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SAY YOU’LL BE MINE A NOLA HEART NOVEL

MARIA LUIS

ALKMINI BOOKS, LLC

Contents Join My Monthly Newsletter Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Epilogue The Monthly Newsletter Dear Fabulous Reader Would You Leave a Review?

More Books by Maria Luis About the Author

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Okay, you’re allowed to proceed now ;)

From the time I ran my bike into a parked car (and bawled my eyes out) to the time your football pass cracked the Mercedes’ mirror across the street (and you swore AJ and I to secrecy), you have always been my biggest champion – as well as the reason I have found laughter in situations that bear no joy.

You once told me that all an author needs is a set of characters that readers will adore – although Romance was never your thing (we all know Pretty Woman was your favorite movie by far), I hope Brady and Shaelyn would have made you smile.

Good job, honey.

CHAPTER ONE

S potting her ex-boyfriend in a dress was the very last

thing Shaelyn Lawrence expected to see when she stopped at Rite-Aid for tampons.

But there she was, dropping a box of Tampax Pearls into her blue basket when Brady Taylor stepped past the hygiene aisle. Red fabric clung to his masculine frame, and the scalloped, mid-thigh hem o set the black Nike tennis shoes on his feet and the black Saints baseball cap on his head.

After twelve years away, there’d been no doubt in her mind that she’d run into Brady after returning home to New Orleans. The city was small, their social circle even smaller.

But even knowing that their meet-up was inevitable hadn’t prepared her for this.

Shaelyn stood on her tiptoes to absorb the sight of him over a display of female hygiene products. His dress was made of lace. Brady Taylor, I-was-born-with-a-voice-asdeep-as-sin, was brazenly wearing lace in public, and he wasn’t alone. He stood with a group of four men who also wore red dresses.

It would have been ridiculous if not for the fact that no less than two women doubled back around to ogle the men in

the same time frame that Shaelyn stood there clutching boxes of overnight pads to hold herself steady on her toes.

Pull it together, girl.

Turning to one of his buddies, Brady clapped him on the back and then reached up to adjust his hat over his short, dark hair. Despite the twelve years and the heartbreak, Shaelyn could still recall the silky texture of his hair. How his eyes used to flutter shut with pleasure as she combed her fingers through the thick layers.

Shaelyn barely refrained a snort as she spared Brady one last glance and backed around the opposite end of the aisle.

She’d been way too naïve at eighteen, naïve enough to believe Brady when he talked love, marriage, the whole nine yards. At thirty, Shaelyn no longer mistook lust for love.

And no matter what excuses he might scrounge up whenever they o cially crossed paths—because they would, eventually—Shaelyn knew one last thing: for as long as she was stuck in New Orleans, she wanted nothing to do with the man who’d sent her running from Louisiana with a shattered heart.

“I SAW Brady Taylor wearing a red dress today.”

Shaelyn’s grandmother craned her head, blue eyes blinking slowly from behind black, cat-eye bifocals. “Did you tell the boy hello?” Meme Elaine asked.

“I think he’s a few years beyond being a boy.” Shaelyn popped a red cherry tomato into her mouth. “Is he gay?”

“Did he seem gay to you?”

It was hard to forget how the cheap fabric had molded to his frame. He was taller than she remembered. Broader.

Because of his hat, she hadn’t gotten a good glimpse of his face, but that was probably a good thing. He’d been sinfully

handsome at eighteen, and she wasn’t above hoping that he’d lost some of his looks in the last decade.

No one ought to be that attractive.

“He was wearing a dress.”

“Cher, have you been gone so long you’ve forgotten your roots? Today was the Red Dress Run.” Ah, right. The day in which New Orleanians embarked on a half-marathon while wearing red dresses, all in the name of charity. Only in New Orleans did no one bat an eye at the sight of hundreds of people running down the street in dresses—or in nothing at all.

She’d been gone too long. It was o cial.

During the past twelve years, she’d called Jacksonville, Washington D.C., and New York City home. The sense that something new, something better, was always around the corner, had kept her moving. New York had been home for the longest, and she could acknowledge, at least to herself, that the city that never sleeps had reaped its toll on her.

Returning to New Orleans had never entered her radar until last month.

Not until her grandmother had delivered the news.

Shaelyn hid her worry behind a casual tone. “What did the doctor say this morning?”

Meme Elaine blinked once, her eyes appearing cartoonlike behind the bifocals, and glanced down at her plate. “Oh, nothing. The nice doctor told me that I need to watch out for my sugars.”

“You said your prognosis was bad.” It was the only reason Shaelyn had bought a plane ticket and moved back to the one place she’d sworn never to return. Growing up in New Orleans had been good, until it’d turned bad. But her grandmother had been there for Shaelyn every step of the way, even when her own parents hadn’t, and there wasn’t much she wouldn’t do for the Lawrence matriarch. Meme

Elaine was everything to her—a package of mother, grandmother, and friend all wrapped up into one. “Let me go with you to your next appointment.”

“I won’t be done in by a packet of Splenda, cher.”

It was more than just the sweeteners and they both knew it. Deciding to let the matter drop, Shaelyn reached for her glass of sweet tea and shifted her full attention to her grandmother. Although Elaine Lawrence didn’t look sick, it was clear she had long slipped past caring about her genteel Southern heritage. Neon-green rollers were tucked into thinning white hair, shimmery-blue eyeshadow dusted her eyelids, and on her feet were a pair of pink leopard-print slippers. The slippers were fuzzy and Shaelyn’s cat, Freckles, had a bad habit of swatting at them as though o ended by their very existence.

Like right now.

Shaelyn slipped her hand under his belly to pick him up before he threw another well-aimed right hook. A small paw went to her chin in protest. “No, baby,” she murmured with a playful tap on his nose.

Meme Elaine frowned. “Where are his manners?”

“Brady’s?” Shaelyn asked innocently.

Pointing her fork in Shaelyn’s direction, Meme Elaine clucked her tongue. “You know exactly who I’m talkin’ about.” The fork swiveled down toward Freckles. “If I find him chewing on another one of my Victoria’s Secret bras, I’ll introduce him to Chow.”

“We buried that dog fifteen years ago.”

“Exactly.”

Shaelyn lowered Freckles down to the ground with the order to “save yourself.” His tail shot up in the air like a flu y middle finger as he pranced into the rarely used parlor.

Truth be told, most of the house now sat unused. The Lawrences were Old New Orleans—the sort of family who

continued to live in the same mansion a great-great-greatgreat-grandparent had constructed in the 1850s. The Italianate-Revival mansion boasted seven bedrooms, five bathrooms, a converted ballroom, a parlor, a kitchen, a media room, and one very, very pretty circular wrought-iron staircase. Six thousand square feet later, Meme Elaine owned it all.

Or she would until her living will was instated and Shaelyn inherited the monstrosity.

She poked at the herb-encrusted chicken on her plate with her fork, her head swirling with dread of the impending responsibilities.

“Are you going to eat that?” Meme Elaine barked over the sound of her knife scraping against the porcelain plate.

“I told you, I’m a pescetarian.”

“What’s that?”

“It means that I don’t eat meat or chicken.”

Her grandmother’s blue eyes narrowed. “What did that godawful place do to you?” Up went the fork again, only this time it pointed unerringly at Shaelyn’s neck. “You’re too skinny. Eat.” “Meme—” “What? You used to love chicken. What am I going to tell people?”

“That I have a weird obsession with blackened red fish and crawfish. I don’t know. Does it matter?”

Clucking her tongue again, Meme Elaine punctured Shaelyn’s uneaten chicken breast with her fork and plopped it onto her own plate. “You’d best stop this pesce-whatever business before the Taylors’ BBQ this weekend. I won’t be —” A red cherry tomato flew out from under Shaelyn’s fork, skidded across the table, and dropped to the floor. A thrilled meow echoed in the room as Freckles initiated a sneak

attack, snatched the tomato in his mouth, and beat a hasty exit back to the parlor.

“The Taylors are having a BBQ?” She turned slowly toward her grandmother, even though she really, really wanted to escape with her cat.

“Saturday coming up.” Meme Elaine drained the rest of her glass. “Everyone will be there. At least a hundred people —you know how the Taylors are.”

Yeah, Shaelyn knew all right. She knew that Arthur and Mary Taylor, Brady’s grandparents and guardians, were all about The Image. The Image they presented to their neighbors, to their fellow churchgoers, and to their only grandson. Lovely as they were, Shaelyn also knew that it had been Mary Taylor’s idea to hook up Brady with Shaelyn, her best friend’s granddaughter.

How cute would it be if they got married? Mary Taylor used to say when the two families gathered together. Brady would be the lawyer in the family (after attending Tulane University, of course), and Shaelyn would follow in her daddy’s footsteps and become a doctor (after attending Tulane, of course).

Shaelyn had always known that Mary Taylor had supported her and Brady’s relationship throughout high school, but she hadn’t known then that Mary was the sole reason for the relationship in the first place.

Over the humming in her ears, she heard herself whisper, “I can’t go.”

Meme Elaine reached for her hot-pink cane. Bracing one hand on the table, and gripping the cane with the other, she hoisted herself up. “You’re goin’.”

Given the option between coming face-to-face with Brady or living the rest of her life in the bayou with the gators, she’d choose the gators. Every. Single. Time. “I’m here to help you get better, Meme, not to party.”

Slow, tempered steps brought her grandmother to the fridge, which she opened to withdraw a decanter of homemade sweet tea. “You wouldn’t have agreed to come back at all if it weren’t for your mama and daddy dying.”

Shaelyn felt the words like a blow to her stomach, eliciting age-old guilt that never quit. She screwed her eyes shut and shut those black thoughts away in a box.

Ultimately, her parents’ death may have driven her home two years ago for their wake and funeral, but the elderly woman standing at the fridge had brought her back now. For however long that Elaine Lawrence continued to feel unwell, Shaelyn had no plans on leaving New Orleans.

Hopefully her grandmother was destined for a speedy recovery.

Meme Elaine poured sweet tea into her glass, then mixed it with the vodka sitting on the countertop. A Southern girl’s secret, she’d always called it.

“You’re gonna go to the Taylors’, cher, and I’m going to tell you why.” Dropping heavily into her chair, Meme Elaine swirled her finger around in the mixed drink. “You’re gonna go because, after twelve years, you ought to show that Brady Taylor just what he missed out on.”

Oh, no. No, no, no.

“Because you’re a young woman with a promising career ahead of you—” Actually, she wasn’t. Shaelyn didn’t even have a career.

She’d bounced from one job to another, so much so that she’d made a career out of not having a career. She opened her mouth to tell her grandmother just that.

“And because you’ve returned home to take care of your old, decaying grandmother—” “You’re not decaying, Meme,” she interjected weakly.

“And because you’re engaged to be married.”

Hallucinogens, they were the only answer. Shaelyn would have to question the doctors on the prescriptions they’d prescribed to her grandmother. She eyed Meme Elaine’s sweet-tea concoction suspiciously. Cleared her throat. Fixed her attention on the Svedka vodka on the countertop.

Finally, she managed, “I’m not engaged.”

Meme Elaine winked, like Shaelyn ought to be in on the joke. It wasn’t funny. “I know that but he doesn’t.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Brady.”

Inhaling through her nose, Shaelyn counted to five. Some years ago, her mama had called Shaelyn to say that she thought Meme was losing her marbles. “She tried to take o her shirt right there in church, like the Good Lord would not remember her old wrinkled self on Judgment Day,” Charlotte Lawrence had hissed over the phone. “I’m telling you that senility has struck, but your daddy is convinced nothing could ever be wrong with his mother.”

“Was she wearing one of her Victoria’s Secret bras?”

Shaelyn had felt compelled to ask.

“Shaelyn Magnolia Lawrence! What your grandmother was or was not wearing matters little compared to what she did in the House of the Lord.”

So maybe Meme Elaine was losing it. That was all right.

The woman was closing in on eighty and slipped more vodka into her drinks than was probably healthy for a woman her age. She played bingo every Tuesday and still made her way downtown to listen to jazz every Friday night with friends. If she was losing a few marbles along the way, well, it was bound to happen. At least Shaelyn was here to help.

And, quite honestly, a crazy scheme like this was just up Elaine Lawrence’s alley.

She gently placed her hand over her grandmother’s. “I’m not engaged. Not that I think Brady would care one way or

another.”

“He can’t win, you see? And neither can Mary.”

Shaelyn had done her best over the years to forget about her first love. She’d tried and mostly she’d succeeded. But not once had she ever thought about their breakup in terms of wins or losses. “I don’t understand why it matters. It’s in the past”—or it would be as soon as they moved on from this conversation—“and I’m over it.”

Liar.

She tacked on, “Aren’t you friends with Miss Mary?”

Meme Elaine picked up her cocktail and downed half like it was Aquafina. “Miz Mary stole my fiancé, got herself knocked up, and then married him. I wouldn’t say that ‘friends’ is the proper term for our relationship.”

“You were engaged to Arthur Taylor?” She tried to imagine her crazier-than-life grandmother married to the stoic patriarch of the Taylor family. Like a misplaced puzzle piece, the image just didn’t fit. “How much vodka have you had?”

“Not enough.” Up went the glass again and down the rest of it went. Elaine Lawrence must have been a favorite at parties in her heyday. A keg-stand girl for sure. “Details don’t matter, cher. What matters is that I’ve already told Mary that you’re engaged. It’s high time that she realizes that the sun does not rise and set on her grandson’s behind.”

Having seen Brady’s behind cupped tightly in a red dress just that afternoon, Shaelyn was tempted to argue that actually, yes, the sun did shine on Mary’s grandson. His behind, particularly.

“It’s been twelve years. I doubt either Miss Mary or Brady have spared me a single thought.” Especially Brady. After their fallout, there had only been silence. Not that she’d reached out, but her silence had been justified, considering the circumstances.

“Listen, Meme,” she tried again, “I’m sure you want to show Miss Mary that I’ve pulled my life together, but I don’t think lying about a fake engagement is doing me any favors.”

One overly plucked eyebrow arched high behind the cateyed frames. “Oh, but you are.”

“No . . . ” Shaelyn said slowly, “but I’m not.”

“You are.” A sly grin lit her grandmother’s face and Shaelyn experienced an acute sense of dread slither down her spine. “His name is Benjamin Beveau, and I believe I just heard his car pull up outside.”

CHAPTER TWO

“I

t is so nice to see you, Shaelyn! And with a fiancé in tow? You know, we weren’t ever quite sure you’d come back on down to N’Orleans, baby, but it sure is nice to have you back—here, sweet tea?”

A crystal glass was shoved into Shaelyn’s hand. Ben Beveau—her fiancé—placed a hand on her lower back.

“Aren’t you Miss Popular around here,” Ben teased as he led her away from the refreshment table.

She glanced over at him. Shaelyn wasn’t blind; Ben Beveau was a good catch. His hair was a light brown that burned a bronzed gold in the sun; his eyes were a very pale blue. He was tall, and quick to flash a white-toothed smile.

He was a unicorn among men, and thanks to her grandmother, Shaelyn had the good fortune of being his fiancée.

He was also getting paid five thousand dollars. Meme Elaine certainly knew how to strike a deal. It would be one thing if Ben were single and interested. He wasn’t. Mr. Beveau had a Mrs. Beveau, and two rascal twin Beveaus who enjoyed prodding Freckles with the pointy sticks they found in the backyard.

“Are you sure your wife is okay with this?” Shaelyn stepped away from Ben’s touch, barely catching his reply about “paying a good deed forward” or something. Covertly she checked their immediate surroundings. The cloying scent of magnolia mixed with smoking charcoal hung in the stale August air, and she distracted herself with another glance around the mingling crowd.

She hadn’t spotted Brady yet, but it was only a matter of time. Mary Taylor had made it no secret that her grandson would be stopping by the BBQ, and wouldn’t Shaelyn just love to catch up with him?

She wanted to “catch up” with Brady Taylor about as much as she wanted a Pap smear and a root canal. On the same day.

Shaelyn looked down at her sweet tea and wished it were alcoholic, but the Taylors were sticklers and had banned all hard liquor, as usual.

They’d been that way when she and Brady were young, too. Mr. Arthur had always kept a secret stash of Jim Beam hidden in his study, only to be brought out on days when his wife went out with friends. Once, when Shaelyn and Brady were fifteen, Mr. Arthur had sat them down, warned them against overindulging, and proceeded to pour them each a shot.

He’d tipped his chin up and tossed back the amber liquid.

Brady and Shaelyn had exchanged nervous looks—was it a trap?

“Go on now,” Mr. Arthur said, his shrewd gaze pinned to his grandson. “Pick somethin’ to drink to.”

Brady’s hand tightened around the tumbler, his shoulders hunched. “To what?”

“Anything, son.” Mr. Arthur settled back in his chair. “Go on and pick somethin’.”

“To the Saints?”

Mr. Arthur nodded with approval. “A New Orleans man should always throw one back for the black and gold.”

“What should a New Orleans woman drink to?” Shaelyn asked. She liked football well enough, but she certainly didn’t want her first toast going to a stupid sport.

Mr. Arthur drummed his fingers on the chair’s armrest.

“First loves,” he finally drawled. “The kind that stays with you until you’re old and gray like me.”

Her cheeks burned at the suggestion and she tried not to look at Brady. She tried so, so hard not to let him see that she had a crush on him, except that Shaelyn wasn’t all that good of a liar and Brady knew her better than anyone. They’d been best friends since diapers.

“Y’all ready?”

Shaelyn heard Brady audibly swallow.

“Bottom’s up!”

She and Brady had started dating six months later.

Now, as she looked up at her fake fiancé, Shaelyn had to wonder if Mr. Arthur hadn’t been referring to his own first love. Because she was pretty sure that if Meme Elaine hadn’t had a bone to cross with Mr. Arthur’s wife, Shaelyn wouldn’t be faking an engagement right now. She didn’t need a man to make her happy, and she definitely didn’t need a man to prove her desirability to an ex. Despite the fact that the ex was hot as hell, even while wearing a dress.

“Code red.”

Shaelyn cut a sharp glance to Ben. “What?”

“Code. Red.” “You see him?” She’d barely turned to scour the crowd for Brady before Ben caught her by the waist and hauled her up against his side.

And then, right after he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “five grand,” he leaned down and laid one on her.

CHAPTER THREE

S omething twisted in the pit of Brady Taylor’s gut at the

sight of his ex-girlfriend kissing a stranger. It wasn’t jealousy—Brady didn’t do jealous—but maybe he could call it awareness. Made sense. It was only natural that he’d feel some sort of weird knee-jerk reaction to seeing her with somebody else.

