience.”
Simon drove until we reached a seawall holding back the mighty Mississippi and parked in front of a barge. It was secured to the wall with ropes thicker than my arm. Except for a small section toward one end, it was completely covered with shipping containers. I scanned the empty space for a table and chairs. Candles. Champagne on ice. The kind of setup that I expected a guy like Simon to pull together, especially after he ordered me to wear a short dress and high heels. But there was none of that.
Simon climbed out of the car and was opening my door before I could gather my wits to do it myself. He helped me out onto the asphalt.
“Wait here.”
He popped the tailgate and retrieved a blanket and a large soft-sided cooler.
My scattered thoughts regrouped, and I realized what he had planned. “A picnic?”
“Yup. Just you and me and the river.” I was dumbstruck as he took my hand, led me over the ramp, and onto the barge.
I grabbed a corner, and we spread the thick stadium blanket out over the scarred and rusted steel of the deck. Simon helped me sit before kneeling on the blanket beside me. From the cooler, he produced round aluminum take out containers with inset cardboard lids and a six-pack of Abita.
I shook my head. He never did what I expected.
“Do you do this on purpose?”
He looked up from uncurling the aluminum edges of a container. “Do what?”
“The exact opposite of what I expect?”
He grinned and continued, revealing olives, two different kinds of hummus, flatbread, wedges of red and green pepper, slices of cold, rare tenderloin, chunks of cheese, and grapes. “What do you mean?”
“This.” I gestured to my dress and the shoes I’d already unbuckled and tossed aside. “You told me to wear a dress. And heels. I expected a fancy restaurant or some trendy club. Not a barge and a picnic and beer.”
His grin faded. “Is that what you’d rather do?”
My eyes widened. “No! Not at all. This is … perfect. But … how did you know? I mean … hell, I don’t know what I mean.”
His smile reappeared, dimples flashing. “You don’t give me much to go on, Charlie. I just have to guess. But I like surprising you. You get this look, like you can’t believe I’d go out of my way to do something special for you. I get the feeling you haven’t had enough special in your life. And the dress … well, I just wanted a chance to stare at those gorgeous legs of yours.” He shrugged, as if to say I’m a guy, deal with it.
I reflected on his words for a moment. My life had been ruthlessly organized, everything handed to me before I could even think to ask for it. But that was just it. I hadn’t asked for any of it. Not the designer clothes or the riding lessons or the schedule cluttered with suitable social engagements. I’d been given, and had done, whatever my parents had deemed appropriate for me. And I had to wonder if they had given those choices remotely as much thought as Simon had in planning this picnic.
I reached for an olive and popped it into my mouth. “How come some smart Southern belle hasn’t snapped you up already?”
He smirked. “I’m trying to get a sassy Yankee to, but she’s not catching on as quickly as I’d hoped. I’m starting to wonder if she’s not as smart as I thought.”
I threw an olive at his head, and he caught it in his mouth. He popped the tops off two beers and handed one to me. He held his out, the neck of the bottle angled toward me.
“To an unexpected night,” he said. I clinked my bottle with his and nabbed a slice of tenderloin.
I chewed and swallowed it. “Holy crap, that’s good. Where did all of this come from?”
“My kitchen.”
I was glad I wasn’t still chewing because I would’ve choked. “Are you serious? You cook too?”
“I’d say yes just to keep that look on your face, but it’d mostly be a lie. My parents’ housekeeper is jetting off on a two-week vacation tomorrow and asked if there was anything she could do for me before she left. I shamelessly begged her for help.”
He reached for a piece of flatbread and scooped up some hummus. I pressed a hand to my chest and made a poor attempt at a Southern drawl. “Well, thank the Lord for that; I almost swooned.”
I took a swig of my beer as he finished chewing. “Oh, you’ll swoon, I have no doubt. After all, I am devastatingly charming.”
We lingered over the food and talked about everything and yet nothing of substance. I loved that he didn’t push for more than I was willing to give, but I wondered if it would always be that way or if at some point he would lose his patience with me and demand answers. But I didn’t want to think about that right now. Not on such a perfect night.
We’d just popped the tops off the last two beers as fireworks burst over the river. I jumped at the thunderous percussion, and Simon pulled me against him. I followed him down until we lay side by side on the blanket, staring up at the exploding blues and reds and glittering whites against the cloud-covered night sky. This was one more thing I loved about New Orleans. You never knew when there’d be fireworks. The masses of partiers would pause a moment from downing their Hurricanes and stare upward to enjoy the simple pleasure.