Photo Credits: DavidRockDesign (pixabay), A Nina Garman (pixabay) Edited by Vaishali Title: New Orleans Rush Author: Kelly Siskind Series: Showmen series Publisher: Everafter Romance Year of Publication: 2019 Format: E-book copy/kindle app Genre/Themes: Adult Romance/Adult Fiction, Contemporary romance, Magic Review...
➜ Grumpy/sunshine slow-burner ➜ Roomies with a promise ➜ A magician and his new assistant ➜ A magical heroine optimist ➜ A magic man in distress ➜ A starving artist hero/heroine pairing ➜ A theatre in need of major TLC ➜ So close but so far away vibes ➜ A marvellous illusionist brotherhood ➜ Family drama and chasing threats New Orleans Rush swept me up, swept me silly and swept me right off the balls of my feet into sublimity. And I thus found myself being spun around not by the arms of a corporeal suitor, but by the figurative limbs (and sorcery) of this romance made of magic. This book finally gets my attention, undivided, excited and plush for the taking. And it didn't just fall to my liking, it became every preference I needed. This series starter was nothing short of wish fulfilment for my 2022 reading year. If you cherish, adore and frequent this genre like a home away from home, you've just found another humble abode In New Orleans Rush, one that outmatches and outperforms any imaginings, one you'll want to shove into the arms of every one you know (at least, this was the case for me). Kelly Siskind dreamed a dreamy dream when she thought this book into the world. What a magical maven she is. Enlightening, wistful, wonderful, charismatic, so comprehensively whimsy and real with such beautiful protagonists that it can't be called anything other than romance reading material of original shade. A heroine who brings beauty into the world with more than her art, a struggling magician disenchanted under the pressure of losing more than just his stage, wonderful writing that lifts it to life and a slow burn replete with a rewarding HEA, I felt like I was under a downpour of New Orleans Rush. There's knowing your audience, and there's also delivering for you audience, and I found myself the perfect seat-sitter for this brilliant contemporary romance. A 2022 dazzler that dazzled my 2022 reading year, and the author writes as if romanticist escapism is her pride and joy. To equalise the harmony, I read it as if it were mine. In the expanse of contemporary romantic lit New Orleans Rush is a bedazzling performance, and the joy rages on in lasting, trickling tendrils. Divine and feel-good, it became the most celebratory part of my day. Feeling so momentarily estranged from a genre I live, love and breathe for, this book completely sanctified my reasons for staying the course. Not that I would have dared to jilt but my confidence was a crumbling state, the likes of the toppling marvellous Marlow theatre. Not just any book could have succeeded the charge of re-enchanting me, but this romance was a resplendent rainbow whose latter end rested upon my doorstep. It re-hydrated my dry spell, and all it took was a hopeless magic man, a hopeful creative and the faith that tests their growing devotion. This romance pulled me from my darkened cloud and gently thrust me through doors made of sunlight, walked me through star dusted halls, dazzled me with dancing capes, zigzagging energy, characters of their own making and finished up an unhurried master stroke by replacing my eye sockets with the glow of a star-lit twilight. It did this in no particular order and yet all at once, because first page read and done and I knew I'd found a book bestie full of originality and magnificence. New Orleans Rush is romance rendezvous magic and I'm so in awe. I won't even consider myself a 'hype girl' because this book leaked spunk, radiance and alchemistic brilliance into my soul, one page at a time. My heart did weird and wonderful things each time I re-engaged and sat down for another sitting and it didn't take long at all before I was convinced that this must be magic in book form. There's no other way to reason why I always tuned in and (regretfully) tuned away feeling like a smiling silver lining. I love Huxley Marlow, and that love is only usurped by his quirky lady love who lives life like her inner child wants to play. This is the romance of my romance reading year. Huxley and Bea are the perfect couple of my reading year. Scratch that, a couple made for romance hall of fame, and I volunteer myself to reverently unroll that jazzy carpet. Summary breakdown: this story opens up finding bubbly Beatrice Baker drinking barside in a proud city made just for her, but without a boyfriend who promised them a great minute-by-minute adventure. Bea's having a very unlucky day, and hell hath no very un-Bea-like fury like a woman dumped, ditched and homeless in New Orleans. This was supposed to be a beginning for Bea, a chance to start over in newer, eccentric pastures, outrunning loan shark threats, her father's addiction and a parent who can easily be blamed for her limited life choices. Bea usually lives a long-suffering life with longer smiles, but today? It's harder for Bea to break one. After meeting a magical man with a magical cape, a characteristically cheery-tempered, conflict-averse