Although from what his grandmother had told him, Shaelyn wasn’t just involved with the guy. She was engaged.

He halted a few feet from the scene and cleared his throat.

Loudly. The pair broke apart, rewarding Brady with his first glimpse of his ex since she’d fled Louisiana when they were eighteen. He was surprised to find that she didn’t look all that di erent: same curly, chestnut hair, same hazel eyes, same cool smirk on her red lips that had always spelled Trouble for him. On closer inspection he noticed that her frame was curvier. Her waist flared into full hips that begged to be gripped and— Brady shook his head to dispel the image. He purposely didn’t look in Shaelyn’s direction when he said, “I hear congratulations are in order.”

“Congratulations?”

Brady’s gaze flicked from the fiancé to Shaelyn. “Your engagement?”

“Right! Our engagement!” The fiancé flung his right arm around Shaelyn’s shoulders and squeezed. “We’re so lucky to have found each other. Right, cupcake?”

Even if Brady hadn’t been a cop for the New Orleans Police Department for eight years, and a homicide detective for the last five of those, there was no way he could have missed Shaelyn’s pained expression. Problem was, he couldn’t tell if her pursed lips were on account of having to talk to him or because she disliked the pet name. Brady studied her. Those hazel eyes of hers said it all: if she could skewer him where he stood, he’d be served to the rest of his grandparents’ guests like a kabob.

“Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself.” Brady slid his gaze to Shaelyn. Waited to see if she might actually do the honors herself. When it was clear she had no intentions of playing nice, he said, “I’m Brady Taylor. Shae and I go way back.”

Back so far that there was an old picture of the two of them naked in a bathtub together. They’d been three and you couldn’t go much further back than that.

“Ben Beveau.” The man stuck out his left hand, and the gold band on his ring finger didn’t escape Brady’s notice. His gaze flicked to Shaelyn, focusing on the left hand wrapped tightly around a glass of sweet tea. Saw clearly that while her fiancé’s ring finger bore an expensive, shiny gold ring, hers remained unadorned.

Jesus. How had Shaelyn gotten herself involved in one of those pansy relationships? Call him old-fashioned, but Brady was a firm believer in the tradition of certain things. When it came down to a marriage proposal between a man and a woman, the man did the asking.

Brady reached up to readjust his ball cap, then slid his hand into the front pocket of his Levi’s. “I’m sure the

proposal was memorable.”

Beveau squeezed Shaelyn’s shoulder again. “Very memorable. Right, cupcake?”

Shaelyn’s expression pinched. “Very.”

Brady didn’t like the way the sound of her husky voice teased sensations of hot, wet kisses to the forefront of his memory. Didn’t like the way he could so easily recall her whispering naughty things in his ear. “Tell me all about it,” he said, mainly in an e ort to distract himself from memories of them together in bed.

Shaelyn blanched. “What?”

He smiled slowly. “How did you propose?”

Bringing the sweet tea to her lips, Shaelyn sucked it down like she wished it were something stronger. No doubt his grandparent’s strict no-hard-liquor policy was killing her.

“It was romantic.” Her gaze settled on something beyond his left shoulder, all squinty-eyed. “Ben brought me out to dinner—my favorite seafood place—and he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him.”

A quick look at Ben Beveau showed that the man was smiling and nodding. “Shaelyn is pescetarian,” he said, as though Brady gave a damn.

He tucked his thumb into the belt loop of his jeans. Not that he wasn’t interested about her eating habits, but . . .

“So, he proposed at dinner?”

“After dinner.” She cut a swift glance at him. Hastily looked away again. “It was nice.”

“Nice” was a trip to the Audubon Zoo in New Orleans’ Uptown neighborhood. “Nice” was a cold beer after a hectic day at work.

“Nice” didn’t cut it when it came to marriage proposals.

So, she wanted to pretend that Beveau had done the asking. Usually Brady would have let the matter drop. Unless he was on duty, Brady wasn’t a tenacious sort of guy. He

preferred to sit back, crack open a beer, and watch football.

Despite the Saints’ losses over the last few seasons—all right, except for that one miraculous season in ’10 when they’d won the Super Bowl and he’d cried tears of joy— Brady’s loyalty to the football team never wavered.

Okay, maybe he was a bit tenacious and maybe there was something about Shaelyn kissing someone else that burrowed under his skin. And so maybe there was a logical reason as to why he opened his mouth and said, “Did you foot the dinner bill, too, or did that ring on Beveau’s finger wipe you out?”

Shaelyn’s red lips parted just as Beveau groaned and stu ed his left hand into his pocket.

With a pointed look at Beveau, Brady drawled, “No need to hide it, man. I’m sure they do it di erently up—where did y’all meet again?”

“New York,” Shaelyn bit out.

He didn’t have to hear the tension in her voice to know that she was furious. Her hazel eyes were verging on a mossy green, and if Brady remembered one thing about Shaelyn Lawrence, it was that when hazel morphed into green, she was seconds away from nailing him in the balls.

He stood his ground and returned her steely glare with an arch of his brow. She’d always hated when he did that—God, could you at least try not to be a jerk today? she used to demand right before he kissed her senseless.

Brady didn’t think she’d be too keen on receiving one of his kisses right now, even without considering the whole engagement factor.

“There’s no need to hide it. You’re among friends”—at this, Shaelyn snorted derisively—“but let me give you a bit of advice.” Brady pushed the bill of his hat up with his index finger and leaned in close. “Leave the ring bit out, and

maybe just stick to that real nice story of a proposal at your favorite restaurant.”

Brady didn’t give either of them a chance to speak, and honestly he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what Shaelyn had to say. He’d moved on years ago.

Once more with the less-than-genuine congratulations spiel and Brady was already stepping away, seeking out his grandmother to say his good-byes.

He was suddenly filled with the need to drive away as fast as possible, to throw himself into endless work until he could push away the image of Beveau bent over Shae, his mouth on hers. Brady had never been one to keep his head on straight where Shaelyn Magnolia Lawrence was concerned. Apparently twelve years hadn’t diluted his attraction to her.

Much to his disappointment.

One thing was clear, though. He’d been an ass and he was going to have to apologize. Brady only hoped that he could keep his loose tongue in check the next time around.

In the interim, he planned to dig a little deeper into Ben Beveau’s history. That panicked look on Beveau’s face was all Brady needed to know that something wasn’t quite right.

Either the man was actually embarrassed about the fact that his fiancée had done the ring-popping or he was hiding something. Fortunately, Brady’s job with the NOPD supplied the necessary resources to discover what that something might be.

FOUR HOURS later and Shaelyn was still furious. Oh, she’d put on a friendly façade after her encounter with Brady. She’d greeted family friends whom she hadn’t seen in years, held a

perfectly boring conversation with Mary Taylor, and drank three flutes of champagne too many.

After talking with Brady, she’d needed something a whole lot sti er than sweet tea. Problem was, Shaelyn wasn’t much of a champagne drinker. One minute she’d been standing next to her pretend fiancé and drowning her fury in Dom Perignon, and in the next she was tossing up three glasses of the bubbly and her breakfast into a birds-of-paradise plant.

Not her finest moment.

Not the birds-of-paradise’s either, which hadn’t looked so much like paradise right then.

It was o cial—Brady Taylor brought out the worst in her.

“This is all your fault,” she told her grandmother, as she lay sprawled on the couch, her exposed skin sticking to the plastic furniture cover that should have been ditched in the 1970s.

Meme Elaine didn’t need further elaboration because she picked up the remote and lowered the sounds of What Not to Wear to a low hum. “Did I force the champagne down your throat?”

“No, but you did set me up with a married man.”

“An exaggeration, cher.” Meme Elaine exchanged the black TV remote for another. Pushing one of the buttons, Shaelyn’s grandmother settled in as the brown leather La-Z Boy—also furnished with plastic coverings—reclined to horizontal. “All I’ve done is help you to show Brady that you’ve moved on.”

Shaelyn swung her legs from the couch’s armrest to the gray carpet. With a pitiful moan she clutched her head and cursed Dom Perignon. How could something so expensive make her feel like a Mack truck had hit her after an all-night boozer on Bourbon, New Orleans’ most famous party street?

Deep breaths; in through the nose and out through the mouth.

No more champagne—ever. “Meme, that’s the problem. I

have moved on.”

“I’m not sure that he has.”

Shaelyn’s wayward heart kicked up its pace before she kicked the unwanted emotion to the curb. “I think you were the one to have too much to drink,” she muttered.

“Do we need to revisit what happened today?”

Total humiliation. Shaelyn preferred if they never mentioned it again.

She planted her elbows on her knees and clasped her hands together. “Listen, Meme,” she began in as accommodating of a tone as she could muster given her raging headache, “I appreciate your . . . help, but today was a mess. I’m already the resident screwup. I really don’t need that sort of attention.”

Meme Elaine’s lips pursed. “You have a roof over your head, your health, a job—what more could you want?”

That was part of the problem. Shaelyn had no idea what she wanted; she only knew that she didn’t want to relive her NYC days. In the meantime, selling crotch-less panties, lacy bras, and nightgowns at her cousin’s French Quarter lingerie boutique was definitely preferable to the nature of her previous job. Just the thought of it sent a tremor of anxiety down her spine.

Shaelyn’s fingers dug into her thighs.

“You like working with Anna, don’t you?” Meme Elaine pressed curiously. “You girls haven’t spent all that much time together in years.”

Anna was Shaelyn’s older cousin through her mama’s side of the family. Growing up, their one-year age di erence might as well have been twenty. Anna, with her sleek, blond hair and baby-doll blue eyes, had always been fashionable and perfect. She’d been a debutante, the teachers’ pet, and a cheerleader. Naturally.

Then she’d gotten knocked up during her freshmen year at Tulane. At the time, Shaelyn had been a senior in high school, but she could still vividly recall her mama’s horror at the news.

“Dropped right on out,” Charlotte had said as she scrubbed the dishes in the sink. “The boyfriend dropped her first. Guess he wasn’t interested in being a daddy.”

Drying the dishes with a towel, Henry Lawrence stacked them high on the counter. “Never would have thought Anna to be the one to end up pregnant.”

Had they expected that of Shaelyn? Her and Brady were always very, very careful.

“My sister is furious. That’s what happens when you stop attending church, I said.”

Henry hadn’t said anything, but that was only because his faith came nowhere near his wife’s dedication to Scripture.

Charlotte went on robustly, ignoring her husband’s silence. “So I asked her, what will you do? Will you let Anna stay in your home? Dorothy said she has no plans of kicking out her only child. But now Anna is working down in the Quarter at some naughty boutique and, Lord, I never once thought I would see that girl selling unmentionables to the general public.”

What would her mama do, Shaelyn wondered now, if Charlotte knew that her only child was working for Anna and selling unmentionables to the general public right along with her? Anna now owned La Parisienne, and her son, Julian, was thirteen years old.

Shaelyn was utterly grateful for Anna o ering her a position, and she and Anna got along surprisingly well. It was just that . . .

Shaelyn felt her throat tightening up, just as it always did when she thought about the looming responsibilities lying ahead of her. Inheriting the family home was more than she

needed, and certainly more than she’d ever wanted. And it certainly required more monetary funds than her position at La Parisienne earned her every two weeks.

Closing her eyes, Shaelyn rubbed her temples. She’d figure it out. Meme Elaine’s only wish was for the house to continue through the generations. Shaelyn was it. She just had to remind herself that this unexpected inheritance did not mean New Orleans had to be it for her—she didn’t have to stay forever.

“It’ll be fine,” she heard herself say out loud, as though her hands weren’t clammy from the stress and her toes weren’t curling into the rug in a futile e ort to ground herself. “‘Course it will be fine.” Meme Elaine cracked a smile, then reached forward to grab the TV remote from the table.

After a moment, she clucked her tongue. “Would you look at that?” she demanded. “What sane women wears spandex at her age?”

Shaelyn figured it was best not to point out that her grandmother had no room to talk when it came to questionable wardrobes.

“Oh!” her grandmother exclaimed, pointing the TV remote at Shaelyn. “I meant to tell you earlier, but a woman called for you yesterday while you were at work.”

“Here?” Shaelyn couldn’t think of anyone to whom she might have given the landline number. “Did she leave a name?”

Meme Elaine’s attention remained focused on the show’s hosts throwing hangers of Spandex into a large, metal trash bin. “A Carla-something. Carla Winter? Carla Ritter?”

No. Shaelyn swallowed past the bundle of dread climbing her throat. Had she given Carla her new phone number? She was positive that she hadn’t. Carla Ritter was nice . . . for a ballsy woman who ran the sort of business establishment

that she did. But Shaelyn had left New York City for New Orleans, and her two weeks’ notice had been closer to four.

No way did she owe Carla anything.

“You know her, cher?” Meme Elaine asked. “She seemed real nice, had a sweet Southern accent.”

“No,” Shaelyn lied, “Never heard of her.”

CHAPTER FOUR

S haelyn had never been a runner. Oh, she’d tried a few

times after moving to New York City. Seeing all those fit women in their yoga pants and tiny sports bras jogging in Central Park had been the inspiration she’d needed to get her butt moving. After all, her thighs and derriere were the ones jiggling and making a mortal enemy out of every pair of jeans.

As it turned out, Shaelyn hadn’t enjoyed running as much as she’d enjoyed seeing other people do so, and her outings to Central Park were thereafter limited to people watching.

But New Orleans . . . New Orleans was worse.

Halfway there, Shaelyn told herself as she spotted the stone tower of Holy Name of Jesus Church sprouting out over the treetops. Just make it to that black trash bin and then you can die.

She didn’t make it to the trash bin. She barely made it another thirty feet before she hobbled over to one of the ancient live oaks lining the paved path. Pressing her palms to the ribbed bark, she rested her forehead against the back of her hands and swallowed fistfuls of humid air into her aching lungs.

Never again.

Shaelyn crumpled to the ground, with her back against the live oak and her hands settled on her bent knees.

This was all Brady Taylor’s fault. She wished he hadn’t looked so damn good the other day, dressed in a plain gray T-shirt and Levi jeans that were faded in all the right places.

The problem with Brady was the way he filled out his clothes: his broad shoulders had stretched the thin material across his back, and good Lord, but the way the cotton had barely skimmed his stomach hinted at killer abs underneath.

Shaelyn’s saving grace at the BBQ had been when Brady opened his mouth and revealed himself to be the same jerk she remembered all too well.

But still, here she was running in a futile attempt to shed the pounds she’d gained since high school. That Shaelyn cared at all about what Brady thought of her darkened her mood.

With a glance at her watch, she hauled herself up o the ground with a small moan of pain. Were her shins supposed to be stinging so badly?

She yanked on the hem of her shorts and waited for a mother pushing her baby in a stroller to pass before picking the wedgie from hell. Either her butt had grown in the last few months or the hot, humid air was making her swell.

With that spurring her on as motivation, Shaelyn ramped her fast walk up to a slow jog. She tried to think of anything else besides her burning calves and her tiny running shorts.

By the time Shaelyn made it back to her car, she was sweating from places she hadn’t known existed. The clanging bells from Holy Name of Jesus Church marked 4 p.m across the street as a car parked behind hers beeped twice. She fumbled with her car keys, which she’d clipped to the belt loop of her shorts for safekeeping.

“Need help with those?”

Shaelyn jerked at the familiar masculine voice and nearly pantsed herself. Picking a wedgie in public, while sometimes necessary, was embarrassing, but losing her shorts in front of Brady Taylor, strangers, and the all-seeing eyes of her parish church might actually spell the end of her.

Then again, problem solved. Meme Elaine would have to find someone else to inherit their ancestral home, of course, but Shaelyn could work some serious magic from Upstairs.

“Nope, I’ve got it,” she bit out. She didn’t look at him.

One glance and there was a decent chance of her good sense going MIA. “You sure?” Black Nike tennis shoes entered her peripheral vision. “Looks like you might need a hand.”

His toned calves were dusted with short, black hairs. It was a sign of weakness, she knew, but Shaelyn couldn’t stop the upward progression of her gaze. Settled low on his hips were maroon basketball shorts with cracked-gold lettering running up the side. The first and second O’s were missing, so that instead of Loyola, it read “L Y LA.” She wondered why he wasn’t wearing his alma mater, Tulane University, and then reminded herself that she didn’t care. Her gaze traveled up to a faded-blue NOPD T-shirt that— Shaelyn inhaled sharply as she realized just how awful she must look. Boob sweat was the least of her worries when her underwear had o cially integrated itself between her butt cheeks. She reached up to smooth her short, curly hair, which she’d tamed with a headband straight out of the ’90s.

Her bedroom was proving to be a treasure trove of forgotten goodies.

“You’ve got something . . . ” Brady reached out a hand toward her butt.

“Hey!” She swatted at his long-tapered fingers. He wasn’t wearing his hat today, and she finally had her first glimpse of his blue-on-blue eyes. She’d once compared

them to the crystal blue waters of Destin (where their families once vacationed together in Florida every summer), and she was annoyed to find that time had not dampened their appeal. Straightening her spine, she snapped, “Hands o .”

Holding both hands up, he dipped his chin. “You might wanna check out your behind then.” Those blue eyes crinkled as he grinned, with small laugh lines fanning out from the corners.

Shaelyn twisted at the waist. Three leaves were stuck to her butt, suctioned to the fabric of her shorts as though hanging on for dear life. Sweat, apparently, was the proper glue foliage needed for attachment.

She was never working out again.

“You got it?” Brady asked, humor lacing his husky drawl.

“I’m good with my hands, if you need help.”

An image of Brady’s large hands cupping her butt snapped her into action. She swiped at the o ending leaves, sending them fluttering to the ground. “I’m good. Thanks.”

His sweeping glance, one that traveled from her tennis shoes all the way up to her face, left her wondering if he liked what he saw or if he was glad he’d dumped her years ago. Finally, he murmured, “I can see that.”

The key ring came loose from her belt loop with an extra hard tug of desperation, and she started for her car. “Right.

Well, nice to see you.”

Brady e ectively ruined her escape by leaning against her car door with his arms crossed over his hard chest. Hadn’t she su ered enough today without having to deal with him, too? Boob sweat, wedgies, and leaves suctioned to her ass were all a woman could take, thank you very much.

She gestured at him. “Do you mind?”

His answering smile was slow and easy. “Not at all.”

Her fingers curled tightly around the car keys. “I’ve got somewhere to be.”

