“What can I get you?” Then he glanced at Addison. “And please don’t say a hurricane.” He gave her a wink.
She smiled. “You don’t know how to make a hurricane?”
He chuckled. “You can’t get your liquor license in New Orleans without proving you know how to make a hurricane.” The drink had been invented at one of the most famous bars in the Quarter, Pat O’Brien’s, and they served them by the gallons over there. But they didn’t make the best ones. Several places served them and a few even did it pretty well. Pierre Maspero’s, for instance. But no one could touch the recipe Ellie Landry used at her tiny dive bar just outside the bayou town of Autre, Louisiana.
So Gabe didn’t even try.
“If you want a hurricane, I’ll take you to the best place for them in Louisiana,” he said. Though why he’d said “take you” instead of “send you,” he wasn’t sure. “Just like if you want gumbo, I won’t serve it to you, because if you’re gonna eat gumbo, you’re gonna do it right and that means havin’ my grandma’s. Now,” he said, taking out a glass and filling it part-way with lemonade. “If you want a Pimm’s cup that will make you wonder how you ever drank anything else, or seafood pot pie that you’ll dream about, or brown butter pecan pie that you’ll want to roll around in, then you’ve come to the right place.”
Addison looked at Elena with wide eyes. “Brown butter pecan pie?”
Elena laughed. “Yeah. And it’s that good. It’s how Gabe and Logan get all the ladies.”
Addison looked back at Gabe. She lifted a brow. “Which one are you?”
“Gabe.” He pointed behind her. “That’s my brother Logan.”
Addison glanced over to where Logan was setting plates of food down in front of customers. She looked back. “You both need pie to get ladies?”
“No one said need,” he told her with a grin.
“What do you know about pralines?”
“I can make you a praline milkshake that will make you want to propose to me,” he told her honestly.
“Huh. What’s in that?”
Playful. That was exactly his impression of her from the texts, and he couldn’t begin to describe how amazing it was to find out she was the same in person. “Whiskey, caramel, ice cream and—”
“Say no more,” she said. “I want that.”
“You got a ring in your pocket?” he asked.
She laughed. “Maybe we New York girls are harder to impress than the girls you’ve been feeding whiskey to.”