gal finds herself out of character, juiced on a belly full of margaritas and medicine as she follows in Carrie Underwood style and keys her ex's automobile. Who also owns a prized Mustang so similar to he ex? Her cape-clad stranger. What Bea doesn't know is that a cape and a top hat are hiding a magic man with real problems. A desperate Huxley Marlow is barely keeping afloat, the potential fall of the Marlow magic theater a weight on his father's name, and one on his oldest brother shoulders. What is an illusionist with a theater in a sorry state of major disrepair? A very unhappy illusionist. It's do or don't do, and Huxley can't magic his way out of this mess. When he catches an emotional and intoxicated Bea compromising his priceless classic, he blackmails her by demanding payment in the form of free labour. And that's to say a distressed magician has found himself a new assistant. One riddled with stage fright and not an ounce of stage-performing ability. To further complicate matters, the feels keep on feeling, especially when an overtaxed Huxley Marlow meets the most amazing woman at the height of life distress. It may have taken me a long time to get through this, but wowza was I swept up like a starry-eyed heroine in a New Orleans rush. Did I love this book? Of course I did. But I didn't just love it, it became a part of my personality. Every day, it became a little more a part of me. I had so much love and warmth for the leading characters. So much. That even post-reading, that love and warmth grew wings and became fiction-free. From start to finish I lived and loved under a rainbow rainfall where the clouds were sunset pink, the air misted eccentric, the troubles kept a comin' and a magic-made heartthrob grump found himself a final act showstopper in a jazzy heroine. Make no mistake that I loved her growly magician, but Bea was something of a showstopper who stole the show. Pinpoint we shan't, but ever since I met Bea Baker drowning her sorrows with a lemon drop beverage, personality still intact, she made me smile. Every time she challenged Huxley and pulled a smile from his unsmiling face made me smile. Every time her oddball imagination shone, I smiled. Every time she made the best out of every bad situation I smiled. Every time her artsy fingers spilled forth and made canvas magic made me smile. When she persisted to make me smile from chapter to chapter, I had to admit that I was in love with her. Bea Baker's a bit of a life force, and no replacement could have satisfied. She's a heroine whose attitude is a concoction of smiles, pep, awe and more than a dash of the 80s. Smiles are magical, a mantra that'd surely belong to Bea, and if smiling through this entire read hadn't already happened to me, Bea would have remedied that in a nanosecond. Kelly Siskind’s heroine is an optimistic tribute to those with softer, forgiving hearts who've never found their place or people in life but live it like it was made for them, footsteps made of sparkle. I know Huxley coined the term, but I hereby blazon myself a proud member of the Beatrice Baker Effect Fanclub. Like Huxley, I needed her brightness and lightness in my life more than I realised. I loved her arc development because, smiles aside, it's unlikely that all the optimism combined can set one free from accumulated pain, and Bea had a lesson to learn in confronting hers. I was happy to see her discover a side unsmiling, a side that had to voice and face boundary more than just enthusiasm. Bea was a buried pile of feelings, and it only seemed right that she found safety in Huxley to let some go. She needed that for herself. And as helpful as I'd be in lending Bea squatting company for squatter's rights during her nights as she took up a temporary home in Huxley's theatre, I also loved that this book's hero was a bit of a male unicorn himself. He may be disillusioned but he had the best hero qualities. True to the test of them both however, and as much as they both always wanted more, they were devoted to each other long before the sexual intimacy set in. That’s my type of love connection. Huxley Marlow had an alpha-ness in that protective brother hen way that always put himself at the end of the line, was equally nerdy, a secret romance reader (because we don't want to say that too loud), was willing to play the slow walk of faith for Bea and stage-performed like he was made for it. He might have been a man who practiced magic but his own magic reserves were bleeding dry. Bea became an influencer of perspective that rubbed a different attitude and way of seeing into him, and he needed that in his life for the many layered hardships that kept him stuck. With deep money troubles, a theatre that might no longer belong to the Marlow legacy, a sly magician rival breathing a silent threat down his back, family grief that darkened his heart, parental bereavement and an offspring failure belief pattern, he was more sad than thriving. A lot that kept him wandering back to his theatre with late night disclosure on the mind. In so many ways, like Bea, Huxley was a starving creative. And dominated by his father's passing, he was father-pleasing his way to misery. As a second-generation magician he felt that he was making