Fated in New Orleans

23

Rhea disappeared mid-laughter, muttering something about “a perfect follow-up toast.” Salem barely had time to narrow her eyes before Rhea came bounding back into the kitchen, clutching a dark bottle with a gold label.

“Rhea,” Salem warned, instantly recognizing the bottle. “Don’t you dare.”

“Oh, I dare,” Rhea said smugly, setting it on the counter like she was presenting treasure. “This—” she tapped the glass dramatically “—is the same bourbon you bought that distillery for. Boys, you have got to try it.”

Beau leaned over, whistling low. “Now that’s a fine bottle right there.”

Miles grinned, eyes flicking to Salem. “You really expect us not to be curious after that story?”

River, ever the quiet observer, tilted his head. “Might as well confirm whether her investment was wise.”

Salem groaned, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. “You’re all ganging up on me.”

Rhea popped the cork with a grin that could only be described as chaotic satisfaction. “You say that like it’s new.”

Salem shot her a flat look. “I’m not getting drunk with you again, Rhea. Last time you convinced me to buy real estate. What’s next—my own biker bar?”

Rhea smirked. “I mean, don’t tempt me.”

Beau was already pouring a round into mismatched glasses. “Too late, cher. You’re drinkin’ with us, even if it’s just one.”

Salem sighed, resigning herself as the rich, caramel scent filled the room. “Fine. One sip.”

Rhea beamed like she’d just won a bet. “That’s my girl.”

Miles lifted his glass first. “To reckless decisions and surprisingly successful investments.”

River followed, voice smooth and quiet. “And to the woman who somehow turns chaos into profit.”

Salem groaned again but clinked her glass with theirs anyway. “You’re all bad influences.”

Beau winked. “Yeah, but you like us that way.”

Rhea snorted. “She loves us that way.”

Salem took a sip — smooth, smoky, a hint of burn — and tried to scowl, but the taste made her lips twitch upward.

“Still good?” Rhea teased.

Salem gave a reluctant nod. “Still dangerously good.”

Rhea raised her glass triumphantly. “Then I call that a win!”

River and Miles shared a knowing glance, both hiding smiles as Rhea declared herself “Bourbon Queen of Louisiana,” while Salem muttered under her breath about changing the locks to the liquor cabinet.

But even as she said it, there was laughter in her voice — the kind that only came out when she was surrounded by the people who somehow managed to make her chaos feel like home.

The rich smell of bourbon hung heavy in the kitchen, the warmth of it settling in as glasses clinked and laughter bounced off the walls. Salem had already taken a second sip despite her earlier warnings, and she could see the effects hitting Rhea first.

Rhea, perched on the counter with one leg swinging, suddenly tilted her head back and launched into a loud, off-key rendition of some swampy Cajun tune.

“Rhea,” Salem said flatly, setting her glass down with an audible thump. “If you don’t stop singing right now, Beau, you deal with it. Or—” she leaned toward Rhea, voice low and dangerous, “—the next drink? I’m putting a little something in it that’ll make you nap through the whole song.”

Beau froze mid-laugh, caught in the impossible position of being referee and audience. “Uh… I mean… what? Deal with it how, boss?”

Rhea laughed, completely ignoring Salem’s threat. “Sleepy potion, huh? You wouldn’t dare!”

Miles leaned against the counter, smirking, eyes flicking from Salem to Rhea. “She would. I’ve seen that look before.”

River, quiet but alert, raised an eyebrow and sipped his drink. “You’re not bluffing, are you?”

Salem shot him a glance. “Try me.”

Beau groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Cher, I think you’ve just signed up to be the singing police. And trust me, Rhea doesn’t stop.”

Rhea, oblivious, launched into another verse, swaying dramatically. “You gotta adore me! My voice is the swamp’s finest!”

Salem pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering in Cajun under her breath. “I swear, if she hits that high note again…”

Miles chuckled, shaking his head. “She’s lucky you’re distracted by bourbon, or we’d have two wars going at once.”

River smirked faintly, watching Salem’s restrained irritation with subtle amusement. “Honestly,” he said softly, “I think you’re enjoying the chaos more than you let on.”

Salem’s glare shot him a warning, but the corner of her mouth twitched anyway. “I am enjoying watching Beau sweat. That’s the only reason I’m tolerating this.”

Beau’s hands shot up. “I’m not sweating, boss. Totally fine.”

Rhea belted the final, questionable line of her song, throwing her arms up like she’d just won a Grammy. Salem sighed dramatically, reaching for the bottle again.

“You know what,” Salem said, voice sharp but playful, “next round’s on me, but one more note like that and I swear to the swamp I’m dosing you into a nap, Rhea Broussard.”

Rhea’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I dare you.”

Miles chuckled low. “Don’t. She’s not bluffing.”

River shook his head slightly, sipping his drink with quiet amusement. “If nothing else,” he said softly, “you’ve got a full house of entertainment tonight.”

Salem smirked, eyes narrowing on Rhea, but there was a gleam of fond exasperation there. “Yeah. A terrible, chaotic full house,” she muttered, reaching for her glass again — this time, keeping one eye on the next verse.