2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Ryker DeWitt

"Where are you heading off to so early?" God, it's too early in the morning for this shit. It's Friday, for chrissakes.

I stirred a spoonful of creamer into my coffee. "Same place I go every day from eight to five-ish."

"Why the hell are you still working at Danvert & Rogers? I thought your clerkship ended when school was out."

I turned from the counter, not thrilled to see Alexandria Moretti standing in the kitchen doorway in her peach-colored silk bathrobe. Fifteen seconds earlier, and I'd have avoided the interrogation.

Alexa had been trying to bed me since we met when I joined the Midnight Marauders Study Group during our first year of law school at Tulane. Because we all had jobs outside of classes, we didn't meet to study until ten in the evening, two nights a week, thus the name of our group.

Much to Alexa's dismay, she hadn't succeeded in her pursuit of me. Even if I was interested in women, I'd run the other way. The woman gave off a high-maintenance vibe that even a blind and deaf possum could recognize.

"We've gone over this. I'm working on a large case and have agreed to stay on for the summer while I study for the bar. The job offer I have in Portland is contingent on passing the bar. I wasn't the one on Tulane Law Review."

Alexa smirked. She was the one in our group who was on law review, and she loved to rub salt in that wound. I'd be happy for her if she wasn't so damn smug.

I didn't make the Dean's List, but I wasn't at the bottom of my class. I was in the top fifty percent because I worked damn hard, but with a learning difference, I retained information differently from others.

Being told by my high-school guidance counselor that I'd never be able to hack college, much less law school, had fueled the fire in my belly to succeed, regardless of the sacrifice. I wouldn't let my childhood dyslexia hold me back.

The workday went by faster than I had anticipated. I spent nearly all my time in the war room stamping oversized exhibits to send for copying for an upcoming document production to opposing counsel. The job was mindless, so I'd let my thoughts wander.

The previous week, I'd been running through the French Quarter around three in the morning. I'd worked at the office until eleven, and when I'd gotten home, I was still wound up from a long day and too much coffee, so I went for a run to burn off some of the caffeine.

I'd made the left at St. Peter Street and run down to Royal. The tourists had been staggering back to their hotels, so the sidewalks had been relatively empty. The Quarter always had an ethereal feel to it at night, or early morning, as it were.

I'd nearly run down a guy carrying trash to the curb from the alley next to The House of Tremblay, where the dumpster was located. The restaurant had been in The Quarter for years, though I'd never eaten or drank there. It was just one of many businesses in The Quarter filled with history, some less than desirable. It was a haven for tourists, which I tried to avoid like the plague.

The man had come out of the alley without warning, and I'd accidentally knocked into him, sending him into the wall of the building. "Oh damn. I'm so sorry." I'd stopped in my tracks as he settled the bag I'd nearly knocked out of his arms.

He'd been a bit shorter than me with a slender frame. His hair was shoulder length and dark blond, pulled back into a low ponytail with a few strands loose around his face, hinting that he'd been working.

The light had bounced off his hair and formed a halo around his head, which stunned me. I couldn't make out his features except for a strong jawline and his left eye that was illuminated by the flames of the gas lanterns on the front of the restaurant.

He'd studied me for an instant before offering a wink. "No worries. Have a good evening." His voice had been low and smooth, and then, he'd walked away. I'd been stunned.

The man had been courteous, and I could almost feel his gaze still on me even after he was nowhere in sight. I'd finally been released from the hold on me and gotten my feet moving to continue my run.

As I'd returned home through The Quarter, I'd vowed to get my study partners together for a meal at The House of Tremblay. I'd finally figured out the perfect night to do it—our last night together before Alexandria moved away on Sunday.

After I finished my task, I walked to the glass-walled conference room where the attorneys were meeting and waited until Giles Danvert stopped speaking. When he glanced toward me, I swallowed because he wasn't friendly. It took a minute to form the words on my tongue.

"Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Danvert. I've finished labeling the exhibits and will take them to the print shop to be copied. I'll be back in the morning to check the copies so they can be submitted on Monday to meet the discovery deadline. Is there anything you need me to do tomorrow while I'm here?" Please say no…please say no.

"Yes. Deposition summaries. I'll put them in the war room when we finish. Thanks, Ryker." With that, I was dismissed.

It was tempting to run away from the room, but I didn't want to make an ass of myself since the whole wall was see-through. I walked to my office to grab my messenger bag before taking the ten flights of stairs down to the parking garage.

I got into my old Honda and flew through the parking garage like a bat out of hell, slamming on the brakes when I got to the exit. In front of me was a sea of vehicles that looked like they weren't going anywhere anytime soon.