a mess of his father's name, with only a theatre in rack and ruin to show for it. In search of a gameplan, he only has a lucrative side avocation to re-route his way into fuller pockets, and even then, his life's work hasn't enabled a seat-filling business with healthy show goers. A man who learns the lesson of personal attention becomes of him. He learns to shed weight remembering his needs matter, and in equal proximity, that the Marlow brotherhood will always have his back. But even more, that he deserves a life free from his bindings, bound only by the important and beautiful things. The mundane gets twisted on its head and living gets easier with lightness in his heart. And Bea became the lantern in hand. On the topic of Siskind's hero, I share that I most definitely wanted to embody Bea, steal and don Huxley's magic man getup and squeal as he made it mission to silently stalk me with the promise of more gruff to come. Isn't that a fantasy? The profiling of both leading man and leading lady was comfortably and believably idyllic, and that's not to say they were the perfect people with perfect problems. Their lives were imperfect, clogged with drawback and emotional hoarding. The understated prowess of this story is its always-grounding ability to illustrate the reality in the fiction, but built-in hope reflects what can be had with better lighting. All comes together in a beautiful balanced blend. Sparkling company in a book. Relationships are complicated and the story held hands with that. There were barriers between them, they had that 'so close but so out of reach' vibe but there were silent promises, inevitability and a fierce knowing that made me believe it would always end one way for them. The best way a romance reader can hope for. I was wholly frustration free with this romance, and the reason that's a point-addressing particular is that I rarely experience a romance without some quality that thwarts my reading fun, and it often comes in the form of heroes in the mode of resistance, not an ounce of charm to their name or just presented in ways both bothersome and thorn-in-my-side. And there's the difficulty of them not showing up as human beings. Huxley and his tender dreaming heart/gruff personage puts them to shame. As we travel back to Siskind's bounty of a heroine, kindness is a strength, and so is the adamancy of sourcing the gold in every person, and that's what makes Bea baker a sensitive but strong lead. She challenges the bad with a full-spectrum spirit made manifest by her even more colourful wardrobe. I really appreciated that the story didn't use optimism to one-dimensionalise her profile yet loved that her sunny disposing didn't undermine the other half of her humanity. Bea Baker became the wings beneath Huxley's cape, and she his trial and his challenge to see life differently. If I had two micro suggestions to share, I (personally) wanted more inclusion of the New Orleans sights and surroundings. It's the vibrant of vibrant cultures, and I could imagine the adventures to be had. In addition? More magic scenes: magic tricks for Huxley to pull from his sleeve and wow Bea with. Even private magic tricks just for her. All surrounding characters that made up their little family were perfectly complementary. The main MCs may be oddball and different (to their own degrees, though this was mostly Bea) but never to the height of unbelievability or pseudo characterisation. They were different, so much fun and right up my alley. This story anchors itself by adopting an angle that uses the best to deal with the worst. And during the worst? To live life by your leverage. You don't need an open mind to love this book, just one amenable to being wowed by romance-rich individuality. Charm triumphant to its irresistible centre. Among the fun and lightness, New Orleans Rush may disguise itself as another simple romance, but it really gives way to a sense of connection, hope in the well, colours on the wall, finding and trusting in your crowd and shifting perspective for better life experience to happen. As such, it also becomes a study in perspective, optimism, family faith, redirection and belief - in all things life and your people. Hand to heart, I championed Bea and Huxley tenderly, fiercely, dramatically and thoroughly with my romance-loving heart. While it's un-frowned upon to love a love connection, I was also deep in the love zone for these two protagonists as separate people. Even as much as I loved their togetherness, I cherished their separateness. Like Bea, I don't have many friends, but if I did, Bea Baker would be one of them. I also don't have many magicians in my life, but if I did, Huxley Marlow would be one of them. It also turns out (in Bea's case) that bad boyfriends come in handy when the man you really needed was a magnificent magician who lived in New Orleans, but Bea doesn't know that yet. And neither does the frowning magician in question. They've got to take their time, you see. Threats travel, as does real life, and Bea might find herself at the centre of the quaint Big Easy but she's a parched artist outpacing trouble. Unemployed and likely to make a home out of her little Beetle, creativity might've fled the building for Bea but