French Quarter Kisses. Zuri Day

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       Chapter 2

      Roz wasn’t pleased with her assignment, but after sending inquiries for information and an interview to Pierre’s publicist, Cathy Weiss, she spent the next couple weeks on the July articles that had been approved. Crime had increased with the heat index. City Hall was in the middle of another political scandal.

      On a lighter note, the whole city united behind eight-year-old child prodigy Zach Johnson, whose keyboard mastery made him America’s New Star on the hit TV talent show, with a first prize of a recording contract and half a million dollars. The youngest of seven being raised by a single mother, who’d taken in four more children after her sister died, he and his life-changing win were front page news on NO Beat and some national papers, too. Roz met with the entire family for an interview and photo shoot. They were a joy. The kind of people she loved to meet, and the type of story she lived to write.

      As August neared Roz switched her focus to the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina and the four-part “Where Are They Now?” series to mark the event. Wanting to start on a high note, she hoped LeBlanc’s story would fit the topic, was almost certain she could spin it so that it would. Actually got a little excited about meeting the chef. For business purposes only, she always reminded herself, when at the thought of an “up close and personal” her heart did a little step-ball-chage.

      But after spending almost the entire month of July trying to contact him for an interview, she found herself stymied. Andy was totally unsympathetic, responding to her woes of the elusive celebrity with “get the story.” She scoured the internet for info, then called the restaurant, emailed his publicist, and finally texted a food critic with stellar connections, all several times, to no avail. The restaurant had flat out said he was too busy to be interviewed for at least three months. Cathy had sent a standard press packet and promised to get back to her with answers to the more personalized questions Roz had sent. So far, though? Nothing. The food critic hadn’t even bothered to respond. Roz didn’t blame him. He was a former associate, an acquaintance. Not a friend. Probably thought that she was like every other single woman in New Orleans angling for entry into the chef’s private kitchen. Or his bedroom. And not necessarily in that order.

      She was frustrated, so after securing the subjects for August’s week two and three, and leaving a message for the best friend whose family’s story would close out the series, Roz headed over to the other office, where she did her best thinking. Guido’s was a bare-bones boxing and workout center that relied on old-school iron rather than modern-day machines to achieve one’s desired physique. Roz had discovered it a year ago, when a nasty breakup left her needing something to punch. Hard. Repeatedly. Ginny had suggested the place where her boyfriend sparred thrice weekly with an aggressive punching bag that bobbed and wove but never hit back. Perfect. Roz pounded, weight lifted and squatted out her anger. In the process, she got into the best shape of her life.

      “Rozzo!”

      “Hey, Gee.”

      Everyone called the owner of Guido’s Gee, pronounced Ghee, short for Guido, even though he was neither vain, uncouth nor Italian. His real name was Gerald, but friends in his high school wrestling circle had dubbed him Guido and the name stuck. Roz surmised that he probably liked “Guido’s Gym” better than “Gerald’s Gym,” anyway.

      She stopped at a short counter that served as the modest reception area, where Gee stood frowning at a laptop computer. “What’s happening?”

      “Trying to figure out this lousy piece of equipment, that’s what. That new cook in town heard about my gym and wants to work out here, but his team wanted more info on the place. I’m trying to send it.”

      “What about your website?”

      Gee clicked on it, a basic one-page collection of a few pics, a couple links and not much else.

      “You want help?” Roz eased her gym bag off her shoulder and walked around to Gee’s side of the counter. He turned the laptop toward her. “Can’t believe a pretty boy like him wants to work out in a place like this.”

      “I think that was supposed to be a compliment so...thanks.”

      Roz laughed. “It was totally a compliment.”

      “So you think he’s a pretty boy, huh?”

      “I think he thinks so. Now, what are we doing here?”

      Gee explained what he was trying to send over to the same publicist who’d yet to reply to the questions Roz had sent her. She attached the pictures, included the link to an article ironically written by NO Beat, and helped him draft a quick email for the attached. Then she reached for her bag and headed to where three punching bags hung waiting for opponents. Perfect.

      An hour later she felt better. Deciding a shower could wait until she got home, she turned to say goodbye to Gee, and walked straight into what felt like a wall.

      Actually, it was Pierre LeBlanc.

      “Whoa!”

      Roz’s head snapped around. “I’m sor—gasp—Pierre LeBlanc!”

      Pierre stepped back, frowning slightly, as two of the guys with him shared a knowing look. Another adoring fan, she imagined them thinking. They were no doubt mistaking her breathlessness at having just worked out for infatuation, her wide-eyed surprise as awe instead of shock at literally running into the guy she’d been chasing for almost a month.

      “Hi, I’m Rosalyn Arnaud.”

      “Nice to meet you.”