“Yeah?” His tone suggested that he didn’t believe her.

“Where are you going?”

She toyed with the idea of blowing o his question, but if there was one thing she knew about Brady Taylor, it was that he was annoyingly persistent. “I’ve got a bachelorette party tonight.”

“Oh, yeah?” He said it di erently this time, as if intrigued, perhaps even despite himself. “Didn’t realize you had many friends left in N’Orleans?”

She scowled, placed a hand on her hip, and then realized that she must look about five seconds away from throwing a good ol’ Southern princess tantrum. Hastily she folded her arms over her chest to mimic his stance. With determination she ignored the way her sweat-coated skin fused together.

“For the record, I do have friends.” She didn’t, not really, but he didn’t know that. “And secondly, my job is hosting a bachelorette party.”

He seemed to digest that, his full mouth momentarily flattening before quirking up in a nonchalant smile. “Where do you work nowadays, Shae?”

The bells of Holy Name chimed again. She really had to be going, but something stopped her from walking around the hood of her car, climbing in, and speeding away. She didn’t want to think about what that something might be.

“I work at La Parisienne in the French Quarter. On Chartres.”

One of his black brows arched up in surprise. “The lingerie joint?”

Only a man would call a business that sold women’s underwear a “joint.” Rolling her eyes, Shaelyn let her weight rest on her right leg. She bit back another moan of pain. “It has a name, but yes, I work at the ‘lingerie joint.’”

“And they host bachelorette parties?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes. Tonight we’re cohosting it with The Dirty Crescent.”

“The sex toy shop?”

“Yes.” His blue eyes glittered, and when he asked, “Can I come?” his voice slid through her like that first shot of whiskey she’d downed in his grandfather’s o ce years earlier.

Shocking at first, and then hot and tingly as it heated her core.

Then he ruined everything by laughing.

Nothing ever changed with him.

“You’re such a jerk,” she snapped. She stepped forward and pushed at his chest to urge him away from her car. He didn’t budge, which only infuriated her. How dare he tease her like he hadn’t broken her heart? So what if she’d been young, naïve, and fifty shades of stupid? Being a gentleman was not overrated.

He was still laughing when he caught her by the shoulders. “I could arrest you for harassment.” His hands were warm on her exposed skin, hotter, maybe, than the late afternoon sun toasting the back of her neck.

Shaelyn glared up at him, not the least bit pacified by the mischievous glint in his blue eyes. His thumbs stroked her collarbone. Once, twice. If she’d been a weaker woman, she would have curled into his embrace. “You should arrest yourself.”

“For what?”

“For being an ass.”

His head dipped, his breath a whisper against her ear.

Goosebumps teased her flesh. “You gonna do it yourself?

Maybe buy a pair of new ’cu s from that party tonight and put them to good use on me?”

It took a second for the words to sink in, and another second after that to realize that he was taunting her, baiting her for the sort of reaction she would have given him when they were young.

She refused to sink to his level.

Stepping away from his touch, she unlocked her car with her keyless remote. “Have a nice life, Brady.”

She congratulated herself on sounding Cool, Calm and Collected, even though her insides were crashing around and threatening to pull a Birds of Paradise Incident Part II. She rounded the front of her car.

“Hey, Shae?”

She glanced up. Standing with his hands on his hips, Brady’s eyes were narrowed, his brows drawn together. With that hard expression on his face, it was di cult to think of him as anything but as a cop on a mission. Di cult to remember him as the boy who’d once held her heart.

“Yes, Brady?”

His gaze flicked from her to the busy street. “Tell the fiancé hello for me,” he said. And then, just like he had at his grandparent’s BBQ, he stalked o without giving her the chance to have the last word.

Jerk.

SO MUCH FOR APOLOGIZING. Brady shook his head as he spotted his buddy Luke O’Connor waiting for him. Luke was home on leave from the army and, just like they had as kids, they’d decided to come to Audubon Park to shoot the shit and work out.

“Was that Shaelyn Lawrence you were talking to?” Luke asked as Brady came up beside him.

Brady didn’t want to talk about Shaelyn. He’d done nothing but think of her since their unexpected meeting at

his grandmother’s BBQ. Plus, there was that little detail of him digging up some dirt on that fiancé of hers over the last few days.

Did Shae know that Ben Beveau was married with two kids? The guy lived Uptown with his family, drove a silver Prius, and was a member of his kids’ PTA. For all looks and purposes, Beveau was a happy man. Not the sort to fly up to New York City and pick up a random woman. Not the sort of man to propose marriage before returning to New Orleans with a fiancée in tow.

While his family lived across town and could bust his story at any time, no less.

It didn’t add up.

Which meant that Shaelyn had probably fabricated the engagement. The “why” had eluded him so far, but he’d figure it out.

To Luke, he nodded. “Yeah, it was her.”

They broke into a jog in the pedestrian-only lane after a family on bikes barreled past.

“I wonder what made her come back,” Luke murmured.

“Didn’t she leave right before college?”

The first weekend of that August. The fact that Brady recalled the day so vividly didn’t surprise him—he was good at remembering random dates, but even if he hadn’t been, it would be di cult to forget the way he’d pathetically shown up at her parent’s house, heartbroken.

He’d been too late.

An oncoming runner had him shifting to the left. When the lady passed, he closed the gap between him and Luke.

“Don’t know if she o cially told Tulane she wouldn’t be attending at the end of the month or if she just took o .”

Luke didn’t say anything else. Brady supposed there wasn’t anything else to say on the matter. He and Shaelyn had dated in high school, they’d broken up like every other

high school couple, and life had gone on. So, they’d been a statistic. Brady dealt with statistics every day in his line of profession.

He and Luke rounded the curve in the path, the green expanse of a golf course on their left. Golf carts rumbled over the man-made grassy mounds, the sun glinting o their shiny wheels.

He needed to stop thinking about Shaelyn. It didn’t matter that his body instantly hardened with a sexual awareness he hadn’t felt in forever. He was too busy with work to date. His coworkers had coerced him into joining the Red Dress Run charity two weeks ago—he’d borrowed a dress from a buddy’s wife, and hell, it had been tight and short—but that was it. He didn’t have much of a social life.

Usually he was okay with that.

Usually Shaelyn Lawrence wasn’t back in town.

Unable to silence his thoughts, he muttered, “She’s trouble.”

Luke didn’t even turn his head. “Trouble for you, you mean.”

Brady wanted to deny it, but yeah, Shaelyn Lawrence spelled trouble with a capital T for him. She’d had damn leaves stuck to her butt, and all he’d wanted to do was remove them just to have an excuse to touch her. With her cheeks flushed from exercise and her short hair wild from the summer humidity, Brady had wanted nothing more than to pull her up against him and suggest they put his government-grade handcu s to good use.

He wasn’t into kink—there wasn’t anything some sex toy could do that he couldn’t do better—but the sensual image of Shaelyn cu ed to his headboard while his body settled into the cradle of her splayed knees . . . . Yeah, he might make an exception just to have Shae at his mercy.

He cut a quick look at Luke. “I didn’t think she’d ever come back.”

“She didn’t come back for you.”

Brady flinched. “I’m aware.”

Trust Luke to break Brady in like a soldier. “You humiliated her.”

“Yeah,” he bit out, “I remember.” Like he could ever forget. He’d tried, but there was only so much guilt one person could digest.

Luke, apparently, wasn’t finished. “She heard you tell your grandmother that you were planning to dump her as soon as school started; that Tulane was so big you’d never have to see her.”

Brady stopped running. Without missing a beat, Luke pivoted with sharp military precision. With his brown hair buzzed short, and his green eyes sharp and alert, it was sometimes hard for Brady to accept that, after six tours, Luke wasn’t the same guy he’d always known. Even so, Brady wasn’t the sort to sit by and let anyone, even his best friend, run roughshod over him.

He forced a droll, unbothered tone to his voice and asked, “Anything else you dying to add?”

“Yeah,” Luke said, “get the fuck over her.”

“I am over her.”

Luke shook his head and started jogging.

“What?” Brady demanded as he followed. “I am.”

“You’re in denial.”

Brady laughed at that. “I’m not in love with her, man.”

“I’m not saying you’ve been pining for her but you’re interested.”

“Who wouldn’t be interested? You saw her.”

“What I saw was her lookin’ like she’d like nothing more than to run you over with her car, and you lookin’ at her like

she was a new Glock you wouldn’t mind getting your hands on.”

Brady narrowed his eyes and decided that he’d like nothing more than to run over Luke with his car. “You’re a real sweet-talker—you get a lot of women with that mouth of yours?”

“At least I talk to women,” Luke retorted. They both knew that Luke didn’t do much “talking” with the opposite sex.

Leave from the army meant involving himself with one or two new “friends.” Rarely did they stick around for longer than the month or two that he was home.

“When’s the last time you got laid?” Luke asked.

Christ. “C’mon, are we back to that again? I’ve been busy.” The excuse fell flat, even to Brady’s ears.

“You’ve been ‘busy’ for seven months now.”

“How would you know? I haven’t even seen you in nine.”

Although Brady interrogated people for a living, he hated being on the receiving end. He concentrated on his breathing, on the soles of his Nikes beating into the pavement, on the twinge in his right knee from an old injury.

“Thought the military would keep you too busy to keep tabs on my sex life.”

“You mean, your lack of a sex life,” Luke quipped smoothly.

“You harping on me ’cause you’re interested?”

They both knew the real driving force behind Brady’s abstinence, and it had nothing to do with diving into the dating scene. At the end of the day, it boiled down to straight up ambition.

Brady wanted a promotion.

He wanted the sergeant position that was opening up in the homicide department. To get it, Brady had given up all distractions: dating, hanging out with his buddies, even— Lord help him—football.

When he’d dropped out of Tulane his sophomore year, he’d received nothing but grief from his grandparents.

They’d dreamt of him being a future district attorney. Brady hadn’t seen that for himself. He’d wanted to be in the thick of things, workings beats and details and undercover stints, and obtaining a pre-law degree had felt like the equivalent to letting spiders crawl all over his body. In other words, his version of hell.

Brady didn’t regret dropping out of school and joining the force. But he did wish that he’d finished his undergraduate degree sooner, so that his initial salary had been higher and he’d had the opportunity for more promotions.

He had a criminal justice degree now—from Loyola, not Tulane—and after five years of working in homicide, he was ready to start climbing the ladder.

“Nothing to say?” he prodded Luke, just because he could. “Don’t tell me you’re getting shy now.”

Sco ng, Luke cut him a sardonic glance and his upper lip curled. “Unless you’ve got a vagina hiding somewhere, I’m gonna have to pass.”

“Make a pass, you mean? Can’t say I’m surprised—I should have paid more attention to the way you always grabbed my ass when we wrestled.”

Luke punched him in the arm. “Fuck you.”

“Not even if you ask nicely.”

The smirk morphed into a scowl, and Brady ducked ahead to avoid another blow to his right bicep. Laughing, he eased his pace and pulled up the hem of his T-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face.

“How much longer do you have on leave?” he asked as they neared his parked car on St. Charles Avenue, one of the city’s most picturesque streets. At this time of day, though, the street put aside its antebellum elegance for gritty, rushhour tra c.

Luke ran a hand over his buzzed hair. “Close to two months.”

Brady didn’t like to think about the fact that it might be another year before he saw his best friend again. Sometimes he wondered why Luke didn’t retire—he never talked about going for the full twenty but he never mentioned getting out, either. Every four years, Luke quietly re-upped and that was that.

“October is coming up,” Brady said as nonchalantly as he could.

Luke rolled his shoulders. “Yup.” “You re-upping?”

If it was possible, those shoulders rose even higher.

“Don’t know yet.”

Brady knew better than to pester. Luke’s mama had asked Brady for help convincing her son to stay home this time around, but Brady wasn’t about to tie Luke to a chair and beat him into submission. If he wanted to complete his full twenty and get the pension he was owed than that was his decision.

Just like it was Brady’s decision if he wanted to seek out Shaelyn again.

Because even though his brain was telling him to cut the shit and focus on his job, Brady already knew it was a lost cause. From the minute he’d seen her at his grandmother’s BBQ, he’d known he was in. He just had no clue what in meant yet, for him or for Shae.

CHAPTER FIVE

T

wo hours after her disastrous meet-up with Brady at the park, Shaelyn couldn’t help but wonder if she’d entered a permanent, alternate universe, as she watched Ben Beveau’s wife pluck a sheer-pink baby doll from the spinning rack.

Holding the fabric up against her trim frame, Josie Beveau posed in front of the floor-length mirror and glanced over at Shaelyn. “What do you think?”

Shaelyn’s only thought was that she hated New Orleans’ Small-world Syndrome. No way had she been prepared to see her fake fiancé’s wife stride into La Parisienne with the bride-to-be for that evening’s bachelorette party. They’d been arm-in-arm—first cousins apparently—and Shaelyn had planned to avoid Josie Beveau like the plague for the rest of the party. It was just too weird to make friends with your fake fiancé’s wife. There had to be a rule about that somewhere, right after Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife.

“I think Ben will really like it,” Josie went on, oblivious to Shaelyn’s discomfort. She smoothed the gossamer material against her body and turned to the right, tugging at the middle like she questioned its size. “Our anniversary is coming up, you know.”

She hadn’t known. It wasn’t like she and Ben were buddies. What Shaelyn did know was that she was ready to be “single” again. “Congratulations,” she murmured.

She busied herself with reorganizing the display table.

Usually the frosted glass top was covered with variously colored panties and matching bras. In honor of joining up with The Dirty Crescent, the table was adorned with edible underwear and three types of dildos for the evening’s festivities. Two were bright pink and the last a neon-green color with rhinestones decorating the handgrip. Shaelyn didn’t understand why sex toys had to be designed like fashion accessories.

“How long have you two been married?” she asked.

Josie returned the hanger to the rack. “Oh, about fifteen years. We met in high school.” A small smile lifted the corner of her mouth. “He married me less than a month after we graduated.”

“That’s really cute,” Shaelyn said, genuinely.

Would she and Brady have had a similar story to tell if their relationship hadn’t imploded? Although she’d spent years contemplating the various what-ifs, it hadn’t done her a lick of good. All that mattered at the end of the day were the facts: she’d loved him, he hadn’t loved her, and now they hated each other’s guts.

Hallmark couldn’t even stitch this one up.

“Have you had any more run-ins with your ex?”

Shaelyn lifted her gaze from the lingerie to Josie. She wondered what kind of woman let her husband fake an engagement with someone else. Maybe Josie and Ben Beveau were swingers, not that she got the feeling that Josie was interested. But fifteen years was a long time to be married, and Shaelyn knew firsthand how couples were often willing to try anything to keep it interesting between the sheets.

Only an ingrained habit of holding her tongue kept her from asking any personal questions. Shaelyn’s mama had always warned her about the evils of spreading gossip. Then again, Charlotte Lawrence had been the worst of them all.

“Not really,” she finally said as she stepped back from the display. “We don’t run in the same circles.”

Except you both run. Or, rather, she limped and clutched her burning sides, and he glided across the pavement like a hot lifeguard from Baywatch.

“That’s a shame.” Josie picked up the neon-green dildo, tilted it this way and that, and put it back on the table. “Ben said Brady couldn’t keep his eyes o of you.”

Or his hands. Not that she needed to be thinking about that. “Ben probably mistook Brady’s desire to toss me out of his house for something else.”

“I don’t know, Ben is pretty observant.” Josie curled her hand around the strap of the leather purse and studied Shaelyn. “He realized I was pregnant the first time before I even knew I was pregnant.”

“Does he sideline as a gynecologist?”

With a tinkling laugh, Josie shook her head. “Sometimes he likes to pretend that he’s an OB-GYN. In bed.”

“That’s, ah, invasive. I mean, fun.” Please stop talking, she told herself. “Definitely fun.” Shaelyn snatched the neongreen dildo and gestured toward where the bride-to-be was speaking with Anna. “I’m gonna go ask my cousin if we’ve got any more of these bad boys.”

“Sure.” Josie cut Shaelyn a speculative glance. “Let me know if y’all do. I was thinking about purchasing one.

Sometimes Ben likes to watch, if you know what I mean.”

Shaelyn knew exactly what Josie meant and, oh boy, way too much information.

“I’m sure it’s entertaining—I mean, I’m sure he’s interested.” With the dildo clutched in one hand like a

lifeline, Shaelyn pointed the toy at Josie. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“Yes . . . . Please do.”

It was times like these when Shaelyn questioned her complete ineptitude to string two words together. For as many personas as she’d adopted over the years for her old job, she’d never learned to feel comfortable in her own skin.

Turning on her heel, she surveyed the room until she spotted her cousin by the cash register. She sidestepped a group of young women discussing the upcoming nuptials and beelined toward Anna. Only once she had closed the last two-foot gap did she say, “You didn’t tell me my fiancé’s wife would be here.”

Anna glanced over, her attention dipping to the dildo. One perfectly waxed blond brow lifted wryly. “Are you done playing with the merchandise?”

Feeling her cheeks burn with embarrassment, Shaelyn dropped the toy on the counter like it had scalded her skin.

“Josie Beveau was interested in buying one.”

“Did you make the sale?”

“I was a bit preoccupied with their sex games, to be honest.”

“Whose sex games?”

“Josie and Ben’s.”

“So, you didn’t sell her one?”

“What?” Shaelyn shook her head. “No, I didn’t. Just like you didn’t tell me she was going to be here tonight.”

Anna shrugged, which made the pink chi on strap of her blouse slip down the curve of her right shoulder. Anna had always reminded Shaelyn of a delicate fairy: fair hair, fair skin, fair eyes, fair voice. When she’d been young, Anna had been fair of personality, too—as in she had been content to play the fiddle to her parents’ tune.

“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” Anna said as her fingers punched the keys on the black calculator. “It’s not like it was Brady Taylor. I might have warned you then.”

“Might have?” Shaelyn echoed.

“After I watched you wave that dildo in the air like you just don’t care.”

Shaelyn stared dumbfounded at her cousin. “Are you quoting ’90s hip-hop at me?”

Another shrug—the chi on strap slid even lower. This, Shaelyn decided, was how her cousin attracted hoards of men like bees after nectar. Without even realizing it, Anna reeled them in like bait. Clearly she and her cousin did not share the same genes.

“Julian’s decided he wants to be a musician,” Anna said.

“He’s listening to everything. Including what his grandma calls ‘baby-making music.’”