she's found a building where her creativity no longer wants to flee. Her artistic soul blooms into the night in a rundown theatre. In the prop room, the paint gets a flowin'. The same theatre Huxley might lose if he doesn't get his magic act together. I'm not sure what inner sanctum Kelly Siskind writes from but I was smitten and love-bitten. Even as the story swayed from worry to worry, my heart only pranced from strength to strength. With messy family Baker/Marlow ties, big magician energy, a heroine who lives with hope and imagination in the land of the living, a struggling magician with a mighty mess on his trickster hands, characters who give each other the run-around, and a fun overlay of charm, charisma and whimsy, this book hides behind nothing but its own glow. You can't make this stuff up, but Kelly Siskind can, and in some ways, I'd wished I'd read this sooner just so I could have loved it sooner. This fictionista must, in great all-seeing faith, stand to her fullest height, widen her shoulders, swagger with all the hero ego her romancing gal self can muster and challenge this community that loves fictional love to read without relishing. Romance readers should definitely part space for what I deem to be a prime selection for their romance reading lists. Not just great for a slump, not just great to get that reading fire re-ignited but to make one believe in the magic, might and superpower of this genre. Whatever the seedling was when this romance was born, the vision was bought to life handsomely, heroinely and without a hitch. A dream book with dreamy protagonists that wand-flicked a dream into my heart. I'm not sure what psychedelic brew the author pottered together, but this book just brought exciting life into a familiar genre. I'm also not sure what kind of creative kitchen sink Kelly Siskind washes her hands in but Kelly Siskind just wrote my favourite Kelly Siskind book and I'm sure the fun has just begun. To those eager for the flux of magical messes, magical mayhem and magical love in their lives, this series starter offering is a charming carousing of the genre and a book that gave me stars in my eyes for the most inconsequential reasons. Stands heads, shoulders tops hats and headpieces above many romances, and you'll want to feel the rush of this star-standard piece of make believe that I already call a classic. I gave this book 5 stars - Content Warning/Listing: Parent with gambling/drinking issues. Mentions a gambling addiction. Death of a parent. Mentions past drunken violence (fighting and being lit on fire). Parental abandonment. A smut scene. Leading male protagonist with facial deformities. --------------------------------------- M Y R A T I N G S Y S T E M: ★ - 1 star: I did not like the book ★★ - 2 stars: The book was okay ★★★ - 3 stars: It was a good, solid read ★★★★ - 4 stars: A great book ★★★★★ - 5: A phenomenal read --------------------------------------- ___________________________________________________ R E L A T E D P O S T S: ● Author Interview with Kelly Siskind ● BOOK REVIEW: He's Going Down by Kelly Siskind ___________________________________________________ SOME FAVOURITE QUOTES! Axel actually put his phone down. “You’re not sleeping with her?” Huxley chopped faster, mutilating the poor onion. “Again, not your business.” “But she’s hot…unless she doesn’t dig you. Is it the stripping? Have I ruined her for other men by strutting around shirtless?” “The only thing you’ve ruined is my appetite.” “Is it the size of my wand? She did say she’d like to make it shoot sparks.” Huxley breathed through his flaring nose. “I’m the oldest brother. I have the Elder wand. There’s no competition.” It was a galaxy far, far away. Right here. In a New Orleans bar. He’d never waste another opportunity to taste her lips or confess his love. “It must be the Elder wand,” Axel said, obnoxious as always. Beatrice pulled away, a mischievous glint in her rainstorm eyes. “It is the most powerful wand. Fifteen inches, they say.” Della snickered. “Huxley must be a skilled wizard. He should teach wand mastery at his school.” Beatrice lowered her voice, as though sharing the secret to their Flying Playing Card routine. “He has a PhD in wand mastery.” “Does he specialize in direct hits or stamina spells?” Axel mock-puked. “We passed TMI Street two blocks ago.” She was his North Star, a steady light in an ever-changing sky. He pressed in slow as a summer sunrise, letting her heat wrap him, her color blind him. The promise of a new day ahead. Her words were magic. The greatest illusion of Huxley’s time. “You love me?” “I do. And your unicorn painting.” “The painting is awful.” “Perfectly awful.” “I’d walk away from the theater if it meant keeping you. I’d paint a thousand flying penises over it, if you’d forgive me. I’d eat your crunchy eggs every morning. There are no partly sunny days without you, Honeybee. You make me a better man.” Arms resting on his bent knees, he watched Beatrice Baker sleep, because Beatrice Baker was a woman who made sleep fascinating. Just thinking about his zigzag girl made him smile. So simple yet astounding, how love could transform your world. Turn half-empty glasses half full. She was talking. Still, the stabbing needles