I reversed into the garage and found a parking spot on the ground floor before I hopped out of the car and slid into the back seat. I had clean gym clothes in a duffel, so I quickly changed into shorts and a tank top, but I couldn't find any socks. The black dress socks I was wearing were all I had. I pulled on my old running shoes, grabbed my messenger bag from the front seat, and looped it over my head.

Stepping out, I locked the car, put the keys in my bag, and took off. I dodged cars as quickly as possible. Killing two birds with one stone—avoiding traffic and getting in a run. I damn well had no intention of missing the dinner I'd planned with my friends.

My main goal was to say goodbye to everyone, but I wanted to see if I could find the guy carrying the trash bag the other night. Something about him had stuck with me.

I glanced at my phone again, seeing it was seven-fifteen. My car was at the office, and Alexa had a two-seater, so everyone was either walking to the restaurant or getting a rideshare. I was happy to sit at the bar if they missed the reservation as I suspected they would.

"If we're going to be there on time, I need to see bodies on the stairs! I'll leave all of you behind and sit at the bar!" I shouted up the staircase, the lack of sound overhead led me to believe nobody was listening.

Suddenly, there were feet on the stairs, and when I glanced up, my best friend, Cubby Brown, was running down with his shoes in hand. "Sorry, sorry." When he got to the first floor, he dropped his sneakers and shoved his feet in them before bowing. "At your service."

"Where are the others? Doesn't anyone know how to read a fucking clock? Don't they teach that in school anymore?" I wanted to scream again, but it would do no good.

Alexandria would want to be fashionably late, so I'd already fucked up by telling her our reservation was at eight. Jill and Findley were probably in their room fucking, and I hadn't seen Lance Kulick since I'd gotten home.

"Well, based on the headboard banging, Jill and Findley are doing the nasty. The sound of Olivia Rodrigo vibrating through my wall gives the impression Alexandria is soaking in a hot bath after an exhausting day of shopping for the long trip home—to Dallas. Lance? Haven't seen the fucker in two days. Screw them. Let's go."

I was on board, so we left them all behind. We proceeded briskly, and I decided to broach a subject Cubby and I had avoided while studying for finals.

"It's just the two of us right now. What happened with Skipper Gray?"

Cubby and Skipper had been dating off and on as far as I knew, but I was so buried in school and work that most of our discussions centered on school-related issues. I was upset that we'd let our close friendship morph into clipped questions with barked answers, and I hoped maybe we could get back on track to how we used to be.

"Skipper Gray is a lying, cheating asshole. He stole money from me while I was asleep, and then he claimed I'd given it to him while I was drunk. You know me. I don't get drunk, Ryker. After that, I couldn't eat for three days until my stipend was deposited into my checking account. I hope he gets crabs again."

Skipper Gray graduated from medical school three days before Cubby and I graduated from law school. The two had been seeing each other since Mardi Gras when they met at the Krewe of Nyx parade on the Wednesday before Fat Tuesday. They'd met when a very tall, big busted woman tried to jiggle her breasts in Skipper's face, and Cubby threatened to sue her for sexual harassment on Skipper's behalf.

They'd been inseparable until early May, and then Cubby started coming home after school where he was a teaching assistant for the first-year constitutional law professor. By then, I was on the oil rig case, and we rarely saw each other except when the Marauders got together and it was all about studying.

"Do you want me to beat him up?" I was teasing, of course, but I wouldn't mind beating the hell out of someone. I hadn't had a good fistfight since my first year of undergrad.

Cubby laughed. "I'd love that. I'll lure him out behind the gym, and you beat his ass." We crossed at the stoplight, and I slung my arm around Cubby's shoulders as we headed toward The House of Tremblay.

"We might have to eat at the bar. How's that sound?"

Cubby chuckled. "Better than you can imagine. I've got a story for you, but I didn't want to talk about it in front of the others."

"Can't wait."

We were thirty minutes early, but since we didn't have the other four folks in tow, I hoped we could get two seats at the bar. When we approached the host stand, my breath hitched. It was the guy from the dumpster encounter, and he was even more stunning in the fading daylight.

"Good evening. Welcome to The House of Tremblay. Do you have a reservation?" His voice was smooth as silk. I'd recognize it anywhere. There was a quality to his tone that drowned out the noise of the other diners and the traffic outside.

"Hello. We have a reservation for six, but it seems our four companions aren't going to make it. Name's DeWitt, and we're happy to sit at the bar if you have space."

The handsome man stared at me before he grinned. "That won't be necessary. I have seating in the music conservatory. Please, follow me."

Cubby chuckled beside me as the host produced two leather-bound books and led us through the dining room, past the kitchen, and into a beautiful room with a striking black grand piano on the left and various other instruments on stands around the perimeter. A golden harp in the corner looked like something out of an animated movie.

Mr. Tremblay, whose age was indeterminable, led us to a table near the sleek black piano and pulled out our chairs. When we sat, he placed the sizable burgundy menu books in front of us and snapped his fingers. "Bring a chair for me. Water and hot towels for my guests, if you please."