“Tell me he’s got Genuine on that playlist.” Ever since she’d watched the first Magic Mike a few years ago, Shaelyn had become a sucker for the song “Pony.” Channing Tatum had made the song downright magical.

“I told him there were limits,” Anna said with a shake of her head. Her blond ponytail swayed with the movement, her chandelier earrings tapping the column of her neck. “But if I have to hear about liking big butts one more time, I’m cutting o the boy’s creative license. Him and his friends discovered Sir Mix-A-Lot last week, and Julian memorized all the lyrics to spite me.”

“How is this spiting you?”

Pushing the calculator across the counter, Anna turned toward Shaelyn and propped her elbow on the glass top.

“Because he thinks it should be La Parisienne’s theme song.”

Shaelyn didn’t know Julian very well but it did sound like a good case of teenage mischief. “I think he may be shitting

you.”

“Oh, definitely. I told him he wasn’t allowed to date until he turned fifteen, and I’m sure this is his revenge.”

Shaelyn thought Julian could do better with his scheme for revenge but kept that opinion to herself. Anna worked really hard to provide for her son, and it was obvious from the pu y dark circles under her eyes that running a business and being a single parent were rapidly catching up to her.

“If you want, I can watch him sometime next week when you’re working,” she o ered.

A glimmer of amusement danced in Anna’s blue eyes.

“He’s not three, Shae. He’s thirteen. He doesn’t need a babysitter.”

“Right. I didn’t mean that he needed one. Think of it as a thank-you for giving me this job. I’ll introduce him to the brilliance of the Spice Girls and Girl Power.”

Instead of laughing as Shaelyn hoped she might have, Anna’s gaze flicked to Shaelyn’s left and stayed there. A weird choking noise emerged from the back of her throat.

Oblivious, Shaelyn picked up the green dildo and held it up in the air. “I’ll take your silence as a yes. Now, promise me you’ll warn me in the future if Brady—” “Are those real rhinestones?”

CHAPTER SIX

H er entire body froze as her eyes sought out her cousin.

No, she mouthed. Life would not be so unkind as to have Brady— Yes, Anna mouthed back.

Crap.

She oh-so-carefully placed the sex toy on the counter, gathered her bearings, and turned around. What was the first rule of safety again? Oh, right. Never put your back to the door. She’d learned that in the self-defense class she’d taken after Carla Ritter had hired her.

Instead of scoping out the instructor’s tight buns, Shaelyn should have been memorizing his words of wisdom.

But no, the instructor’s butt had been distractingly spectacular, and here she was staring at the wide expanse of Brady’s chest because she couldn’t bring herself to look at him directly. Not that avoidance did her any good. She could feel the weight of his stare, could sense the laugh he was, for once, trying to keep buried in his chest.

By the time she found the courage to meet his gaze, his wide grin was tipping the scale at shit-eating. Unwanted lust hit Shaelyn hard. The fact that her body reacted so powerfully to him felt like a complete betrayal.

“Well?” he prodded. “Real or not?”

“Not.” “Interesting,” he murmured. He looked past her to o er her cousin a smile. “Nice to see you, Anna. You doing well?”

“Oh, just great! Wonderful!” Anna half stepped back. “I should go check on the bride-to-be.” A “nice seeing you, Brady!” was tossed over her shoulder as she scurried o .

“Coward,” Shaelyn muttered under her breath.

“Is she okay?”

Shaelyn looked over at the man beside her, hating him for not becoming one of those stereotypical popular guys in high school who grew a paunch and lost their hair by the age of thirty. Instead, Brady was the stu of fantasies, dressed in black combat boots, jeans, and a black T-shirt. Dirty fantasies, specifically. The boots added an extra inch to his already towering height, and she had to lift her chin to make eye contact. “Yes,” she said, “Why do you ask?”

“She couldn’t get away fast enough.”

She snorted. “Grab onto something steady here a second —this might shock you—but not everyone feels blessed by your presence.”

One hand slid down into the front pocket of his jeans in a move that shouldn’t have been sexy but undeniably was.

“How about you?” he asked, his blue gaze steady on her face.

“How about me, what?”

“Feelin’ blessed, sweetheart?”

“Don’t be delusional. And I’m not your sweetheart.” Not anymore, at any rate. She cast a swift glance at the women milling about the boutique. Nearly every woman had her attention trained on Brady, including the bride. Those looks were hungry.

“Let’s take this outside.” Settling one hand on his arm and the other on his back, Shaelyn guided him toward the

front door. “Before the bachelorette party gets the idea that you’re the male entertainer for the night.”

A laugh escaped him. It was the deep, throaty rumble of a man who was all too comfortable in his own skin. “If I were the entertainment, they’d be counting their blessings.” He looked down at her, and those blue-on-blue eyes glimmered with good humor and something else, some unnamed emotion that hinted at his desire for her to rise to the occasion and stand toe-to-toe with him. Something that made Shaelyn’s breath hitch and her skin tingle with anticipation. “You’d be counting, too, sweetheart.”

That something elicited tingling in a di erent territory altogether, and Shaelyn forced her legs to keep moving. “I’m not your sweetheart,” she repeated with less heat this time.

Brady opened the door. With his palm flat against the frosted glass, he stood to the side so she could pass under his arm. It was the closest they’d been to each other in years, and Shaelyn hunched her shoulders to avoid brushing up against his body.

The scent of pine and mint flirted with her senses as she ducked past. The mint made sense, since he’d always had a weird obsession with mint-flavored Mentos, but the pine didn’t, unless it was his cologne. When they were kids, his signature scent had been the original Axe body spray before she’d admitted to hating the smell. That same day he’d brought her to the local Rite Aid and instructed her to pick out a new deodorant for him.

“Want to take one last sni ?” he’d asked, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. Palm playfully cupping the side of her head, he had tugged her so close that her nose got personally acquainted with his armpit. “Get a good whi , baby,” he’d said with a hearty laugh, his shoulders bouncing with mirth.

“Oh, c’mon! Gross!” Sliding out from his grip, Shaelyn had danced back and grabbed a pink loofah from a display rack. She pelted one at his shoulder while the next glanced o his head. He’d snatched her wrists and brought them up to his lips to place a kiss on her knuckles.

Boyish and tender had once been Brady’s M.O. But that was the old Brady, the old them.

Now, Shaelyn didn’t hesitate in putting distance between them.

Tourists and locals alike were wandering the sidewalk, and across the narrow street a tour guide, dressed in all black, boisterously regaled his group about a house that was really haunted. The boutique, if she had to guess from the way he kept pointing at La Parisienne.

Maybe she’d take Julian on a ghost tour. Didn’t teenage boys like spooky things?

As if he had the power to read her mind, Brady asked, “How’s Anna’s kid doing?” As if by habit, he slid his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. His thumbs remained outside the denim, pointing down like a pair of arrows to the bulge in his jeans.

“Shae?”

Her gaze jerked up to his face. “Sorry, what did you say?”

The right corner of his full mouth tipped up as if he knew exactly what had distracted her. “I asked how Anna’s boy is —how old is he now? Ten? Eleven?”

“Thirteen,” Shaelyn said. “Apparently he’s decided to memorize the lyrics to ’90s baby-making music just to mess with his mama.”

A full-fledged smile broke out on his face. “That’s my kind of man.”

She rolled her eyes. “Somehow I’m not surprised.”

“You shouldn’t be. Remember when I used to sing all kind of shit after we—”

Nope, not happening. She did not need images of them lounging in bed—or in the back of his old truck—infiltrating her mind. Shaelyn lifted up a hand to cut him o . “That was a rhetorical question, Brady.”

His gaze dipped to her mouth, lingered for a moment too long, and then swung back up to her face. She had the strangest feeling that he wanted to nip at her fingers. When he spoke, his voice was husky as if he, too, was tormented by the past. “You know how I feel about rhetorical questions, Shae.”

“You know how I feel about you.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Why are you—” A mother pushing a stroller cut Shaelyn o as she maneuvered between them along the narrow, cracked sidewalk. As she passed, a blanket fell from the stroller to the ground. Brady was quick to retrieve it for the woman.

“Here you are, ma’am,” he murmured, handing out the blanket.

“Oh, thank you!” The woman took it with an apologetic smile and draped it over the stroller’s handle. “So sorry to interrupt.”

“No need to apologize, ma’am.” Shaelyn shot a look at Brady over the woman’s head. Although his expression was casually polite, she noted the tick pulsing in his jaw.

“There’s nothing to interrupt.”

“Well, have a great night, y’all.” With another gesture of thanks, the woman continued down the street.

“What were you saying?” Brady prompted, studying her intently. And although there was barely a breeze, goosebumps flared to life on the exposed skin of her arms and legs. “You were going to ask me something.”

How did she even go about explaining that he was her problem? The thought of seeing him all over town unsettled

her for more reasons than she wanted to name. Or could name for that matter.

“I just don’t get why you’re even here.” She jerked her thumb toward the boutique. “This isn’t exactly your scene.”

“Really?” Those tempting laugh lines of his reappeared when he flashed a smile. “Lingerie, sex toys, and potentially single women isn’t my scene?”

It would be all too easy to get swept up in his sly jokes, his mischievous Destin-blue eyes— Shaelyn shook herself. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin and steeled herself against his charm. She would not consider his suggestion for them to put a pair of handcu s to good use. No. No, she wouldn’t.

Even if she was half tempted.

“Unless you’ve hit a dry spell, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than hover around here.”

She didn’t miss the narrowing of his gaze. In a voice as deep as gravel, he growled, “Sweetheart, if I were having a dry spell, my target wouldn’t be a group of women who think a neon-green dildo can do the job better than a man can.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. “I didn’t—” He took a step closer. “If I were having a dry spell, I also wouldn’t waste my breath on talking to a woman who is engaged.”

“Brady—” His black combat boots took two more steps in her direction, and her back pressed flush against the storefront.

His broad chest filled her vision. One look up at his expression told her that if they had been anywhere else, his hands would have been planted on the glass on either side of her head. Enclosing her in.

Even now he barely maintained the slim distance between them. Maybe five inches separated her breasts from the hard planes of his chest. His breath was a hot whisper that rustled

her hair; hers was a shaky exhale that did little to hide how his close proximity a ected her.

Shaelyn placed a hand in the center of his chest. She didn’t even know if she was pushing him away or pulling him closer. They couldn’t be doing this. They shouldn’t be doing this.

“Brady.”

She uttered only his name, but apparently it was enough because he moved. With much-needed space between them, the tension in her shoulders eased and she drew in a heavy breath. She so did not want to think about what her and Brady’s little tête-à-tête looked like from the interior of the boutique.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re here?” she asked.

“I’ll be honest, I can’t think of one good reason.”

One of his big hands lifted to rub the back of his neck. His short sleeve inched up with the movement, exposing hard biceps . . . . As well as heavy obsidian ink.

She blinked. He hadn’t had a single tattoo in high school.

For God’s sake, the Taylors would have eaten two-day old Taco Bell before allowing their golden grandchild to permanently mar his precious body.

And, okay, so a small part of Shaelyn was curious to know what he had inked on his body; the other part of her didn’t care. Not one bit, she told herself as she focused her gaze on his face. All the better to ignore how his bicep bulged under the thin fabric of his cotton shirt.

His fingers raked through his thick hair before settling on the back of his neck. His words came on the tail end of a breath like he was nervous. “I actually came to apologize.”

A bubble of laughter escaped her. Brady Taylor, apologize? Had New Orleans frozen over? A few moments of awkward silence followed, in which she realized he wasn’t pulling her leg, and in which she gathered from his

expectant expression that he was waiting for her to say something. “No, really,” she said, “Why are you here?”

His brows knitted. “I told you. I came to apologize.”

Briefly, the heady thought occurred to Shaelyn that he might be apologizing for breaking her heart. She traced the familiar lines of his face with her gaze: the crooked bridge of his nose (broken from the time she’d punched him in the fifth grade), the thin scar beneath his right eye (earned during a high school football game), and the small bananashaped birthmark on his jawline (assigned at birth).

She’d been waiting for this moment for years. From tearfully kissing while Seal’s “Kiss From a Rose” played in the background to kneeing him in the balls and throwing a drink in his face, she’d imagined the whole spectrum of their possible reunion. Rainbows and unicorns, to rage and Taylor Swift’s Red album, there wasn’t one scenario she hadn’t thought of.

But with Brady’s words playing on repeat in her head—“I told you, I wanted to apologize”—she realized that her mind was utterly, resolutely, pathetically blank. Blank!

Her palms turned clammy.

She could do this. Say something! You have waited years for this moment, she hollered at herself. Do. Not. Ruin. This.

Brady scrubbed both hands over his jaw and blew out a deep breath. “Look,” he said with a sharp motion of one hand. He came just short of pointing an accusing finger at her like she was to blame.

Obviously he was delusional. His lacy, red dress was making sense now.

“Clearly we’ve got a . . . thing, but that’s no good explanation for me being a jerk at the party.”

The . . . party?

He stuck his hands into his jeans’ pocket in that way of his that was starting to grate on her nerves. “Just because I

don’t necessarily agree with the way your proposal went down, doesn’t mean that I should have . . . ” His words landed like a punch to the stomach. Although she saw Brady’s mouth moving, Shaelyn heard nothing over the high-pitched ringing in her ears. He wasn’t apologizing for hurting her. And, God, had she hurt. In one fell swoop she’d lost her boyfriend and her best friend.

Whom she’d realized soon after leaving New Orleans had been her only friend.

She realized now that an apology—one that was heartfelt and true—was nothing more than a far-fetched dream still clinging on from her teenage years.

“But really,” he was saying now, “You could do better.

Remember those wedding magazine clippings you used to paste into that pink zebra binder? You love a good proposal, Shae.”

The ringing in her ears reached an unbearable crescendo.

Which might explain why she reached out and jabbed him in the center of his chest. “Get o your high horse, Brady,” she snapped. Another sharp jab. “Do you think you have any right to tell me how to live my life?”

Her breathing came in heavy pu s. “Do you really think you’re the right guy to be talking about proposal etiquette?

You couldn’t even keep your dick in your pants long enough for us to get into college!”

In some far, far corner of her mind, she realized that they were attracting attention. Past Brady’s right shoulder, she watched as a tour guide (a new one) twisted to look over at them, an annoyed expression sharpening his features as if questioning who had the nerve to interrupt him in the middle of his tale.

Shaelyn waited for the humiliation to arrive. It didn’t, she was that far gone. When was the last time she’d stood up for

herself like this? So long ago that she couldn’t even rack her brain for an answer.

Except that she would be the bigger person even if it killed her.

“Apology accepted,” she said sti y. When his eyes widened a notch, shock parting his full lips, Shaelyn gathered her emotions. “Now that that’s over, I think it’s best if we don’t talk again. It’s not as if we’re even friends.”

FOR THE FIRST time that Brady could remember, he was at a loss for words.

As he stared down at the woman who had captured his heart over a decade ago, he wondered where he’d gone so drastically wrong. Okay, yeah, he understood that they weren’t friends. Before the party at his grandparents’ house, he and Shaelyn hadn’t spoken in years.

They were barely acquaintances.

Maybe it was some twisted part of him that enjoyed their interactions. He liked seeing the spark ignite in her eyes.

How, when she tossed some sarcastic comment his way, he itched to put his hands on her hips and tug her close until he breathed those snarky remarks into his soul.

Yeah, he was all sorts of fucked up. He was okay with that.

But for the life of him, he didn’t want to stop their conversations. He liked it when she was spitting fire, and as he stood there contemplating what he could possibly say to keep her from leaving, he failed to miss how her body sti ened.

“Hey there, Shae,” a masculine voice called out from behind Brady. “Is Josie still inside picking out the goods?”

This time Brady caught the flash of panic across her face.

Her free hand jutted out and latched onto his forearm.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” she hissed. “Like saving

puppies or working undercover in a strip joint?”

“I’m not the LSPCA, Shae.” He decided to ignore the stripper comment. No sane man broached that topic without a death wish.

Her short hair flounced back as she jerked her head back to look at him. “You know what I mean.” Her hand slid from his forearm to his shoulder, the center of her palm skimming his skin and sending heat down to his groin. His imagination filled in what reality did not: her cupping the nape of his neck and pulling his head down to hers; her o ering him a saucy smile before she kissed him.

Yeah, like that was going to happen. He’d have a better chance of becoming Police Chief before the year was out.

Instead, that soft hand of hers edged around to his back and shoved. Hard.

He didn’t budge.

“Did you take a crazy pill when I wasn’t looking?” he asked.

Her lips parted, but before she had the chance to speak, a shadow fell across her face as a masculine hand reached out and pulled her into a quick hug. Benjamin Beveau’s profile disappeared briefly as he bussed a kiss on Shaelyn’s left cheek. Pulling back, he released Shaelyn and asked, “She in there?”

Brady cleared his throat. “Beveau.”

Shaelyn’s fiancé jumped at the sound of Brady’s voice. If he hadn’t known any better, that Crest-white, extra-wide smile might have duped Brady. Then again, the uneven hitch in the man’s breathing was a complete giveaway.

Brady cocked his head and slid his gaze to Shaelyn.

“Who’s inside?”

Beveau looked to Shaelyn for help, bumping his shoulder with hers. The SOS went unanswered. Brady swept his gaze over the man: heavy breathing, high perspiration rate, hands

curled into balled fists. The man looked on the verge of su ering an anxiety attack.

Gotcha.

“Who’s inside?” he repeated.

“My, uh . . . sister.”

“Hmm,” Brady murmured thoughtfully. “Younger, older?”

A gulping sound slipped from Beveau’s mouth. Brady was just enough of a jerk to find pleasure in the situation.

“Younger,” the fiancé said quickly.

“Was she at my grandmother’s party?” Brady asked.

“Don’t think I had the pleasure of meeting her.”

Beveau’s Adam’s apple dipped, bobbed, danced as he swallowed. “Nah, she wasn’t there. She was . . . busy. With her kids. My nephews.”

Brady’s gaze landed on the woman who had once held his heart and soul in the palm of her hand. “I see,” he murmured. “I’d like to meet her.” He paused, waiting for Shaelyn’s attention to return to him, and then nodded.

“Yeah, I think I’ll wait for a few minutes.”

Shaelyn’s gaze narrowed. “Why would you do that?”

“We’ll all be family once you and Beveau marry.”

“Over my dead body.”

Brady felt a smile quirk his lips. “I’ve got some friends who could arrange that for you.”

Her eyes narrowed even further. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but yup, here was proof that it was. She glared at him through mere slits. “Over your dead body,” she amended.