worsened, clogging up his throat, too. “You almost scared the magic out of me.” “The magic?” “If I lost you, there wouldn’t have been any left.” And he couldn’t promise he’d never succumb to that level of violent despair again. One thing that night had taught him was that he had a dark side. He wasn’t above lashing out when life turned on him. The past month, Beatrice Baker had become an integral part of his world. If something happened to her, his anger would raze the earth. She flipped the phone in her hand. It was nothing but a metal box. It didn’t tease her or make her laugh, or feed her belly and soul, but it connected her to the two people responsible for her existence. “I don’t like my father, but I love him. I like my mother, but I don’t love her. I didn’t choose my parents, but my mother left some guy she cared about to be with my dad, which means they were once in love. They chose to have me. Not knowing where they are, or if they’re okay, would be worse than seeing their texts, especially my father’s.” Molly Baker had been fun growing up. She’d encouraged Bea’s art and had taught her that if music played, the Baker girls must dance. She believed positivity was contagious and made people around her happier. She was an entertaining friend, but she hadn’t been there when Bea had dropped out of high school to work full-time, or on the days Bea had cleaned up her father’s puke. She hadn’t earned Bea’s love, just like her father hadn’t earned Bea’s respect. “I have scars on my body.” He blurted that truth before the thought had even crossed his mind. He couldn’t understand how a woman as fascinating as Beatrice Baker found his ugly mug attractive. He also didn’t want her to be surprised when they got home. Her eyes drifted to his chest. “Della mentioned it.” “Does it bother you?” “I have a birthmark above my bellybutton. It’s shaped like a wilting daisy. Will that bother you?” Heat sped his blood. “I can’t wait to meet this wilting birthmark of yours.” She tipped up her chin, her eyes so full of emotion he was sure an illusion had vanished every other person in the club. “I can’t wait to meet your scars.” Where did I find this woman? Except he knew the truth. He hadn’t found her. She’d keyed her way into his life and heart. “It’s not what a romance hero would do.” “I wouldn’t know.” He was full of it. “He’d ravage me. Turn my world inside out.” He brushed his nose against hers. “Do you want this hero to break his promise?” She released her punishing hold on his shirt. “No.” “Do you want him to give in to his desire, knowing it will ruin things in the long run? Or do you want him to torture himself by holding back, because the woman in his arms is worth the torment?” “It’s not fair,” she said on a sigh. She was the reason he’d pulled away. Her issues had undermined them this whole time. And he’d totally read a bunch of Harlequin novels. The kiss was hot and demanding, the type that broke ancient curses and turned frogs into dashing princes. He was an honorable man who valued family. He believed a promise was as binding as Axel’s straitjacket. He shouldered the responsibility of the theater to make his late father proud. He also read romance novels. The pastime may have begun as a guilty pleasure, or a how-to in the ways of women, but the way he’d fought to break her walls, earn her trust in a trial by fire, deny his desires to prove his worth—he was a romantic through and through. More guests didn’t faze him. Teasing brothers didn’t break his stride. He chopped and blended and sliced, happy to feed his family. A family she felt a part of. Twenty-eight years with her parents, and she’d always felt more castaway than crewmate: friend to her mother and mother to her father, forced to fight for her survival. Three weeks after being thrust into the Marvelous Marlow Boys’ world, and she belonged. She lay beneath Huxley, a fiery sword in his hands, and she wasn’t afraid. He sliced downward, stopping abruptly before nicking her. Fire hopped from his blade to her suit, and a flare lit across her belly, wild yet contained. Exactly how his emotions felt around Beatrice. He wanted to be a raging wildfire with her, not measured and precise. Loose. Untamed. He longed to forget the surly man who spent his time tallying bills and keeping the theater from caving in He sliced it through the air. “Working with fire is dangerous. It involves trust.” His blade slashed in an elaborate figure eight. “Do you trust me, Beatrice?” She was mesmerized, picturing him in a foreign market, stalls teeming with exotic fruits and colorful scarves, snakes performing in time to his swirling sword. One moment he was her sleep-mussed roommate, then a skilled magician flirting with his fans, then this. Majestic. Dazzling. She nodded instead of speaking aloud. His machete wielding paused. Tension banded his features. “Lie on the table.” It was a brisk command, his surly side surfacing. Surly with a dash of sexy dominance. Although he’d yet to admit he read romance novels, she believed otherwise. She imagined the characters inspired his stage persona. She wondered if he got worked up while enjoying a steamy scene. Her body ignited at the possibility. Huxley had believed once. He’d thought he could run this theater