Infatuate Read Online Free

with that in my mind that I let my head rest on Lance’s shoulder and I drifted off. I didn’t wake until the pilot’s voice crept into my subconscious and I took a drowsy peek out the window to see that we were beginning our descent.
     
    The cab weaved through streets studded with revelers sipping mixed drinks outside on a sunny weekday afternoon, loops of purple, green, and gold beads shining from their necks. Jaunty trumpet-heavy jazz poured out of the open doors of every bar we whizzed past. It was exactly as I had imagined New Orleans would be. But I hadn’t anticipated the heat. Sticky and sweet-smelling, the thick humid air smothered us as soon as we set foot outside the airport. By the time we found the car that had been sent for us, I had already stripped down to the T-shirt under my sweater. I hoped I’d packed enough of my summer clothes.
    “This is hot, even for us, so don’t y’all worry. It’s not just you northerners,” said the driver, clearly a native judging by his tanned and glistening skin. His lilting twang sounded so wel-coming that it convinced me I would be one of those people who went on vacation and inadvertently picked up the accent of the locals and came home sounding ridiculous.
    “Where’s good shopping around here, sir?” Dante was already thinking ahead. Lance busied himself cleaning his glasses, which had steamed up instantly, on his shirttail.
    “Canal Street, Magazine Street, all over the Quarter. Y’all are gonna love it.”
    The city unspooling outside my window could not have looked less like Chicago. Shops and eateries lined every street. Wrought-iron balconies were wrapped around precious row houses, some painted in candy colors. A horse-drawn carriage pulled out in front of us, clomping along at a pace far slower than I walked even when I was relaxed. But no one seemed to mind. Time moved differently here, I could already tell. I breathed deep, taking it all in.
    “Your house is a short walk from Jackson Square, real pretty —”
    “And just a block or so from Bourbon Street, right?” I piped up. From my guidebook, it looked like our new home was within striking distance of the famous strip, which pretty much sounded like a nonstop party.
    “Please, what are you going to be doing on Bourbon Street?” Dante laughed.
    “Unleashing my wild side maybe, you never know.”
    “Because you really let your hair down at the Vault,” he volleyed back, a reference to our evenings as underage fish out of water at the Lexington’s posh nightspot.
    Lance turned around in the front seat and smiled at me. “You can take the girl out of the club but you can’t take the club out of the girl,” he said. “But, culturally speaking, Bourbon Street is definitely worth a look.”
    The driver pulled to a stop outside a quaint red brick building on Royal Street. The two-story home seemed perfectly charming and plenty exotic to me, even sandwiched between what looked to be two sprawling mansions. Our residence had one of those delicate balconies I’d already admired so much and featured two sets of tall double doors flanking a metal gateway designed to look like leafy vines. An old-fashioned lantern—like something out of Sherlock Holmes—dangled above the doors, waiting to be lit as soon as the blazing sun set.
    Our driver lined our bags up on the curb. “Bienvenue!” he said. “This is a great location, heart of the French Quarter.” I liked how he said Quarter, drawing it out— Caaaaahrter —and I had been lulled into such a state of calm by the city’s relaxed pace that I had to ask him to repeat what he said next because I thought I’d heard him wrong. “Just said, y’all are right next door to that haunted house.” He pointed toward the gray house next to ours, spanning the corner of Governor Nicholls Street. “LaLaurie mansion. Watch out. Oooo.” He waved his fingers, a show of mock spookiness.
    “Why am I not surprised?” I whispered to Lance.
    Lance