“My superiors won’t be pleased.”

A smile that he didn’t trust twisted her lips. In a sickeningly sweet tone, she murmured, “Everyone is replaceable, aren’t they, Detective?”

Her pointed remark hit him like a right hook to the chin.

From the moment he’d entered the ring for the promotion, he’d been made fully aware that he was a just number.

Names were left at the door to make way for a numbered list of all possible candidates. Currently, Brady was in third and third just wasn’t good enough.

Brady wasn’t good at losing.

Looking down at his ex-girlfriend’s upturned face, he wondered if that wasn’t part of the thrill of the chase. He knew that her engagement was a sham, and that Beveau was married with two kids. He knew that his attraction to Shaelyn was headier now than it had been years ago.

He also knew that they had no place in each other’s lives.

So whatever this was between them constituted as only one thing: a distraction. And, right now, he wasn’t in the market for distractions.

“Brady?”

Shaelyn’s sharp tone broke him from his thoughts.

He added distance between them that he immediately regretted. He wanted his lips on hers, his hands cupping her ass as he pulled her tightly against him. He wanted to take her back to his house where he’d bury himself inside her and make her forget that she’d ever laid eyes on Ben Beveau, fake fiancé or not.

His hand curled into a fist at his side. Wasn’t that the kicker—even when he knew Beveau was married, jealousy still stung him at the mere thought of Shaelyn with someone else.

“I have to go,” he muttered. Before he made an utter fool of himself by revealing his Ace: envy.

Maybe this promotion gig really was getting to his head, like Luke had said.

“I’ve got to go,” he repeated.

“Yeah, you’ve already said.”

He took her words with a grain of salt. It was for the best that he understood nothing would ever come of them. She hated his guts and he had plans, plans that did not involve a woman who would prefer to skin him alive.

Brady glanced over to where Beveau stood silently.

It was a good thing that he wasn’t actually Shaelyn’s fiancé. She deserved someone who’d step in and have her back. Ben Beveau wasn’t that guy. Brady only hoped the man showed more initiative when it came to his own wife.

He tilted his head toward the window of the boutique.

“Guess me and your sister’s introduction will have to wait for another day.”

“A shame,” Beveau said without much enthusiasm.

“Yeah,” Brady drawled slowly, “agreed.”

His gaze fell to Shaelyn, and he desperately wished he could read her strained expression. But in looking at her, he realized that they weren’t over. Not yet. Distraction or not, one day soon he’d rediscover the taste of her kiss. And when he did, he’d erase the memory of every man who’d taken his place in the last twelve years.

Their gazes clashed. “You have a nice day now, Shae.”

Her eyes slid to look somewhere past his left shoulder.

Avoiding him.

That was okay. Brady always did enjoy a challenge.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“I

’ll agree to the tour if you take me to get a tattoo.”

“Julian, you’re thirteen. Also, I like my head where it is—on my shoulders.” Shaelyn had to give the boy credit, though. He was ballsy. Curiosity had her asking, “What would you get?”

Anna’s son ran his fingers through his tousled blond hair before crossing lanky arms over his retro Legend of Zelda Tshirt.

Shaelyn pointed at her cousin’s graphic T. “Lemme guess, Link?”

“What?” Julian snatched at the black cotton to stare at the image. “No way. Just because he’s on my shirt doesn’t mean I want him tattooed on me.” He gestured at her classic red hazard sign Ghostbusters T-shirt. “What about you?”

She glanced down at her top and fingered the ragged hem.

It was another time-traveler find from her childhood bedroom. “You don’t like it?” she asked. “I was trying to get into the spirit of taking a ghost tour . . . . Pun intended.”

Julian rolled his eyes. “Really, Shae?”

Grinning, Shaelyn made a pistol shape with her hand and pretended to blow billowing smoke from her finger. “That was a good one, I know.”

Blue eyes traversed her torso with a quick, dismissive sweep.

“What?” she demanded. “It might be a sleep shirt, but I think it can handle public criticism for one day.”

His mouth quivered as though trying to withhold a laugh.

But then the teenager in him stepped out once more. “You sure about that?”

“When did you become such a pain in the butt?”

“The day I exited Mom’s womb.” He spoke with such a lack of gusto that Shaelyn couldn’t help bursting into laughter. Man, Anna had her work cut out for her with this kid. He was at once both an awkward youth and witty teen, and there was no doubt in her mind that he’d be even more of a handful in a few years.

“C’mon,” she murmured as she led him toward their guide. The girl was dressed in all black, looked to be in her early twenties, and when it was Shaelyn and Julian’s turn to check in, Julian’s cheeks bloomed about five di erent shades of red.

“Have you taken a ghost tour before?” the girl asked them as she checked their printed tickets.

It was Julian who rushed to answer. “Nope, first one.” He flashed a grin. “I’m excited to hear about all the . . . uh, ghostly stu .”

Shaelyn jerked her head in her cousin’s direction. Excited, was he? She threw an arm around his shoulders and hauled him close. “His mom has been meaning to take him for a while now, but I figured I’d take him before school started.”

Leaning forward, she added in a hushed voice, “Eighth grade can be rough, you know?”

The guide laughed before moving on to the next group.

Before she was even out of earshot, Julian ducked under Shaelyn’s arm. His mean-mugging glare was the stu of legends—an impressive feat for a thirteen year old.

“Why’d you do that?” he demanded as they waited against the cool wall of the Cabildo, the city’s eighteenthcentury government building.

“Payback.” She pressed her back to the gray stucco wall and scoped out some of the other groups. Pirates’ Alley, which ran adjacent to the Cabildo, was incredibly narrow, forcing the tour’s groups to cluster together—a family of four, a couple sucking at each other’s faces, and one man with various cameras slung over his shoulders. What was he expecting, the ghost brigade of New Orleans’ Past?

Skimming the bottom of his shoe over the alley’s uneven, nineteenth-century cobblestones, Julian released a hu ed breath. “Payback for what?”

“Making fun of my Ghostbusters T.” She elbowed him gently in the side. “Also did it for you.”

“The tour guide lady was pretty,” he protested.

“Not to typecast or anything, but she didn’t seem the type to go for jail bait.”

Sullenly, his arms crossed over his wiry chest. “She probably wouldn’t have guessed if you hadn’t said anything.”

“You’re right,” Shaelyn murmured with a chuckle. “The braces wouldn’t have clued her in.”

While Julian blathered on about her insensitivity, Shaelyn scoped out the groups of people standing in the shadowed alleyway. She was not looking for him. Brady. Even as she told herself that, her gaze flicked to every couple, every man with his arms wrapped around his partner’s waist.

She hadn’t seen Brady in three days, not since their confrontation at La Parisienne. Not since he’d walked away with that cold, detached look in his gaze. That indi erent air of his should have spelled The End. And yet, she continuously found herself watching the busy street from the boutique’s window in the o chance

that she saw him strolling by. His absence was a blessing, really. Without him pestering her, she didn’t have to worry about what the sight of his muscular build did to her girl parts.

Except that not seeing him had the reverse e ect on her thoughts. If anything, she thought about him more.

Maybe it was time that she did the horizontal tango. Had some naked one-on-one time with a guy who didn’t make her question everything. Someone who didn’t pose a danger to her heart.

Someone who wasn’t Brady Taylor.

As a renewed single woman—she’d tragically ended her engagement with Ben Beveau on the night of the bachelorette party—Shaelyn was free to do anything she wanted with anyone she wanted.

So why was she still thinking of Brady?

“Shaelyn?”

She jerked her attention toward Julian. “Mhmm?”

“Do you miss your parents?” There was a brief pause where Shaelyn’s brain stalled at the unexpected question, and Julian tacked on, “They died, right? That’s why you came home?”

Shaelyn had been back in New Orleans for a little over a month now, but she never once forgot the reason she’d returned in the first place. Family. Responsibility.

Her homecoming had very little to do with her parents’ passing.

She’d never been close with her parents. They’d had high expectations of her and she’d failed on every delivery. After ten years of rare visits, it was unfortunately all too easy to pretend that they were on vacation or that her mother was once again refusing to talk to Shaelyn and making the same demand of Shaelyn’s dad.

Julian didn’t wait for her response. “Sometimes I wonder if my dad died,” he said quietly. Shielded by the dark shadow of the imposing Cabildo, and the neighboring St. Louis Cathedral, it was di cult to make out his expression. “Mom never mentions him. D’you know anything about my dad?”

To be completely honest, Shaelyn didn’t even remember the man’s name. She’d been rather young herself at the time, and her mama had done everything to shield her from Anna’s sinful transgressions. Charlotte Lawrence’s words, not Shaelyn’s.

Even though they were barely more than acquaintances, it hurt to see Julian so nervous, so hopeful. “I never had the chance to meet him.”

He nodded as if this made complete sense. “I’ve always wondered who I look like more.”

Hastily she said, “Your mom. You’re a spitting image.”

She prayed that Julian wouldn’t call her out on the lie.

“Everyone says that but I wonder other things, too. Did he like to hunt? Or was he one of those nerdy boys who likes to play World of Warcraft?”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “Says the boy wearing a Link T-shirt.”

His features adopted a teenage scowl. “Legend of Zelda is a classic.”

She wanted to tease lightness back into the conversation.

Lift the heavy weight from his narrow shoulders. But neither did she want him feeling as though he’d misplaced his trust by tossing out a joke. “You’re right,” she said agreeably.

“His first name was Tony.” Blue eyes swiveled to stare at her. “If I found out his last name, do you think you could find him for me?”

And just like that, her stomach bottomed out. She didn’t even have the chance to form a reply as the tour guide chose that moment to kick o the tour. The group swarmed her

eagerly, much like the rabid mosquitoes that were out to feast on human blood tonight.

“Welcome everyone!” the guide exclaimed boisterously.

“My name is Zeia and I’ll be your tour guide tonight. Is everyone pumped to hear about some of the most haunted locations in the French Quarter?”

The crowd whooped their approval, and Shaelyn turned to her young cousin to whisper, “I don’t have a way to find your dad, Jules. It’s not that I don’t want to, but—” “Mom says you’re dating a cop,” he interrupted in an equally hushed voice. “Can’t he help?”

Dating a . . .

Shaelyn shook her head. Julian must have overheard Anna talking to someone about how Shaelyn and Brady had dated in high school and gotten confused. “We aren’t together.”

“Please?”

In his thirteen years of life, Julian had never once asked for anything from Shaelyn. Although to be fair, she’d only seen him once before. He and Anna had visited her in New York City a few years back, but Shaelyn had always suspected that the trip had been more of a way for Anna to break free of New Orleans than a burning desire to reconnect with family.

The pleading look on Julian’s face stripped the refusal from her tongue. The petulant teenager had been replaced with a boy who was asking, nearly begging, for any information on the man who’d birthed him. She didn’t want to go behind Anna’s back, but somehow she found herself opening her mouth and assuring him, “I’ll see what I can do.”

A quick, fleeting smile broke out across Julian’s face before he focused on the tour guide. As Zeia spun a dark and gory tale about the public executions that had once taken place in Jackson Square, just to their right, Shaelyn thought

of her own execution. She swore she felt the metaphorical noose being slipped over her bowed head.

She’d come back to New Orleans to help Meme Elaine.

Temporarily. Get her grandmother up and moving again.

Then get the hell out of dodge. Now everything was feeling increasingly more permanent. This was not what she wanted. But how could she say no to Julian? When had she ever felt needed or, hell, even wanted by her family, aside from Meme Elaine?

Shaelyn squeezed her eyes shut. Was feeling part of a family enough to voluntarily put herself back into the ring with Brady Taylor?

She felt Julian’s hand slip into hers and squeeze once before quickly letting go.

Apparently the answer was yes.

CHAPTER EIGHT

L

ess than twenty-four hours later, Shaelyn found herself standing on the front steps of NOPD Headquarters.

She supposed she could have texted Brady on the cell number her grandmother had given her for him, but this was about business. Only business. Texting him might indicate she wanted something more . . . personal.

Been there, bought the T-shirt, and lived to tell the tale.

So, she’d stooped to stalking Brady at work.

Shaelyn straightened her spine and marched up the stairs to the front door. Inside, groups of people milled about; some wore the pale blue NOPD button-down uniform, while others were decked out in street clothes. No one paid her any attention, no doubt mistaking her for a lost tourist.

She definitely had the “lost” thing down pat.

“You need help, Miz?” Shaelyn jerked toward the sound of the male voice. The cop was in his fifties, if she had to guess, and had kind but tired eyes. In the cradle of his left arm he carried a stack of manila folders; his right hand was settled on the butt of the gun in its holster. The black nameplate on his shirt read, “LT J. CARTWELL.”

“Uh, yeah—I mean, yes.” She took a deep breath. You can do this—no biggie. Except that she was sort of betraying her cousin, whom Shaelyn genuinely liked. Think of Julian. “I’m looking for Detective Brady Taylor. Could you tell me where I might find him?”

This time those kind eyes journeyed down the length of her body before parking it on her face. It was an assessing glance, the kind which blatantly asked, And who are you?

Ex-girlfriend/lover/best friend. Add some slashed tires and a shotgun, and she could be the new Miranda Lambert/Carrie Underwood Spurned-Lover hybrid. Minus the crazy toned thighs and blown-out blond hair.

“You’re lucky. He just got back maybe fifteen minutes ago.”

Shaelyn wasn’t sure she considered herself lucky at all, but she nodded anyway. “Absolutely! What perfect timing.”

Without another glance in her direction, the lieutenant pivoted away from the main lobby. As she hurried to catch up, her shoe squeaked, the rubber sole skipping against the marble floor.

They turned down a fluorescent-lit hallway with 1970s wood-paneled walls, and had not even gone fifty feet before Cartwell stopped. Shaelyn only had a quick glimpse of a rectangular black placard with the engraved words, HOMICIDE DEPARTMENT, before the lieutenant edged the door open with an elbow. As if by some invisible string, her attention immediately narrowed in on Brady seated at a desk.

Shaelyn swallowed.

Lieutenant Cartwell stepped to the side. “Got a visitor for you, Taylor.”

Blue eyes raked over her body with ambivalence. Good.

That was . . . good. She didn’t want complications. Crowding her against a storefront with barely leashed desire in his

eyes? Seductive Brady had “complicated” written all over him. She could take Indi erent Brady with her hands bound.

Unless she started thinking about ropes and handcu s and sexy times, in which case she was screwed. And not in the fun way, either.

“Thanks, L-T,” Brady said. Not once did his attention divert from her.

Lieutenant Cartwell shifted his weight, his gaze zeroed in on Brady at the desk. “Remember what I said about distractions.”

Because that wasn’t subtle at all. Shaelyn watched the lieutenant leave, determined not to ask Brady what Cartwell had meant by “distractions.” Although she didn’t really have to ask—the lieutenant had been as subtle as a rampaging ox thundering around a delicate teacup set. He obviously thought she was up to no good.

He’d be correct in that assumption.

“Sit down, Shae.”

Brady’s stern tone had her longing to flip him the bird.

She refrained, just barely, and opted instead for adding an extra swing to her hips as she took the empty chair opposite his and quickly scanned the o ce.

The room was Spartan. Not a single painting decorated the whitewashed walls, and a number of desks sat haphazardly around the space. Most were littered with papers and God-knows-what-else. The room itself was empty, with only her and Brady as its sole occupants. Had his coworkers gone for lunch and failed to invite him? The thought of Brady seated alone at his desk while everyone else had fun was oddly upsetting.

“Shaelyn.”

She finally looked his way and— Shaelyn blinked. He was wearing a suit. A navy-tailored pinstripe, which molded to his muscular frame and

complimented his eyes. Forget the Floridian Gulf waters; right now the hue was identical to the hot-blue flame that burned near the wick of a candle. Feeling decidedly warmer than she would ever admit, Shaelyn shifted uncomfortably.

“Can I help you?” he asked politely, fingers tapping an impatient tempo along the edge of his desk. “I thought we’d agreed to stop talking.”

“You’re right,” she conceded, “I did say that.”

The tapping stopped. Leaning back in his chair, Brady folded his arms across his chest. “And yet here you are anyway.”

Truer words had never been spoken. Here she was, without a single plan on how to properly bring up Julian.

She’d chosen the fly-by-the-seat-of-the-pants method with the hope that the words would just flow. Ha. Clearly she should have prepared herself a speech.

Pull yourself together. Remember, you hate him.

“I need your help.”

There, it was out. She risked a peek to his face and was somewhat disappointed to find that not even the habitual tick in his jaw was twitching. Then the finger-tapping recommenced and she fought o a satisfied grin. She’d thrown him o his game.

After a long pause, he drawled, “Trouble in paradise?”

Ben. Realization struck that Miss Mary hadn’t informed her grandson that Shaelyn was “single” again. She should tell him the truth. Explain the whole sordid tale that rested at the feet of her meddling grandmother, who was (on a good day) bat-shit crazy. But the part of her that had already been humiliated one too many times in front of this man refused to face yet another embarrassment. And, just maybe, there was an itsy-bitsy part of her that wanted to strike back at him for hurting her all those years ago. It would be a petty move and she really, really shouldn’t.

Shaelyn boxed up the guilt and mentally duct-taped it shut.

“I guess you could say that,” she whispered, wringing her hands before her. “Me and Ben”—she sni ed for good measure—“we . . . ended things.”

“This week.”

He spoke so coldly that she knew he didn’t believe her.

But she’d already started down this path. No turning back now.

She lifted her gaze, starting at the knot of his gray tie and working up the thick column of his throat, the jut of his chin and the bridge of his crooked nose to his blue eyes. She felt the fire of the blue flames licking at her feet. Her gut warned her to back o . She squashed the guilt.

Shaelyn pressed her hand to her throat, swallowing over the bundle of nerves that screamed, Shut up pronto, lady!

“He’s been cheating on me. I never even knew it, but I-I went over to his house and found them together.”

She continued in a wobbly voice, “Ben said that he still wanted to marry me. But he knows what I’ve been through”—with you went unspoken—“and I can’t. Being cheated on, the insecurities.” She looked him dead in the eye. “I ended it.”

WHAT A MANIPULATIVE— Brady’s hands curled into fists.

Up until now, Shaelyn’s M.O. for staging a fake engagement had been the missing piece of the puzzle. Except that he hadn’t considered one crucial aspect: that the engagement was nothing but a ruse to strike back at him.

Had she been strategizing for this moment since returning to New Orleans?