and support his family with as much panache as his father. He’d thought his shows would wow crowds. The truth was depressingly stark. Had he failed because he’d stopped believing? Or had he stopped believing because he had failed? A chicken and egg conundrum, the endless sort that could lead a man to insanity. If he asked Beatrice, he was sure she’d tell him he’d stopped believing. That fate only unfolded favorably for those who smiled and saw partly sunny days. If that were true, then he was his own roadblock. Huxley still stared at her like she was a red lollipop, and he had a red lollipop addiction. He stayed behind her, candles flickering ahead, his warm breaths brushing her hair. The moment felt intimate. Too intimate. She forced her feet forward. “This is quite the setup. I’m once again questioning your vampire status. Do you use makeup to mute your skin sparkles?” “I thought we decided I wasn’t immortal?” “There’s a checklist. It’s evenly weighted.” He moved to her side, and the corner of his lips twitched. “Can I see this evaluation?” That would mean he’d read her Mortal Man column and the bullet point that read: His rare smiles make me melt. They are too tender for an immortal. “It’s written in invisible ink. It only appears for women who sing ‘The Sound of Music’ while wearing a garlic dress and riding a unicycle.” He didn’t laugh or roll his eyes. “A unicorn,” he murmured. “Where?” Bea scanned the area. “Right in front of me.” She would bottle up all these fizzy feelings for Huxley until she was sure she wouldn’t get stuck spinning in another man’s tornado. “I’m cooking,” she declared, needing a distraction. Not only did he wear thin T-shirts, but he had a collection of adorably nerdy tops he wore around the house. Today’s read: Talk Nerdy to Me. “I spend the rest of my time dodging Huxley’s growls.” She snickered. “That man gives good gruff.” He also had a voice that could melt butter. Pride flashed across Huxley’s face. “That’s my girl.” His girl. Those words struck a chord in her chest. A chiming bell, clanging so loudly it cleared her fog. She wanted to be his girl, perform with flair and prove how strong she was. Impress this magical man. Share with him the emotion she’d swallowed when listening to his late-night confession. Della had been right to be concerned, but being here, face-to-face with Huxley, she knew he wasn’t a placeholder. She wasn’t boomeranging. Meeting him had been fate. Painting had always come first for Bea, saving her pennies second. She’d assumed she’d meet her people once in art school, but maybe she’d meet them at magic theaters and flea markets. "She makes me excited about magic again, about revamping the theater. The pressure sucks, and I’m drowning most days, but this watermelon girl manages to make me laugh. And I think I forgot how to do that—just laugh. Which is pretty damn sad.” Until Beatrice Baker had sat on a barstool in bright pink pants and had called him a colon rectum, a fiery spark in her stormy eyes. Aside from the subtle blond scruff highlighting dramatic cheekbones and his aquiline nose, Huxley wasn’t traditionally handsome. Puckered skin overtook half an eyebrow, part of his right ear was missing, and a thick scar ran down his left cheek. His dirty-blond hair had a slight unruly curl, the ends licking at his neck. Individually, his features weren’t particularly attractive, but as a whole this man was ruggedly elegant. Like when you stepped back from a Monet and all the paint strokes blended into a masterpiece. Until he said, “Bee, as in the insect?” Now he was more of a disturbing Picasso painting than a Monet masterpiece. His eyes swept over her face, a mix of wonder in his thorough perusal. This dashing man looked at her like she was the unicorn he’d always hoped existed. Then he smiled. A full-teeth smile, and heat flooded her chest. That smile was too tender and open to belong to a jaded immortal. It was a check in the Mortal Man column. Another followed when she purchased the lacy thigh-highs, and Huxley blushed. Immortal men didn’t blush. It wasn’t her business. She’d only known him three days, yet she couldn’t paint her self-portrait without pieces of his profile filling in her gaps. She’d thought about him on and off all evening, returning to the warmth of his hand on her back, how he’d indulged her whims in the shops, his occasional smiles. He didn’t offer those smiles freely, each twitch of his lips a gift earned. It made her want to be sillier, goofier. Crazy. Anything to loosen up his stiff cheeks. A Huxley murmur was a surefire way to distract her from her purpose. They were now holding hands. In a vampire shop. In New Orleans. She couldn’t keep from grinning. “You read Twilight.” A statement this time. “You didn’t answer my question.” Because she couldn’t stop picturing this imposing man on his back, book hovering over his face, flipping pages as Bella Swan swooned over Edward Cullen, and Edward Cullen fought his feelings for the mortal girl. Huxley was a romantic. “Do you read Harlequin novels, too?” His eyes flicked to the left, then to the floor. “Of course not.” That unsteady gaze was an admission if she’d ever seen one. He was learning there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do