A young man and a woman hurried away while another man brought a chair to the table. An additional place setting was added to the square marble table, and before we knew it, the staff returned with a crystal pitcher of water and glasses filled with ice. Another young man carried a tray, and we were given warm towels to clean our hands. It was as though everyone moved through the room without taking steps or making a sound. It was a little surreal.

The host joined us for dinner, which was a surprise. "I am Etienne Tremblay. This is my house, so welcome. I'm happy to have you dining with me tonight. Which of you is DeWitt?"

Mr. Tremblay stared directly at me as if he already knew the answer. "I'm Ryker DeWitt. I believe we spoke on the phone previously."

He grinned. "And we crossed paths in the alley the other morning." He remembered me. "Do you always do such careless things as running before the dawn?"

I chuckled. "Not usually, but I had a lot on my mind and needed some fresh air."

I glanced toward Cubby to see him staring at a slender man by the kitchen pass. He returned Cubby's appraising gaze in a way that left nothing to the imagination.

"This is my friend, Cubby. We both graduated from law school a few days ago." I knocked my knee against Cubby's under the table to get his attention, but his eyes seemed locked in an intense staring contest with the other guy.

Mr. Tremblay glanced to his left and smirked. "Rory don't be rude. Come meet our special guests."

The adorable, extremely young man approached the table with a shy smile. "Gentlemen, this is my nephew, Rory Tremblay. Rory, this is Ryker DeWitt and his friend, Cubby Brown."

Rory stepped closer to Cubby, reaching out as if he didn't believe Cubby was real before his hand snapped back. "Sorry."

"Uh, Rory, be a lamb and bring out some Moules Marinières." I glanced at Mr. Tremblay who smirked. "Muscles in a white wine cream sauce. A delicious way to begin any meal. So, tell me about yourselves."

The younger man scampered away—literally—and Cubby's gaze followed the kid's ass. "Jailbait," I coughed under my breath.

Mr. Tremblay chuckled deeply. "Rory's appearance can be misleading. My family ages quite gracefully, so he's older than he might look. Anyway, tell me more about yourself, Mr. Brown."

I glanced at Cubby who shrugged. "I'm newly graduated with my juris doctorate, and I'm moving to Denver to work for a law firm contingent on me passing the bar exam for Colorado. I'm originally from Texas, but I have no desire to return to the oppressive environment I grew up in."

Cubby went on to talk about his family and his father's oil business, that he had no wish to join. He quickly spilled his guts, disclosing intimate details it had taken me two years to get out of him. I wasn't sure what had come over him.

Mr. Tremblay listened without being distracted as his employees mulled about. It was odd how it seemed as if the restaurant stood still, but when Cubby finished telling the man about his upcoming job, I was suddenly aware of the sounds of a restaurant: diners talking, flatware clanging, plates scraping.

I glanced around to see more people seated in the music conservatory than when Cubby began speaking. There was even a beautiful woman at the grand piano playing lovely classical music.

"Ah, here we are, gents. Our best champagne to celebrate your… What the fuck was it?" The server glanced at Mr. Tremblay, who wore a stern expression.

"Georgine, dear , what have we said about that language in the restaurant? Behind the bar, it is acceptable, but we want our customers to enjoy a genteel atmosphere, as if they're seated in a beautiful French garden enjoying a lovely recital. Crude language won't set that mood, will it, dear ?"

The woman smirked as she filled the three champagne coupes and placed the fancy bottle into a silver ice bucket beside Mr. Tremblay. "Sod off, Etienne." The woman abruptly turned and stalked off, leaving our host laughing.

"Is, uh, is she related to you as well?" She looked nothing at all like him.

Mr. Tremblay offered a grin. "She's a stepsister. Our parents married when we were teens."

Several plates were delivered to the table, and I glanced at each server. They were all smiling as if they didn't have a care in the world. It was odd that everyone seemed so happy to be working in a restaurant on a sultry New Orleans evening.

The platters were passed among us, and Cubby and I took servings of escargot, duck liver pate, muscles, and several fancy cheeses. Warm French bread was served with creamy butter, and I could have filled up on those dishes alone.

"I hope you'll both call me Etienne. I was born in Bayeux near Normandy, France. My grandfather fought with the Americans during the Second World War. My family came to the US after the war and settled in New Orleans."

His comment caught my attention. "Wait, you're not old enough to have been born in France that long ago, are you?" I was certain I'd heard him right. No way was he that old.

"Etienne!" The handsome young guy called his name from the doorway.

"Excuse me for a moment. Please, refill your glasses as you wish. I'll be right back."

Much as Cubby had done to Rory, I watched Etienne Tremblay walk away. He was glorious.