In the last week, he’d done his best to exorcise her from his thoughts. He had a job to focus on, a promotion he wanted. His cases desperately needed his attention and certainly weren’t solving themselves. Even if he’d caught himself driving past La Parisienne once or twice, Brady hadn’t stopped in. She’d said that there was no reason for them to even communicate, and here she was drudging up the past.

He pressed a balled fist to his thigh and inhaled sharply through his nose.

The way he saw it, he could tackle her presence in a few di erent ways. One, he could tell her to leave. Two, he could explain that he’d never cheated on her. And maybe, just maybe, if she hadn’t pulled the stunt she just had, and if she had just asked him, he would have hailed option two as the winner.

It had been twelve years. They weren’t kids anymore, and he certainly wasn’t the same kid he’d been then. It was beyond time to bury the past.

Or he could go for option number three, which was to ignore her shitty acting and focus on the fact she was here in his o ce after she’d explicitly said that they had no reason to keep talking.

He took in her heightened blush, the way she fiddled with the strap of her purse. She was nervous, and yeah, he was going for option three for no other reason than the fact that he wanted her to know that she couldn’t taunt him—that she didn’t a ect him.

Liar.

Brady dropped his forearms to the desk and steepled his fingers. His suit jacket strained across his shoulders, and he caught the way her gaze inadvertently followed the lines of his arms.

And because of that, because he knew on some level he still got to her, he figured there was no use dabbling in the bullshit.

“So, you need my help.”

Fingers still worrying the purse strap, Shaelyn leaned back in her seat and feigned nonchalance. Feigned, because it was an awful attempt. Her posture was sti , her jaw tense.

Brady had interrogated criminals who had much more to hide with better Hollywood skills.

He’d give credit where it was due, though, because despite looking like she was seconds from vomiting, Shaelyn’s voice didn’t waver. “I do,” she said evenly. Her gaze landed south of his chin. “Julian, Anna’s son—” “I remember Julian. You mentioned him the other day.”

“Oh, you’re right. The thing is, he’s asked for my help, except . . . ” She raked her fingers through her riotous curls, then blew out a breath on a heavy sigh. “Honestly I don’t have the resources for what he needs. Which is why—” “Legal trouble?” Brady snagged a pen from the metal mesh cup on his desk and flipped his yellow legal pad to a fresh page.

“What?” Shaelyn shook her head. “No. He’s not in any sort of trouble. He—” Brady twirled the pen in his right hand, and her eyes locked on the motion as if memorized. His hand clapped the Bic down on the desk with a sudden thwack, and her gaze— finally—jumped to his. “Then I’m not sure how I could help him,” he told her, “unless you want to enlighten me?”

Mouth pursing, she grumbled something under her breath. Not for a second did he think it was complimentary.

Then, “Let me finish a sentence, Brady, and I’ll explain.”

He swept an arm in a sarcastically gallant motion for her to continue. It was necessary that he kept his wits about him around Shaelyn Lawrence. A week ago he’d been wondering

if she still tasted the same as he remembered—like strawberries and summer. Meanwhile, she’d been operating with ulterior motives. And yeah, it stung more than he wanted to acknowledge.

It was better for them both if she saw him as an unfeeling jerk than as the idiot who’d thought for one delusional moment that they might rekindle their romance.

Brady watched her shoulders inch up as she took a deep breath.

“I might as well be blunt here. Julian’s father never wanted him. I don’t know the details because my mama made sure Anna and I didn’t spend time together. She had this ridiculous notion that if we did, I might decide to jump on the pregnancy bandwagon.”

He had an inkling of where Shaelyn was going with this, but felt compelled to point out, “We always used condoms.”

A pretty blush colored her cheeks. “Yeah, well, Anna didn’t. Not that time, anyway. She’d been dating the guy for a bit, and I’m sure he spun her a pretty tale about how they were soul mates and that soul mates don’t have barriers. You know how it goes.”

Brady did know how it went. There’d definitely been a few times in high school where he and Shaelyn had nearly tossed caution to the wind, but one of them had always reached for protection at the last moment. They’d been each other’s first.

Since then, he’d never slipped up with any woman he’d been involved with. He was way too ambitious to deal with an unplanned pregnancy.

Guess he was heartlessly pragmatic like that.

He nodded, simply because he felt like she was waiting for a response.

“They say it only takes one time, and I guess it was true for Anna. Found out she was pregnant when she started

having really bad morning sickness. She tried to tell her boyfriend, but from what I understand, he freaked out and claimed Julian wasn’t his—classic move, by the way—and they broke up.

“Anyway,” Shaelyn went on, “Anna had Julian, and now Julian—” This time Brady didn’t stop himself from filling in the missing blanks. “Now Julian is older and wants to know about his dad.”

She o ered a sad smile—the kind that halfheartedly lifted one corner of her mouth while the other remained flat.

“Yes.” “And he wants you to find out who this shit-bag is.”

“Bingo.”

“And that’s why you want my help—because you have no way of finding this guy and you figured I might have some connections.”

“Julian actually suggested it.”

He fought to wrangle in his surprise. Picking up the pen again, he continued twirling. “Julian knows who I am?”

That blush came rushing back with a vengeance. He didn’t recall her ever blushing so easily before. It made him wonder if her skin still turned pink in other, more secret areas . . .

“Apparently he overheard Anna talking to someone about you being my boyfriend. I, uh, don’t think Julian connected the dots and realized that this was before his birth.”

Brady froze, the pen stilling between his fingers. Did she realize the opening she’d just gifted him? Without allowing himself a moment for any second-guessing, he rose from his chair, rounded the corner of his desk, and settled his butt on the edge. The position eliminated the distance between them, and it didn’t take a genius to see how she shifted her

legs to avoid touching him. Good. He liked knowing that he wasn’t the only one in this room struggling for control.

“Didn’t Julian know about Beveau?” he asked as he braced his shoe’s sole on the lip of her chair’s armrest.

Immediately she leaned in the other direction, her hands finding purchase on the opposite armrest. “Or was your engagement the secret, clandestine sort like on Maury?”

“I introduced you to him, didn’t I?” She spoke in such an a ronted clip that if he hadn’t known better, he would have believed her. Unfortunately for her, his job was to ferret out the truth. And he already knew she was lying.

“You did,” he murmured softly.

He watched her slender fingers curl around the armrest tightly. Shaelyn had never been a good liar and age obviously hadn’t helped at all. Part of him was pleased by the knowledge, even as he buried the emotion.

Brady tugged at the jacket sleeve of his right arm, letting the material slide down before he repeated the process for his left side. Once removed, the jacket was tossed onto his desk. At the sight of the gun on his hip, Shaelyn hollowed her cheeks in surprise. He could practically see her mind buzzing, trying to figure him out.

She wouldn’t ever see this one coming.

“Tell me something, Shae.”

Although she raised a brow, there was no missing the way she pointedly didn’t respond.

“Shae?”

She blew out the breath she’d been holding. “What, Brady.”

Not a question, he noticed. He could tell from the set of her shoulders that she wasn’t in the mood to dance to his tune. Good, because he was done playing her games.

“Tell me, if you think that I have ways to find Julian’s father, what makes you think I don’t have ways to figure out other stu .” He dropped his foot to the floor, pushed away from the desk, and brought both hands down on her chair’s armrests.

Lowering his voice, he ducked his head and met her gaze.

The green specks in her hazel eyes flared to life, reminding him of hundreds of di erent memories in which she’d grin widely at him before snuggling against his chest. Not now, he warned himself, don’t think of that now.

He moved his left hand to cover hers, and purposely lowered his voice when he said, “If I can find Julian’s dad, why couldn’t I figure out that your engagement was a sham?

That your precious Ben is married to someone else?” He caressed the back of her hand with the pad of his thumb.

“Tell me, Shae, do you think I’m an idiot?”

CHAPTER NINE

T

ell me, Shae, tell me.

Oh, she’d tell him all right. She despised that softly patronizing tone of his, and if she had been anywhere else but at NOPD Headquarters, she would have given him a piece of her mind. But no way did she need an arrest to top o this already shit-tastic day.

“Back o , Brady,” she hissed.

Arrogantly, he cocked his head to the side. “I’m experiencing déjà vu.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Back to the time I kneed you in the balls?”

“Nope, not the time I was thinkin’ about.”

“What a shame.”

Yanking her hand from his, she planted it on his chest.

His freed hand came round, curling over hers. In another lifetime, he might have placed a kiss to the center of her palm. Now, his fingers circled her wrist to hold her in place.

She wasn’t scared of him, exactly, but of their shared history. Well, that, and also her body’s inexcusable response to his pheromones or testosterone or whatever it was that made her pant like a dog in heat. The brown leather suspenders crisscrossing over his shoulders didn’t help

matters, as they only further impressed the fact that he was a big, strong, male.

As if she could ever forget.

“Did you make up your engagement for revenge?” he whispered huskily by her ear.

Rolling her eyes, she pulled at her hand once more, not the least bit surprised when his hold didn’t slacken. “Get over yourself, Brady. Not everything revolves around you.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“I’m thinking that your grandmother told you way too often as a kid that the world’s your oyster.”

He ignored her. “You’re not the sort to mess around with married men, Shae. Not without a good reason. Getting revenge, or whatever you want to call it, isn’t that reason.”

This time she yanked harder. Unease settled in the vicinity of her lungs, limiting her breathing to short, shallow inhalations. “Let go.” Anxiety sprung to life in her chest. She had to get out of here. She had to— No. No. She needed to calm down. She needed to remind herself that she was no longer in New York. More to the point: she was no longer Carla Ritter’s employee. She’d left that life behind—for good.

She averted her gaze. She hadn’t fooled around with Ben, but Brady had no idea how close he’d come to hitting the target. Familiar, grimy shame clawed at her. Almost blindly she focused on the buttons of Brady’s shirt. She was embarrassed to find that the hand she had pressed to his chest to push him away was now gripping the white cotton like a lifeline.

Her mouth twisted in self-disgust. Brady wasn’t her lifeline. Hadn’t been so for over a decade.

“Shaelyn—” When she again tried to tug her hand from his, he finally let go. She carefully lifted the fallen strap of her purse to her

shoulder. “You don’t know what type of woman I am, Brady,” she said. The lack of emotion in her voice should have frightened her. Instead, it acutely reminded her of the last four years when she’d functioned on autopilot.

This was why she never let herself think about Carla. Why she would never return her former employer’s phone calls.

For however much her coworkers had argued that they were helping people, Shaelyn hadn’t fooled herself. Money had been the sole reason she’d stuck around, not some skewed sense of charity. Until, of course, money too had proved a hollow existence.

Realizing that Brady had turned silent, Shaelyn bit her bottom lip, wondering how in the world their conversation had turned from uncomfortable to Britney Spears Toxic.

He placed his hand back on the armrest, though this time she had ample breathing room. “You’re not a petty woman, Shaelyn.”

“How do you know?” she taunted. “I’m not that same girl you knew in high school.”

“You’ve already said that. It’s getting old.” His face was all that she could see. He was all that she could see. “I’m not that same kid I was twelve years ago, either. So how about you stop telling me that I don’t know you, and why don’t you just tell me what I need to know?”

Tell me, Shae.

Even in her thoughts, he mocked her. She didn’t know whether to laugh or to curse him.

“Even if I told you the truth, you wouldn’t believe me,” she said.

“Try me.”

With his hooded gaze and his gravel-pitched voice, was it any wonder that her thoughts immediately turned sexual?

No way was she “trying” Brady Taylor in any way. Not even if he o ered to never speak to her again. Hell, not even if he

agreed to never contact her again and promised to find Julian’s dad.

“Can you give me a little breathing room?” She waved her hand between them. “I’m feeling claustrophobic and that’s not a compliment.”

A small grin quirked his lips, drawing the right side of his mouth marginally higher than the left. It would have been endearing, except for the fact that he drove her crazy.

“Is that a no?” she prompted when he didn’t move.

“It’s a no.”

She shook her head, muttering, “You’re not even pretending to feel bad.”

“I guess my acting skills aren’t nearly as good as yours, what with you almost having me believe that you were engaged and all.” His smile momentarily slipped, revealing frustration and disappointment that once again had the guilt raining down on her. “Now tell me what made you do it.”

She dropped her head against the back of the chair with a heavy sigh. “Meme Elaine thought that if I faked an engagement, it would prove to you that I’ve moved on.”

His expression turned blank, and the ensuing silence only heightened her need to fill it. “I told her that it was a stupid idea. I mean it’s not like I care if you like me or not.” She found herself staring at the third button on his shirt, because that wasn’t all true. She did care what he thought of her. Sort of. “Anyway, I wanted to say no but she’d already enlisted Ben. I don’t know why he agreed to my grandmother’s scheming, though. I was under the impression that he and his wife are happily married.”

“They’ve got kids,” Brady said like he still thought she might flash her home-wrecker side and break out in song and dance. “Twin boys.”

“Yeah, I know. Two little hooligans. My guess is that Ben and Josie are swingers.”

His mouth pressed into a firm line. “What I don’t understand is why you went along with it, Shae. You’re an adult. You can say no.”

His tone implied that she should have said no. She agreed with him a hundred times over. Except . . . “Do you remember anything about my grandmother?”

His eyes glimmered with laughter. Memories, too, maybe.

“She never let me leave without taking home the cookies she’d baked.”

“Yeah, well, take the cookies and multiply it by a thousand. The woman is a menace to society and she prides herself on the fact.”

That smile grew, becoming more dangerously appealing.

“You said something similar that time she walked in on us hooking up in the living room and yelled, ‘Don’t forget to wrap it, Taylor. I’m not ready for great-grandkids.’”

Shaelyn brought her hands up to her face, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes. The only thing worse than being caught buck naked by your grandmother was being reminded of the event by the man you’d been buck naked with in the first place. She told Brady just that, adding a flick of her middle finger to show that she meant business.

Strong, lean fingers pried at her right hand. Chuckling, he murmured, “Don’t hide from me, Shae.”

With her left eye shielded by her left hand, her right hand clasped within his, and their gazes meeting easily, Shaelyn wondered . . . what in the hell were they doing? She’d accustomed herself to the tension and arguments, but this easy camaraderie reminded her of when they’d been best friends. Before she’d learned the taste of his lips and the feel of his body settling between her legs.

It was too familiar. Too dangerous. She couldn’t allow herself to think for one moment that something could happen between them. So, why did it feel that way now, with

their fingers intertwined and his face barely a hand’s width away from hers? She could see the dark stubble lining his jaw; how the straps of his suspenders created thin, folded creases in the white fabric of his shirt; and how his lips parted on each exhaled breath like he might just say, to hell with it, and lean down and plant a kiss on her.

Would she like it?

Don’t think about it.

Easier said than done. Hussy that she was, she hadn’t thought of anything else since stumbling into him at his grandparents’ BBQ. Brady’s lashes fluttered as he dropped his gaze to their locked hands. It stayed there—his gaze steady, thoughtful.

Tingling tugged at her lower abdomen, fanning downward until she was practically squirming in the chair. His sooty lashes were long, too long for any man and certainly too long for this man.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips. Shaelyn drew in a deep breath, wishing that one slip of his tongue hadn’t been the most erotic sight she’d seen in years. Was he going to kiss her? She was probably overreacting. Her free hand jumped up to smooth the chaotic curls on her head that could put her in the running for the next casting for Medusa.

His head dipped.

Oh Lord, she was not overreacting. He was going to do it.

He was going to kiss her. Immediately her mind launched in a myriad of di erent thoughts. What had she eaten last? Had she remembered to brush her teeth that morning?

All coherent thoughts fled as his gaze shifted to her hair, his thumb and forefinger pinching a strand and letting the curl wind itself tightly around his finger. Had she said that watching him lick his lips was hot? It had nothing on this moment, nothing on the look of intent in his expression. He wanted her . . . . And, oh, that want terrified her most of all.

What if he learned about everything? Shaelyn swallowed. She couldn’t risk exposing her past, unless she wanted to hand over her dignity, too. Plus . . . what if she couldn’t be normal with him?

The tightness in her lungs returned at the same time that Brady whispered her name. Said so softly as though it was for him and him only. Her want kicked into overdrive. Was it shameless to say that one word from his lips, and her insides quivered and her legs parted on demand? Only, theoretically wanting Brady and actually engaging in bedtime activities with him were two very di erent things. One ended with her in her own bed getting o to the self-stimulated orgasm that was her vibrator, and the other landed her in his bed.

Could she do this?

As if sightseeing from some alternate universe, she watched him erase the distance separating them. His lips swooped down to lay claim and she, she . . .

You turned your head?

With an awkward smacking sound, his mouth landed on her cheek.

For a moment, there was only silence. She could practically feel the embarrassment rolling o him in waves, and that hand which had fastened around hers loosened and then let go. She heard, rather than saw, the soles of his shoes retreat.

Good, she told herself. Space was good.

Except that the quivering in her belly hadn’t ceased and, oh God, she realized with horror, she was wet. She could tell.

It was just one of those things that a woman just knew, and she squirmed again in her chair. Heat swept up over her cheeks.

This was bad, really, really bad. On a scale of Flying Snakes (1) to Chronic Diarrhea (10), Shaelyn rated the

situation at a (12): a world in which country singer Luke Bryan stopped singing.

A world without Luke was bad, but this was worse.

Shaelyn couldn’t even summon courage to meet Brady’s gaze. Which meant that she was left to her own thoughts, and they were . . . confused. That anger she’d felt for twelve years was nowhere to be found. Instead she felt suspiciously like crying, because while he might think otherwise, Shaelyn’s inability to accept his kiss had nothing to do with him. Well, for the most part anyway. But explaining the why would reveal way more than she would ever trust him with.

Gathering her courage, Shaelyn stood. She walked behind the chair, placing her hands on the rounded back for stability.

“Will you help me?” She forced herself to lift her gaze to his face.

She immediately wished she hadn’t, and she swallowed audibly. His smile had flattened to a firm, straight line. And his eyes . . . . Shaelyn shuddered at the pure, undiluted anger that swirled around in those blue depths. The fire was licking at her feet again, but this time all she felt were the cold waters of the Arctic gripping her. Not a single trace of heat or lust slipped through his stone façade.

“Was mentioning Beveau’s ‘cheating’ your way of striking back at me?”

Her fingers tightened on the chair. One downward glance showed that her knuckles had gone white. No doubt the blood had vacated her body entirely, thanks to the all-out chill in his glare.

“Shaelyn,” he clipped, “yes or no?”