to earn a Beatrice Baker smile. The hostess smiled when she looked at Beatrice. The other patrons grinned, too, as had every person they’d passed on the street. It could be the polka dot thigh-highs she wore, or her flared pink skirt, or the black-and-white halter top that turned her into a fifties pinup girl. But Huxley knew better: it was the Beatrice Baker Effect. Her natural brightness was contagious. His light blue eye darkened to match his brown one—quite a possessive look for someone who growled at her more often than he spoke. She doubted Huxley would be impressed she’d appropriated wood boards lying around his theater for her project. Or that his fascinating face had become her muse: his two-toned eyes filled her imagination, punctuating how people had so many colors trapped under their skin, layers of traits and quirks and desires. She clicked her pink patent heels together, a trick she used growing up when sharing her art with her father. No matter his faults, he’d never fail to praise her work and proclaim her a genius, but sharing her creations had always felt like baring her soul. Clicking her heels together made her think of the Wizard of Oz and finding her lioness confidence. The gesture touched her, but she couldn’t accept it without offering something in return. As it stood, he was driving around in a car she’d vandalized. “Okay, but…” She grabbed her purse from the stage edge, which was filled with essentials, including glitter pens and stickers, and pulled out the perfect gift for Huxley. “I insist you take this.” She held out her miniature Cotton Candy My Little Pony doll. His serious façade threatened to crack. “You want me to have a pink pony?” “Not just any pony. It’s the thirty-fifth anniversary re-issue of the 1983 classic.” Forget cracking. A smile stretched across his handsome face. “Thanks, but it’s not necessary.” “That’s where you’re wrong.” She forced it into his hand and touched the corner of his mouth that no longer tilted down. “See this? You don’t smile enough, but I bet when you look at Cotton Candy you won’t be able to fight the feeling. She’ll make your life more fun.” Her hand drifted back to her side, and the amusement on Huxley’s face shifted into something more intense. July-fourth-fireworks intense. A marching-band-playing-in-her-chest intense. Bea had been a starving artist since birth. Chocolate syrup finger paintings and mashed potato carvings had occupied her early years. Icing smeared walls and peanut butter sculptures followed. She’d built chewing gum castles and Skittles worlds, all to her mother’s delight, using every available food source, choosing art over eating. Starving for her craft. Then she’d found paint. Glorious, bold, titanic paint. She’d painted windowsills, doorknobs, cutlery, toothbrushes, using surfaces to study portions of people and animals. She’d stolen sections of the world to make them shine. The past seven years, she’d worked odd jobs, while exorcising the muses from her mind and finishing high school through evening classes. She’d saved her pennies and planned to attend the California Institute of Art. Until Franklyn Baker had ruined that dream. But dreams were intangible things. They could bend and stretch, appear in black-and-white or color. At twenty-eight, the notion of saving for school again had lost its luster, but the larger problem, the devastation plaguing Bea the past month, had been her creative rut. Since her father had undermined her kindness again, everything she’d painted had been bland, like all her colors turned taupe the second they hit a surface. Lifeless studies. Flat portraits. An artistic dry spell that had ended last night. All it had taken was found two-by-fours of wood, her minimal paints and brushes, and a cacophony of magical inspiration. Her mind had bloomed with imagery, the brush an extension of her hand. Squatting at the Marlow Theater was no longer a last resort. She needed this assistant position. She needed this splendiferous building to feed her soul, even if it came with a surly Huxley Marlow and a raging case of stage fright. She did just that. “I loved your show. I mean, the cape was spectacular, as I knew it would be. The top hat as well. But sawing Fox, the fire and the doves, and the way you all worked the stage—it was mesmerizing. I haven’t had this much fun in, well…ever. I hope you know how stupendously magical you are.” “Stupendously magical?” “The most stupendous.” He stepped closer, feeling like he was walking on air. A magic trick he’d never performed. With the sheet raised a fourth time, his gaze swept the auditorium. “This might hurt a little.” Her shoulders shivered at his devious tone, her racing heart more aflutter than afraid. She wasn’t sure afluttering should happen one calendar day post-breakup, but here she was, aflutter, imagining that devastating voice whispering in her ear. Huxley had said he didn’t sleep in coffins, except his wording had leaned toward the vague. I prefer sleeping in beds, he’d claimed. Maybe he was a vampire after all. A blood-drinking, forever-living, garlic-hating undead person. She’d have to test his skin for sparkles. She blinked at their sideways selves. “So Max is your father, and there’s Huxley and Axel and