He laughs. “My dear, it is you who are following me.”

My dream from last night flashes through my mind, and I can just see the glint of sun on the purple and red Mardi Gras beads tucked into the collar of his robe. “My mom says she doesn’t know you.”

He doesn’t look up. “Does she now?”

I cross my arms, frustrated that I am not getting the answers I’m looking for. I feel his smile behind his goatee, as if my anger delights him. “No one reads those anymore,” I say, slapping his newspaper.

“I’m old-fashioned.” After a moment, he glances up at me, and much as I want, I can’t seem to pull away from the gaze he holds me in. “You better get used to it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means if you make a scene every time we bump into each other, you’re only going to make things more difficult for yourself.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he cuts me off.

“Ah, ah. Your crush is heading back.”

“He’s not my crush,” I mumble.

“Oh please, I can smell the pheromones all over you. Better scurry along.”

I turn and see Daniel throwing a towel down on the table I left. I walk over before he sees me.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, blowing out an exasperated puff of air.

“Don’t worry ’bout it,” he tells me. “Spills happen.” He looks over his shoulder, then back to me. He checks his phone. “I’m almost off. You hungry? I know a great burger place not far from here.”

My stomach is way too active for food, but I don’t want to be cooped up in this little room with a walking, talking version of my Devil tarot card. At least I won’t have to fight down another po’boy. “I’m not really a big meat eater,” I confess.

“Oh, no worries. They’ve got a black bean patty, plus loaded fries, salads, and a bunch of other stuff.”

I exhale. This boy is beginning to win me over. And I’m also pretty sure an ax murderer wouldn’t recommend a black bean patty.

“I was worried,” I tell him as we sit down to our table at the burger joint.

“Worried?”

I grin bashfully. “I thought you’d want crawfish or more beignets or something. My mom won’t shut up about them.”

He laughs. “None of these places hold a candle to my mawmaw Barb. Not even my auntie’s café. Her seafood gumbo is the very definition of New Orleans.”

I instantly think of Moony and look away. She wasn’t a great cook, but she was a good one. And I didn’t need her to be more than that.

“I’m sorry,” he says, realizing his mistake. “I forgot your mother said your grandmother just passed.”