Karma was a nasty bitch. This was what she got for ignoring her intuition. Shaelyn squeezed her eyes shut to avoid the look of disgust she knew twisted his lips and darkened his gaze. She whispered, “yes,” and waited.

And waited.

She wasn’t sure what she was waiting for, maybe for him to yell or rant or throw things, but all she was given was silence.

Opening her eyes, she found him seated at his desk, that stupid black pen twirling once more between his thumb and index finger. His attention was trained on the screen of the computer like he’d already mentally dismissed her.

“Brady?”

Even if he had planned to answer, he didn’t have the chance. Like a bad comedy, a group of guys chose that moment to come stumbling into the o ce.

“The Saints have got it this year,” one of the men said loudly.

“When Hell freezes over. I’m telling you, they’re never gonna make another run like they did in 2010. Repeat after me, Danvers: luck not skill.”

“Fuck you, man,” another guy exclaimed. “What do you even know? You’re a fucking Falcons fan.” He spat out the word “Falcons” the way some might say “Satan.”

None of the men seemed to notice Shaelyn as they barreled past her to their desks. At a di erent time, she might have wondered why they weren’t concerned that a random woman they didn’t know was standing in the middle of the homicide department.

She shot another wary look at Brady. He had yet to tear his attention from the computer. A legal pad was flipped open and he’d dragged a stack of papers close to his elbow.

Awkwardly, Shaelyn hovered, unsure of her next move. It was safe to say that her plan had imploded. Next time, she was definitely going to avoid the fly-by-the-seat-of-yourpants method and head straight for plan-your-shit-out.

Rocking on the heel of her shoes, she pressed her hands flat against the spine of the chair, her fingers spread wide.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the boisterous detectives who were now arguing over whether the Saints’ quarterback had it in him for another year. Although Brady didn’t turn around, she could have sworn she saw his wide shoulders jerk at the sound of her voice. She bounced her hands atop the chair. “Right. Okay.

Well, have a good day, Detective.”

This time she didn’t wait to see if he might have something to say. Call her a coward, but Shaelyn hightailed it out of the o ce as fast as her legs could take her. She cut the corner of the hallway, passed Lieutenant Cartwell (who stared at her with a suspicious look like he knew what she’d done and disapproved), and rushed outside.

The hot, humid air hit her like a freight train. She couldn’t find it in herself to care. She navigated through the parking lot to her car, unlocking it as she approached. She yanked at the door handle and threw herself into the safety of her Ford.

If she never saw Brady Taylor again after today’s little debacle, it would be much too soon.

Her hands gripping the lower half of the steering wheel, Shaelyn pressed her forehead to the rounded upper curve and attempted to even out her breathing. She hadn’t had an anxiety attack in months, not since the last job she’d done for Carla. The one in Brady’s o ce hadn’t been nearly as severe as the attacks she used to su er on an almost daily basis. Still, the humiliation stung.

And the guilt of hurting him hadn’t yet dissipated.

It would be so much easier to pretend that the thought of kissing Brady disgusted her, except that wasn’t true. Her body’s response to his was a sure-tell sign that Shaelyn felt anything but dislike for him. It was just that she hadn’t been touched in so long. And it had been even longer since she’d even wanted to be touched . . .

Shaelyn heaved in a shuddering breath, as she tried to register the fact that, despite any inner misgivings, she wanted Brady’s hands on her body. She wanted it like she hadn’t wanted anything in years.

Slowly the heaviness faded and the quick tempo of her heart slowed to a normal pace. Lifting her head from the steering wheel, she leaned back in the driver’s seat. How long had she even sat in the car for?

She unzipped her purse and fished around for her cellphone. One look at the home screen told her that she had one missed call from an unknown number, a voicemail, and two text messages. She double-tapped to open the texts. The first was from Anna, asking if Shaelyn still planned to come over the following night after work for girl time. She typed a quick “yeah, can’t wait!” and pressed the blue arrow to send.

Spending a Friday night with Anna sounded like a lot more fun than anything else she would have been doing otherwise.

The second text message was from an unknown number, a di erent number from the person who had called and left the voicemail. She opened the text, and the minute she scanned the black block letters, her heart flipped over in her chest.

Get me a last name and I’ll take care of it - B Shaelyn reread the words one last time, and then dropped her phone into the cup holder. If she rode with a smile on her face the whole way home, she refused to acknowledge it.

CHAPTER TEN

“H ow was the tour the other night? For once Julian isn’t

talking.”

Shaelyn cradled her wine glass and pretended that she was A) pro-red and B) not a total Chardonnay girl. They were seated in Anna’s dining room, a pizza box laid open before them. No plates, just paper napkins.

A classy a air, just the way Shaelyn liked it.

“I’m surprised,” she told her cousin after sipping the incredibly rich Malbec. “He nearly lost it when he found out La Parisienne was a brothel in the early 1900s.”

Anna’s blond brows lowered as she plucked an olive o her pizza and popped it into her mouth. “Wasn’t the tour supposed to be family friendly?”

Nodding, Shaelyn snagged another pizza slice from the near-empty box. “Oh, definitely. I had to educate Julian on the meaning of the word ‘brothel.’”

“Shae!” Anna’s mouth parted in shock. “Innocence is bliss.”

“Actually I think it’s, ‘ignorance is bliss.’”

“I’m going to stick with my version, and repeat: innocent, Shae. My boy is innocent.”

Shaelyn helped herself to some more Malbec. Maybe her taste buds were mutating; it wasn’t awful. “Not so innocent,” she said around a mouthful of pizza crust. Crust first, inside last. Growing up, Brady had always eaten her crusts so that she wouldn’t waste food by tossing them out.

“You do realize that he watches American Horror Story, right?

Orgies, Anna. That’s so much worse.”

Malbec sloshed over the rim of Anna’s glass when she plunked it down on the table. “He does not watch that show.

I told him he had to wait till he was at least sixteen.”

“You might want to sit down and repeat that convo.” Not that she thought it would matter—weren’t teenage boys supposed to test the waters? “He’s a good kid, Anna. I doubt you have to worry.”

At that her cousin slid from her chair and moved into the kitchen. Over the sounds of rummaging, Anna called out, “You say that because you aren’t a mother yet.” Returning to the dining room, Anna put down a plastic container. She popped the lid to reveal Heaven itself in the form of bitesized brownies.

“God, you’re my favorite cousin,” Shaelyn gushed. She washed down the rest of her pizza with some wine before grabbing a brownie.

“I’m your only cousin.”

Shaelyn pointed her half-eaten brownie at Anna.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t also be my favorite.”

“Anyway,” Anna went on, ignoring Shaelyn with an eye roll, “I’m always worrying about Jules.”

Slouched back in her chair, Anna was the poster billboard of Single Motherhood: bloodshot eyes, tired, blond hair scraped back in a black hair claw, and baggy clothes that failed to flatter the trim body beneath. This Anna was the polar opposite of Boutique-Owning Anna, who rocked

stilettos and fashionable clothes as though she’d been born to be a cover model for Vogue.

This was probably the opportune moment to bring up Tony, but . . . Shaelyn didn’t want to ruin the evening. Anna was the closest thing Shaelyn had to a friend in New Orleans, and damn it, it was nice to kick back and have pizza and drink wine. She could almost pretend that everything was normal.

Like Julian hadn’t asked for Shaelyn to track down his father; like she hadn’t almost made out with Brady; like Carla, her dreaded ex-boss, hadn’t called and left a voicemail; like Meme Elaine hadn’t decided to dump the Lawrence familial home on Shaelyn. And who seemed to be as hearty as a horse, despite the doctor’s “orders” to take it easy and let her body recover at its own pace.

Shaelyn’s temporary trip to New Orleans wasn’t feeling so temporary any longer.

She promptly topped o her wine glass.

“Don’t your parents help out?” she asked, partly to continue the conversation but also because she needed to get the hell out of her own head.

“When they’re in town,” Anna said flatly. “Most of the time they travel.” She paused, slowly rotating her wrist as she watched the red liquid swirl around. “The other night was the first time I’d had a girls’ night in a while.”

For a brief moment—so brief Shaelyn told herself that it wasn’t real—she felt a twinge of hurt.

Unlike her popular cousin, Shaelyn had never had a million friends. Brady had been her confidante, her rock.

After she’d left New Orleans, she’d had a lot of acquaintances. People with whom she went to bars with every so often, or with whom she’d caught the latest blockbuster.

But Anna had real friends, who were there when things were good and when things went sour. Shaelyn had . . . well, she had Meme Elaine and Anna.

If Meme Elaine were here to listen to Shaelyn’s pity party, she’d be the first to tell Shaelyn to get over herself. Elaine Lawrence was not the sort of woman to mince words.

“What did y’all do?” Shaelyn asked.

Anna waved an arm in the air—the general signal for you know, this and that. “Went to this chic bar. Chit-chatted and drank Prosecco.” Anna tossed back the rest of her wine. “Can I tell you something?”

Shaelyn nodded, eager for once to be on the “in.” To be given exclusive information—to feel needed and trusted. She schooled her features into a mask of indi erence, anything to shield the fact that she was seconds from begging if she could be invited to the next girls’ night. “Of course.”

Anna’s blue gaze lifted from her empty wine glass to Shaelyn’s face. “I’m getting old.”

“You’re definitely not. You’re only a year older than me, and I refuse to believe I’m aging.”

Anna would not be dissuaded. “I am,” she exclaimed, pitching forward on her chair so that her elbows were planted on the table, the wine glass stem still clutched tightly in one hand. “I found a gray hair.”

“You’ve only just found one?” Shaelyn laughed, pointing up to her own head when she added, “Found my first at twenty-six. I told my coworker to yank the bastard out and destroy the evidence.”

“No, you don’t get it. I found one down there.”

Despite the fact that the table obscured down there, Shaelyn found herself glancing at the surface of the mahogany table anyway. Oh. Oh. Were they at that age already?

“Do you know want to how I found one?”

She didn’t, not really, but a freaked out Anna had Shaelyn scrambling for an answer, so she hastily murmured, “Erm . . . you were showering?”

Blue eyes narrowed with a frustration Shaelyn had never before witnessed in her cousin. Anna was the epitome of cool elegance and warm positivity. The woman was a unicorn. Her special type of breed of woman wasn’t supposed to exist in real life.

“I found it because I haven’t gotten my pubes waxed in two—no, three—years!”

Oh, God. Shaelyn’s gaze immediately sought out the bottle of Malbec sitting next to the pizza box, and wondered how bad it would look if she switched out her glass for the real deal. Was there proper protocol for a situation like this?

In the end, she was barely able to string two words together. “You’ve trimmed though, right? I mean, during the summer . . .”

“Are you kidding? No way am I putting myself through a Brazilian when I’m the only one who’ll see it.”

While Shaelyn applauded her cousin for sticking to her guns, she herself wasn’t the sort of woman to go au natural.

Who would have guessed that gorgeous Anna wasn’t perfectly groomed every day of the year?

Without preamble, Anna reached for the Malbec bottle and cradled it to her chest, e ectively dissolving Shaelyn’s opportunity to have made the same play.

So. Close.

Shaelyn sighed with disappointment.

“When I first gave birth to Jules, I was so naïve. I figured that my ex would want something to do with Julian but he refused. Then I thought I’d still be able to have a boyfriend if I ever met the right guy.”

“There’s still time to meet him,” Shaelyn said with an encouraging smile, even as she stu ed a brownie in her

mouth. Chocolate trumped wine, anyway.

“That’s what I thought. But Julian was so young and I was so young, and I focused all of my attention on him—” “That’s because you’re a good mom.”

“I figured that when he got a little older it might be okay if I went on a date or two, now and again. I tried when he was five. Didn’t work out so well. I was thinking of my baby the entire time, wondering if my mom was sneaking him Cheetos again.” Anna brought the bottle to her mouth and took a long swig. “It wasn’t the right time.”

Shaelyn stared at her cousin, a little surprised to realize that this was the first heart-to-heart they’d ever had. As kids, Anna had had better things to do; as adults, Shaelyn hadn’t been around until recently. Except that . . .

“Is that when you and Julian visited me?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Anna lifted her shoulders in a halfhearted shrug.

“I figured it might do me some good to get out of N’Orleans for a bit. Since I couldn’t bear to leave Jules behind, I took him with me.” Her features visibly brightened as though the memories were a day old. “I always thought Bourbon Street was flashy but it’s nothing next to Times Square.”

Shaelyn rather thought that Times Square was just as much of a tourist trap as Bourbon, if not worse.

“Julian was nine when one of my girlfriends set me up on a blind date. Markus was cute. Not Chris Hemsworth hot, but he was nice and . . . I was desperate to get laid, Shae.”

“Understandable.” Shaelyn got it. She’d gone without for four years herself. That conscious decision to go without had gone into place right around the time she’d grown tired of men thinking that a trip to her bedroom was a given if they dated her. It wasn’t.

Her almost kiss with Brady had been the first time in years that she’d been tempted (though still incredibly nervous) to accept what a man was o ering. Which was why

minutes after leaving Brady’s o ce, she’d questioned her sanity for throwing away the best o er she’d had in years.

In the last twenty-four hours, she hadn’t stopped thinking about him putting her in handcu s, which meant that he was getting under her skin, which meant that she was one bad mistake away from making the mother load of bad mistakes.

Letting Brady Taylor fuck her till Kingdom Come.

Wine. She needed wine. She motioned to her cousin to pass over the bottle, but Anna must’ve been too lost in her own memories because she didn’t even notice Shaelyn trying to snag the Malbec from her grasp.

Another brownie it was, then. Her gym shorts were never going to fit again.

“He wasn’t even good,” Anna was saying, “And when we were having sex, he did this weird thing where he didn’t even move.”

Shaelyn lifted a brow. “What do you mean he didn’t move?”

“Oh, I don’t even know.” Anna combed her manicured fingers through her blond hair, then seemed to remember that it was pulled back in a claw. She left it the way it was— messy and slightly crazy. “Anytime he tried to move, he made this awkward scooping motion with his hips instead.”

“Scooping?”

“Yeah, like . . . ” Lifting a hand from the wine bottle, Anna made a cupping motion. “I think he thought he was thrusting, and maybe my inexperience clouded the whole thing, but, girl . . . I felt like he was trying to decide how many scoops of ice cream he wanted. If you’re wondering, the answer was four.”

Shaelyn tried not to laugh. She did, really, but— “Oh, my God.” She mimicked Anna’s hand motion and immediately

dissolved into a fit of laughter that left her clutching her belly. “I can’t,” she exclaimed, “I can’t. My cheeks hurt.”

Morosely, Anna muttered, “It’s just not fair.”

“You’re right,” Shaelyn giggled. “No one should have to go through ice-cream-scooping sex.”

Anna’s forehead dropped to the table with an audible thunk. “I’m going to die an old spinster with gray pubes at the age of thirty-one.”

“Hey, I thought you said you only found one gray hair.”

One hand tore away from the Malbec to flip Shaelyn the bird.

“Maybe it’s time for you to get back out there,” Shaelyn suggested as she went for another brownie, o cially having given up on limiting herself. “Shake o the old memories and branch out into di erent food groups.”

Lifting her head from the table, Anna muttered, “I hate you.”

“I would have thought so,” she said with completely honesty, “but then you spilled your darkest secrets.”

The open expression on her cousin’s face shuttered, and Shaelyn had the sneaking suspicion that Anna was hiding something, and whatever that something was, it was pretty substantial.

Did it have something to do with Julian’s dad, Tony?

Julian’s request to have her find his father hit her square in the chest, reminding her that she had her own secret to hide.

Only, she didn’t want it to be a secret. She didn’t want to lie to her cousin, her only real friend. And yet, you don’t want to hit her with such a big whammie after she’s already spilled her guts.

All true. The way she saw it, she could either work Tony into the conversation real slow, or she could pop him in like

she was ripping o a bandage. No option was the better option, and Shaelyn decided to just get it over with.

“Listen,” she started slowly. Anna seemed to realize that whatever Shaelyn was about to say held some level of importance because she placed the Malbec bottle on the table.

Shaelyn grabbed the plastic cover from the brownie container, fiddling with it so she had something to keep herself preoccupied—a nervous habit she’d developed in the last few years.

“When Julian and I were at the tour the yesterday, he asked me about something.”

Dread entered Anna’s gaze. “He wants to have sex, doesn’t he?” she whispered. “He’s only thirteen. He hasn’t asked about the birds and the bees but—” “Does anyone even call it the ‘birds and the bees’ anymore?”

“It’s only a matter of time. He’s got some older friends on his football team. Maybe he feels like he’s got to act like he’s older and hook up with di erent girls? He hasn’t even had his first kiss yet, I don’t think.” Anna stopped, her palm jumping to cover her mouth. “What if he wants to try drugs, Shae? What if he’s— I’ll kill him.”

Good Lord. Shaelyn hadn’t wanted to throw the dreaded F-word around like this, but no way could she have her cousin thinking that her son was a thirteen-year-old delinquent.

Holding up a hand, she ordered, “Stop.”

Surprisingly, Anna’s mouth clamped shut on cue. Her blue eyes were wide and worried, and there was no telling what her next move might be if Shaelyn didn’t head her o .

“Anna, Julian wants to know who his father is.”

It was obvious that was the last thing Anna had expected to hear. Her mouth parted and she physically crumpled. Blue

eyes squeezed shut, shoulders drooping like a wilted flower, and the word “fuck” was exhaled on a loud and shuddered breath.

Shaelyn hurried to add, “I’m sorry. I didn’t how to bring it up. I mean, is there a right way to bring something like this up?”

“It’s okay. It’s . . . fine.”

It wasn’t fine. Shaelyn could see that easily enough. For a split second, she wondered if she had made the right decision. Maybe she shouldn’t have said anything at all.

Except that Shaelyn hated lying, and she’d done more than her fair share of it in the last few years. She’d hoped to come back to New Orleans and start over.

Clearly she’d failed on that front with Brady, but with her own family? No, she had to stick straight and true.

Anna inhaled, her shoulders inching up high, before she expelled all the tension in one breath. “Tell me what happened.”

Shaelyn hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, just tell me.”

So, she did. She left out no details, even rounding out the whole story by explaining how Julian had suggested that Brady help her.

“Are you serious?” Anna demanded, a grin finally making its way back to her face. “You went to Brady and actually asked for his help?”

Nodding, Shaelyn tossed the plastic container top onto the table. She’d crinkled it completely; it wasn’t even usable.

She eyed the brownies and sighed. Guess she was gonna have to take one for the team and finish them o .

