His Uptown Girl. Liz Talley

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      Eleanor pushed past Pansy, who’d plastered her nose to the window of the Queen’s Box. Eleanor could only imagine the picture her friend and employee presented to passersby. Pig nose.

      But no actual drool.

      “Let me be the judge,” Eleanor said, playing along. Pansy had spent the past month reminding Eleanor of her resolution to get back into the dating game. When Eleanor had examined her life, as everyone is wont to do on New Year’s Day, she’d discovered her home felt empty, and most of her lingerie had been purchased from a wholesale club. Time to start dating again, to start claiming a new life for herself outside widowhood and motherhood. Up until now, Eleanor had been good at ignoring the male sex—hot or otherwise—but today, Eleanor felt game. Maybe it was the phone call earlier from her mom, who had cut out an article about healthy living for the premenopausal woman.

      Not that Eleanor was going through menopause.

      Yet.

      So an innocent ogle sounded...harmless.

      Across the street, in front of the place where tradesmen had been streaming in and out like worker bees, was a pickup truck. Leaning against the side of that truck was someone who made her swallow. Hard.

      Pansy soooo didn’t need glasses.

      The man resembled an Aztec prince. Like his honeyed skin should be twined in gold and turquoise, bedecked in a feathered headdress. And a loincloth. He’d be breathtaking in a loincloth.

      “Told ya,” Pansy said, shouldering Eleanor out of the way. “He could eat crackers, chips and freakin’ beignets in my bed any day of the week.”

      “Not sure your husband would appreciate an extra bedmate.”

      “Eddie lets the dog sleep with us. What’s one more hairy beast?” Pansy straightened the ceremonial Mayan mask that sat next to the silver candelabra in the window display before sliding off the edge of the window stage, her long body loose and loping. Pansy was over six feet tall, flat-footed and thin to the point of painful, but she had a sharp sense of humor and a heart that was big, fat and full of good cheer. Like Santa Claus in Olive Oyl’s body.

      Eleanor glanced again at the man standing beside the pickup, peering at his phone. He wore well-worn jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. His face had a sort of sexy Brad Pitt thing going on with sensuous lips, but his jaw was hard, nose straight, brows dark and drawn to a V as he tapped on the phone. His skin was a creamy café au lait and his hair jet-black, clipped close to his head. Broad shoulders and narrow hips finished off the visual treat. A damn chocolate cupcake from Butterfield’s Bakery wasn’t as tempting as this man. “Hey,” Pansy whispered over Eleanor’s shoulder, making her jump. “You should go get him and see how you like sleeping on cracker crumbs.”

      “I already know I don’t like sleeping on cracker crumbs.”

      “With the right guy, you’ll never feel ’em. Trust me.”

      Running a hand over a well-crafted Federal chest of drawers, Eleanor turned to Pansy and wiggled her fingers. “Dust.”

      “Chicken.”

      Eleanor wasn’t going outside to talk to a guy leaning against a work truck. She wasn’t that kind of girl. Never had been...even if she was determined to get out there...wherever “there” was. “No way.”

      “Candy ass.”

      “Calling me names won’t work. Get the lemon oil and let’s make sure our pieces up front look pretty. Tourists will be pouring in with Mardi Gras weekend coming up. I could use some sales.”

      Pansy propped her fists on angular hips and narrowed her piercing blue eyes. “Come on, El. What will it hurt to do a little flirting? You’ll probably never see him again and you need to get your feet wet. Beyond time, sugar.”

      Yeah, it was way beyond time. That’s what her daughter, Blakely, had yelled at her over a month ago—to get her own life. But Eleanor wasn’t going outside and getting her feet wet with some random house painter. Even if she’d never see him again. Even if it was harmless, silly and somewhat daring. “I’m moving on, Pansy. I am. I even checked out that eHarmony site last night, but I’m not the kind of girl who goes up to a random guy and says, uh, I wouldn’t even know what to say.”

      “Pretend you’re locked out and need a screwdriver or something to jimmy the lock. I’ll hide in the back.”

      “Jimmy the lock? Who are you? Nancy Drew?”

      Pansy faked an elaborate laugh. “You’re so funny. Share it with the sex god across the street. Unless you’re...chicken?”

      Eleanor looked around the antiques store that had been her salvation, first after the hurricane and then after the sex scandal, and felt the security she always did when she really thought about who she was. Did she want to be another relic of the past like the beautiful pieces in her store? Hmm. Pansy was right. Blakely was right. She needed to step out and get a life. “Okay. Fine.”

      Pansy froze. “Really?”

      “Yeah, what’ll it hurt? Not like I’ll see him again.”

      Pansy pulled Eleanor to her, snatching the ponytail holder from Eleanor’s hair. “Ow!”

      “Hold still,” Pansy said, tugging strands of Eleanor’s hair around her face and studying it critically.

      Eleanor batted her hands away. “Jeez, Pans.”

      “Let me grab the coral-rose lip gloss I bought at Sephora. It will look nice with those new red highlights you just put in.”

      “I’m—”

      “Shh,” Pansy said, pressing a finger against Eleanor’s lips. “He’s a little out of your league so we need to prepare you for—”

      “Please.” Eleanor pushed past her friend and tucked her shirt into her new gold Lilly Pulitzer belt. “He’ll be gone before you could perform all that magic. Besides, he’s not out of my league. Forget the lip gloss.”

      “Whoa, that’s my sassy girl,” Pansy called, scurrying to the back of the store, thin arms and knobby knees moving so fast she resembled a clumsy puppy. She sank behind the counter, leaving only her eyes visible. “I’ll hide back here so he buys the story.”

      “This is nuts,” Eleanor proclaimed.

      Pansy’s hand emerged over the register, shooing her toward the door. “Just go.”

      Taking a deep breath, Eleanor pushed the glass door, ignoring the dinging of the sleigh bells affixed to the knob, and stepped onto Magazine Street, which had started waking up for the day. She shut the door behind her, slapped a hand to her forehead and patted her pockets.

      Damn, she was a good actress.

      She started toward hunky painter dude, looking both ways before crossing the street ’cause she’d learned that rule when she was seven years old. The closer she got, the hotter—and younger—the guy looked.

      God, this was stupid. Pansy was right. The man was out of her league.

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