Feeling like an idiot, Tucker drove. The Porsche was as zippy and responsive ever, but Tucker’s hands on the wheel were tight with tension, and he barely noticed where he was going or what he was doing. His mind turned somersaults over the thing with Tinsley Stewart. She was delectable, yes. But he had met delectable women before. He had done more than just “met” delectable women. And he had never felt this way. He felt, honestly, bewitched.

            He was being ridiculous. Tinsley was right. It was just attraction. Tucker had been in a vulnerable state all the times he’d been subjected to her beauty: jet-lagged at Pat O’Brien’s, drunk when he’d stumbled into the bedroom, hungover this morning. Surely that was the reason his responses to her were heightened. He was being silly to think it was anything more than that. Surely it wasn’t anything so fabled as love at first sight. And surely love at first sight did not feel like this.

            So, yes, it was just that he was attracted to her. He didn’t have to act on the attraction. He could just avoid her. He could fix the heat, and she would go back to her floor, and everything would be fine. He would lay awake at night thinking of her sleeping above him. Yeah, everything was going to be fine.

            Calm down, he told himself, severely. He was running away with himself. He turned the Porsche toward the French Quarter and parked in Reid’s courtyard, then walked to the nearest restaurant and ordered himself a bloody Mary. The bloody Mary did make him feel better, and he ordered an omelet to go with it. Tinsley’s omelet had had his mouth watering that morning, even with his stomach unsettled.

            Or, possibly, he admitted to himself, it had been Tinsley that had had his mouth watering, and food had been completely out of the equation.

            He ordered another bloody Mary while waiting for his omelet when Reid sat next to him, yawning. “Hey,” he said.

            Tucker looked at him in surprise. “Hi. How’d you know I was here?”

            “Saw your car. Thought you wouldn’t go very far. Why didn’t you stop and tell me you were out and about?” Reid gestured at the waiter.

            “I…”

            Reid glanced at him in surprise. “You didn’t want company,” he realized.

            “No, it’s fine,” said Tucker, staunchly. “I think I need some company.” Tucker nodded toward the waiter who had shown up. “Order.”

            “Bloody Mary,” said Reid. “And the Creole French toast.” Reid looked back at Tucker frankly. “So what’s up with you? You’re looking under the weather.”

            Tucker frowned. “Still? I feel lots better.”

            “Better?” Reid lifted his eyebrows. “You were worse than this?”

            “Briefly. It was a bad oyster at Antoine’s.”

            Reid drew his eyebrows together now in astonishment. “Were you hungover?”

            “I’m having a bad morning,” said Tucker.

            “Can’t possibly be worse than mine.”

            Tucker snorted, but sipped his drink instead of saying anything.

            “Angelica and I had a roaring fight,” Reid sighed, thanking the waiter as he delivered the bloody Mary.

            “Over what?”

            “I may have said somebody else’s name during sex,” Reid admitted, sheepishly, into his drink.

            “Oh, Reid.” Tucker shook his head. “Such a mundane problem.” Tucker took a sip of his drink. “I think I’ve had a voodoo spell cast on me.”

            Reid laughed. “Sure you do.”

            “Not joking,” said Tucker.

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