Fox…I’m sensing a pattern here.” Stuck with the name Beatrice, she’d spent countless hours obsessing over other people’s names. Axel scratched his chest lazily. “Our other brothers are Paxton and Xander. Dear old Dad thought the letter X was an underused consonant.” She smiled. Overusing an underused consonant was quirky perfection Bea was the type to forget a minute only held sixty seconds. There were just so many things to explore in every given moment, and this theater was teeming with fascinations. Aside from old posters on the walls, and the other dressing rooms filled with fanciful costumes, she’d stumbled into a prop room laden with dummies and cages and feathered hats. She’d even found a dinosaur skull. A mecca of magical curiosities. So magical, her fingers had twitched, as though her creative dry spell might come to an end. He wondered what she saw when looking at his face, how she would paint the burn on his eyebrow, the fibrous tissue of his scars. The ugly marks on his chest and abdomen. It made sense now, the way she’d studied him earlier, calling him a Monet as though fascinated. Not the flicker of interest he’d hoped he’d seen. It was how Huxley watched a fellow illusionist, picking apart each movement instead of enjoying the show. He was a curiosity to her. A subject. The notion disappointed him. He got lost studying her miniature paintings, picturing Beatrice, brush in hand, bringing these peculiar portraits to life. The corners of his lips lifted again, muscles that had atrophied over the years, until this firecracker had asked to nuzzle his cape. There was just something about her quirky paintings and watermelon smell that affected him while he sat in this unusual car that swelled with her uniqueness. As Huxley turned to leave, she asked, “What happened to your last assistant?” A pirate smile shifted his features into another startling masterpiece. “I sawed her in half.” Her fascination with his costume was unexpected. As was the animal vocabulary, the mug shot quandary, and her criminal activities. This woman was both mystifying and infuriating. He should still be livid with her, but Huxley found himself entranced by her as she spoke. Beatrice had spectacular lips and stunning gray eyes. Even unfocused, her eyes resembled the stirrings of a rainstorm. Huxley loved tipping his face up to the rain. Beautiful women didn’t usually care for his cape or hat or line of work. They often frowned at the burned half of his eyebrow and scarred cheek with disgust. She likely would, too, when sober. “Well, Miss Beatrice Baker, if you didn’t mean to key my particular car, then I might be willing to offer you a deal.” Her reply: “You’re tall.” Normally Huxley enjoyed unpuzzling unpuzzleable puzzles. His appetite for understanding the bizarre made him an exceptional magician. In this case, the ear-splitting squeal of metal-on-metal clued him in to this woman’s nefarious activities. Huxley’s father had drilled teachings into his kids, one of his mainstays being: distract your audience with beauty. Man or woman, it didn’t matter, as long as their allure drew focus and mesmerized the crowd, pulling attention away from your trickery. Huxley was now a magician without an assistant, a performer without a beautiful distraction. A man losing hold of his dream one calamity at a time. Huxley Marlow was used to being the center of attention. He’d spent the majority of his teen and adult years on stage. He had no qualms walking around in a top hat and costume, but it wasn’t often a sexy redhead asked to nuzzle his velvet cape. Most women giggled and gawked, understandably. Some even winced when they noticed his scars. This woman wore the brightest pink pants he’d ever seen, her turquoise polka dot top had his lips curving into a smile, and her imaginative cape story had him struggling not to laugh. Him. Laugh. A guy who spent most of his days scowling. She wasn’t a malicious girl. Her back was basically made of Teflon, all resentment and stress sliding to its demise. Yet she was ogling Nick the Prick’s muscle car with devious intent, and she barely recognized herself. She’d worked since she was old enough to deliver papers. She’d then cut lawns and babysat and eventually waitressed. She’d dabbled in house painting––anything to add color to the world and money to her pocket, all while pursuing her art in private. Growing up, she’d been the levelheaded one who had kept the electricity on and heat flowing. She prided herself on being the only member of the Baker clan to never procure a mug shot. See? Totally levelheaded. Frequently taunted with “bee” jokes as a kid, Bea had studied insects and animals. The odder the name the better. Using the insults against bullies would often confuse them into silence. It had a different effect on Huxley, whose striking cheekbones rounded, his lips curving upward like he’d stumbled upon a four-leaf clover in a barren land. I love interacting with fellow readers, reviewers, bloggers and writers. Hearing about reader opinion is the fuel to my reader appetite, so get in touch and comment below! SHARE ON FACEBOOK Leave a comment and let's talk about |
VaishaliBorn in the UK Archives
February 2024
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