“How was that?” Anna pressed. “Does he still think you’re engaged?”

“Eh . . . Not quite.”

With her brow arched and her chin resting on a balled fist, Anna was clearly intrigued. “So?” she prompted when Shaelyn said nothing.

“Things got a little heated, all right? I mean, I may have let my mouth run a little bit, and I may have pretended Ben Beveau cheated on me, thus ruining our fake relationship.”

Anna sucked a breath in between her teeth. “Ooh, low blow.”

This time when Shaelyn reached for a brownie she did so to soothe her guilt. “I know.”

“So, did he say he would help?”

“Brady?” Shaelyn nodded again. “Yeah, he did.”

After you completely insulted and rejected him.

She shifted on her chair and told herself to stop thinking about it. It was too little too late. He wasn’t likely to try and kiss her again, and Shaelyn had way too many issues to try and explain to him why she’d turned her head when, in reality, all she had wanted were his lips on hers.

To her cousin, she added, “He needs a last name. That is, if you want him to find Tony.”

Anna fell silent and Shaelyn didn’t blame her. She thought she could have gone looking for Tony without her cousin’s support, but the reality was that she couldn’t. It just wasn’t right, not to mention that as much as Shaelyn wanted to help Julian, she couldn’t betray his mama in the process.

It was all or nothing.

Shaelyn placed a hand on the table to bring Anna’s attention back from wherever it had wandered. “You don’t have to decide today,” she said quietly. “Maybe talk it over with Julian first.”

Anna crossed her arms over her chest and hiked up her chin in a clear move of defiance. “No, it’s fine. I’ll talk to Julian. I’m sure he has questions for me.”

Shaelyn cleared her throat awkwardly, motioning at the dinner spread before them. “I’m sorry if I ruined pizza and wine tonight.”

A small smile, a peace o ering maybe, shaped Anna’s lips. “Don’t worry about it. This was all due to come out at some point. I guess I was just hoping it would be when I was eighty and gray.”

“Well, technically you are gray.” Shaelyn pointed her finger down at the table. “Only one hair you said?”

“You know, I think maybe I do hate you.”

She laughed, loud and bright, in a way that she hadn’t in ages. Then, lowering her voice, she asked, “Do you have a name for me to tell Brady?”

Anna’s blue gaze slid away from Shaelyn. “Tell him to look up Anthony Mardeaux.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

B rady was on a crime scene when his phone buzzed in his

pants pocket. With a glance at the swarm of newscasters, patrol o cers, and other detectives, he shoved his Aviator sunglasses to the top of his head and ducked under the yellow caution tape sectioning o the dead from the living.

After a nearly two-week homicide dry spell, the streak had ended three days ago. Two separate murders. Same neighborhood. Only an idiot would think that the crimes were independent of each other, and Brady didn’t consider himself an idiot.

Today’s vics were two men who had been gunned down in a drive-by shooting. Tire tracks were imprinted on the gravel, suggesting that the perps had swooped in, done the deed, and hightailed it out of the neighborhood before the victims had even registered gunfire. Adding to that damning fact, first responders had discovered dope tucked inside the victims’ pockets, as well as wallets filled with wads of cash.

A drug-run gone wrong.

It was a goddamn mess. The media were having a field day with this one, especially as Brady and his coworkers had no significant leads despite seventy-two hours of nonstop work.

“Somebody’s pissed o ,” Nathan Danvers, a fellow homicide detective, said as Brady neared him. Danvers was still relatively fresh on the job, having only worked in homicide for a few months. As an ex-marine, Danvers was the sort of person Brady wanted beside him when shit went bad.

Didn’t help that the guy was built like a linebacker crossed with a Redwood Tree. Standing at six foot five and some change, Danvers was taller than everyone in the department, including Brady.

Brady scrubbed a hand over his face, then dragged his fingers through his hair in frustration. “‘Pissed o ’ might be an understatement. They’ve got nine holes between the two of them.”

“Jesus.”

Pretty much. He dug into his pocket for his phone, expecting to see a missed call from Central Evidence Processing. Yesterday a gun had been discovered on scene, and he’d sent it o to see what, if any, fingerprints might come back. Any hope that the gun might be hot dissipated when task force had run the serial number—the Glock .22 wasn’t stolen. Fingerprints were all they had left to fall back on now.

But the name of the sender on his phone wasn’t CEP, and his heart rate kicked into gear as a smile involuntarily curved his lips. He cast a quick look at the yellow caution tape. EMS had arrived, though there wasn’t anything that could be done. The victims had been dead probably thirty minutes before a neighbor had found the bodies and called the NOPD. He needed to get back over there. Do his job.

Even as he told himself all that, his thumb was already swiping to the right to open the text.

I got his name from Anna. Anthony Mardeaux. Thank you.

His immediate reaction was to smile. But then he squashed the feeling with a self-directed order not to travel that road again. He’d already made a fool out of himself when he’d gone to kiss her. No way would he let a ten-word text ease his embarrassment.

He’d still help find Julian’s dad, but only because Brady had witnessed too many domestic disputes during his career.

Brady was going to do this for Julian, because he didn’t want Julian to turn out like one of those kids who got caught in the parents’ crossfire. He wasn’t doing this for Shae.

Shoving his phone into his pocket, Brady reached for his Aviators and slid them onto the bridge of his nose to fight the glare of the afternoon sun glancing o the concrete.

“Woman trouble?”

Brady’s head jerked toward Danvers. “What?”

“You dealing with some women issues?”

“We’re on call.” It was a weak excuse and they both knew it. If it had been any of Brady’s other coworkers, they’d have let the excuse stand. But Danvers was like the gators roaming the Southern Louisiana bayous—once he latched onto something, he didn’t let go unless you pried his jaws loose.

Case in point: Danvers holding up his hands in what had to be a universal sign for, what? I didn’t do anything. “Don’t think we didn’t notice your visitor the other day.”

Brady stared at him.

“A visitor of the female persuasion,” Danvers specified with a grin. “Curly short hair? Great curves? Ringing any bells?”

Hell, his coworkers were worse than Brady’s elderly grandmother when it came to keeping secrets. He grumbled as much before adding, “We’re not talking about this.”

Reaching into his back pocket, Danvers took out a pack of Trident gum. He grabbed two sticks, o ered one to Brady,

and shrugged his massive shoulders when Brady shook his head no. He popped both pieces into his mouth after unrolling the foils and stuck the pack back into his pocket.

“Just sayin’,” the other detective said as he blew an obnoxious mint green bubble. “She was cute in that girlnext-door sort of way. A few of the guys wouldn’t mind taking her out.”

Brady’s eyes narrowed. “You included?”

Danvers let out a strangled cough. Was it wrong of Brady to hope that the other man choked on the Trident?

Danvers made a fist and pounded his chest, as Brady turned on his heels and doubled back to the sectioned-o area. The crowd had thinned, as some of the patrol o cers had left for other calls. Brady mentally prepared himself for another sleepless night. The thought that the killer—or killers, because they really had no clue who’d done this— could strike again in less than twenty-four hours was alarming.

“I know we’re working right now, but I’ve got to ask. You seeing her?” Thanks to Danvers’ long-as-hell legs, he had no problem catching up. When Brady ground to a sudden halt, Danvers was already two steps ahead of him. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s a no,” Brady clipped out.

“So, she’s single?”

Brady didn’t have time to shoot the shit right now. He had two dead men, an unidentified murderer, and if he didn’t get rid of the giant with the chatty mouth, there was a good chance that tally of three victims might turn into a fourth. To say nothing of the fact that his rank was watching him like a hawk, waiting for him to screw up. All it would take was one mishap—a little bit of perceived laziness—and Brady’s third-in-line ranking for sergeant dropped to fourth or fifth before giving way to dead last.

Brady didn’t do last place.

He told himself that it was for that reason only that he turned to Danvers and lied.

“She’s engaged,” he announced, and then he strode back to the taped-o area to do what he did best.

Figure shit out.

CHAPTER TWELVE

F

ive days after she sent Brady the text about Anthony Mardeaux, Shaelyn had yet to hear from him.

At first she’d chalked up his silence to the fact that these things took time. Three days in, she’d begun to wonder if he had, in fact, received her text at all. She hadn’t sent another —worried that he might change his mind. So, she’d waited.

Waiting had never been Shaelyn’s strong suit.

Three days had turned into four, and then four into five, and five—Shaelyn gnashed her teeth together as she parked her car across the street from Brady’s house in New Orleans’s historic Irish Channel neighborhood. Once upon a time, the houses had belonged to the Irish immigrants disembarking from their boats on the Mississippi River.

Legend had it that many of the Irish, not having any other option, then tore their flat-board boats apart and used the wood for the siding of their new homes.

One of the many random tidbits Shaelyn recalled from history class. Surprisingly, as she’d spent most of her time passing notes with Brady.

“I forbid you from going to his house,” came Meme Elaine’s raspy voice over the phone, just as Shaelyn’s GPS announced, “You have reached your final destination.”

“Too bad, Meme. I just got here.”

“You’re making my bad cholesterol rise.”

Shaelyn snorted. “Now you want to play the sick patient?

Don’t think I didn’t notice you skipping your doctor’s appointment this morning.”

Silence greeted her from the other end of the receiver, as if her grandmother was pondering her next move. Then, almost on cue, she said, “If I had known what you were scheming, I wouldn’t have given you his address.”

“If you had known what I was scheming, you would have found me another fake fiancé,” Shaelyn said wryly.

Her grandmother hu ed. “If I thought that could have worked a second time . . .”

The angle of Shaelyn’s parked car provided a nice vantage point of Brady’s shotgun-style house. His sat amidst three identical properties, all of which were adorned with wrought-iron railings encaging the front porches. Elaborate Victorian trimmings detailed the overhang and grand shutters bracketed the two front windows. Brady’s house was painted a pretty lavender color, and the window trim and flower boxes were all a dusty forest green. The color scheme wasn’t to her taste—and she had a hard time believing that Brady had chosen those paint swatches—but Shaelyn liked the homey vibe.

Granted, the dead flowers in the window boxes were very non-Martha Stewart.

“He’s trying to take advantage of you,” Meme Elaine said, drawing Shaelyn’s attention away from the house, “and you’re probably going to let him.”

“Jesus, Meme. We are not having this conversation.”

Twisting the key in the ignition, she listened as the hum of the engine settled into silence.

“I’m telling you, cher, that boy is trouble.”

That she could believe. Trouble was Brady’s calling card, and unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on the way she looked at it), Shaelyn had his number.

“If it helps, he knows that I’m stopping by.” Climbing out of her car, Shaelyn slammed the door shut. “I’m not worried.”

“You should be. All you have to do is look at his grandmother to know that he must’ve inherited her . . . lesser qualities.”

Shaelyn tapped her finger against the back of her phone.

“You know, you’re right.”

“I am?”

“Sure are. On that note, I’m o to go and make you some great-grandbabies, Meme. Love you!” Shaelyn quickly ended the call, cutting o her grandmother mid-word. Elaine Lawrence was not going to be pleased, but it was a necessary price to pay.

She crossed the street, nearly wiping out when she stepped into a crater-sized pothole. She half hopped, half tripped back to safety, all the while cursing New Orleans’s infamous shitty streets.

“Never again,” she muttered, “I’m never wearing stilettos again.”

She glanced down at the o ending foot contraption and rescinded her statement. She loved high heels, and these were her favorite—a flashy pair of cheetah-print pumps with a thin fuchsia band that wrapped around her ankle.

She latched onto the smooth iron railing and hobbled her way up the stairs. Up close, she noted two di erent colors staining the front door. Half had been painted a foggy-gray hue, while the other half was still white, the old paint so badly chipped that the unfinished wood showed through.

Glancing down, she noticed a paintbrush resting on top of a cracked-open gallon of paint. Clearly Brady hadn’t had

enough time to finish what he’d started. She briefly let herself wonder about how long he had lived in the house before she pumped the break on those thoughts.

Stop procrastinating, she told herself. Right. She’d come with a purpose, a goal in mind. Time to get to it. Think about Julian.

With no doorbell to ring in sight, she raised her hand to knock.

She didn’t get the chance.

Just as her hand curled into a fist, the door swung open and . . . Sweet mother of— Shaelyn struggled to keep her eyes on his face. She really tried, but holy baby Jesus, where were his clothes? Her gaze dropped to Brady’s bare chest. Strong pecs immediately snared her attention, but it was his tattoo that really caught her eye. Comprised of various abstract and geometrical shapes, the tattoo covered his upper bicep, over the arch of one rounded shoulder and down over one hard pec. Two bands of thick ink wrapped around his forearm, completing the design. The tattoo wasn’t anything like she’d ever seen before—the black and gray shades forming a detailed mosaic of art across his chest. It was hot. No, scratch that—he was hot.

It was all too easy to continue her slow downward perusal from there. At the sight of his abs, Shaelyn felt the strong compulsion to return to her parish church, Holy Name of Jesus, and attend confession.

What she wouldn’t do to worship the hard ridges of his stomach. Her mother would have been horrified to learn the R-rated direction of her daughter’s thoughts. But, honestly, Shaelyn couldn’t find it in herself to feel ashamed for the shameless way she ogled his body. The man was seriously ripped, without a single ounce of flab on his body.

Donuts were clearly not Brady’s preferred food group.

Instead he looked like he feasted nightly on kale and grilled chicken with a heavy sprinkle of Creatine powder.

Come to think of it, if he told her that he actually hunted and butchered all of his proteins she wouldn’t be surprised.

Tarzan 2.0, minus Jane and the loincloth.

Shaelyn’s gaze dropped again and . . . Sweet mother of— Brady was naked.

Okay, minor exaggeration, but the navy-blue briefs did nothing to conceal the bulge between his legs. Heat swept over Shaelyn, the sort that only seemed to sneak up on her whenever she was in close proximity to Brady.

“Like what you see?” he asked, real nice and slow like he was thoroughly enjoying the prospect of leaving her speechless.

Shaelyn swallowed her nerves. And her lust. “So cliché, Brady. You can do better.” One glance up, past all of the goods on display, revealed that he had one hand resting flat against the doorframe. The pose sharpened the angles of his lean muscles. A lesser woman would have wept joyous tears at the sight of an almost-naked Brady Taylor. Shaelyn wasn’t that woman, but she was having a hard time keeping her eyes on his face and not south of his equator.

Brady’s mouth quirked smugly. When he spoke, his voice was as smooth as churned butter. “Considering the way you’re having a hard time keeping your eyes on my face, I’m pretty sure the comment is justified.”

A hot blush warmed her cheeks. “Didn’t you get my text?”

“I did.”

“And you didn’t bother to answer?” Another few minutes of verbal sparring with Brady, and Shaelyn wasn’t sure she’d even find him attractive anymore. Then again, that was probably safer than the alternative. A silent, brooding Brady was a dangerous Brady. “I sent it to you nearly an hour ago.”

Broad shoulders shifted up in a shrug. “I was asleep.”

“You’re not asleep now.”

“You wouldn’t be either if you woke up to hear a woman outside of your house claiming that she was about to make great-grandbabies with you.”

Shaelyn’s dignity ignited in a big ball of fire. It was a great visual, made only more appropriate when Brady leaned down and murmured by her ear, “That’s assuming I want to make great-grandbabies with you.”

Was it possible to die from complete embarrassment?

“Good catch on not falling into that pothole, by the way. I didn’t know you had those sort of reflexes.”

Yes, yes it apparently was.

Shaelyn’s eyes squeezed shut as she blocked out his presence. She could still feel the heat of his body, sense the tension radiating o him in waves. She hadn’t seen him since that awkward moment in his o ce the week before.

Opening her eyes, she focused on the tight, guarded expression on his face.

Yeah, he wasn’t over that almost-kiss. A veil had fallen over his blue eyes—a wall that hadn’t existed five days ago.

Shaelyn was surprised to feel an acute sense of loss, even though that didn’t make a lick of sense. It’s not like she’d had him to begin with.

She threw a quick look over her shoulder at his front porch. “Can I come in?”

“You gonna ask me to put on clothes to appease your fragile sensibilities?”

Shaelyn nearly laughed. What she wanted to do to his body in no way correlated to her fragile sensibilities, if she even had any. “Let’s compromise on a shirt.”

If she had to look at his tattoo for one more moment, she couldn’t be held responsible for what her crazed hormones might lead her to do.

Though he didn’t give her an answer, his hand slid up on the doorframe and she took that as an invitation.

She tried to focus on anything but him and, like she had in his o ce last week, she absorbed her surroundings to buy herself time. They’d entered the living room, which she was surprised to find wasn’t at all barren. A black sectional couch dominated the space and so did the large flat-screen TV on the opposite wall. A few pictures were strung up here and there, and there was even a flu y area rug that enticed her to remove her heels and sink her toes into its softness. Pocket doors led into the dining room.

It wasn’t quite cozy, but for a bachelor’s pad, Shaelyn had honestly expected much worse.

Then she spotted a pair of jeans thrown over the back of the couch, a leather belt still strung through its loops, and she turned to Brady with an accusing look.

“Really?” she demanded. She pointed her finger at the jeans so he knew exactly what she was talking about.

He cocked an arrogant eyebrow. “What?”

“You could have easily put on those jeans before you answered the door.” Another thought hit her and she stared at him in disgust. “Don’t tell me you took o the jeans before you answered the door.”

His corded arms rose up in a classic what can you do pose that had her looking around for the closest object she could hurl at his beautiful body.

He neither confirmed nor denied her accusation. “I figured you’d appreciate my method of welcoming you into my humble abode.”

Appreciate it, her butt.

“No,” she bit out with a shake of her head. “You wanted to scare me o . Don’t even bother denying it.”

Brady shrugged. He snatched the jeans and pulled them up the length of his muscular legs, covering the goods.

Ahem, part of the goods. His bare chest and that lickable tattoo were still available to be ogled. Oh, and there was the small fact that he’d left the metal button of his jeans deliciously unbuttoned.

He looked like a walking ad for “hot male.”

Don’t fall for his tricks.

He turned away and headed for the next room without another word, leaving her to follow—and also to appreciate the sight of his broad shoulders, which tapered to a narrow, fit waist.

It was going to be a long night.

BRADY LISTENED to the sharp staccato of Shaelyn’s fuck-me heels hitting the kitchen tiles as he went to the refrigerator.

In the last few weeks he’d grown re-accustomed to lust hitting him square in the gut each time they crossed paths.

Finding her on his porch hadn’t been any di erent—he’d imagined her legs wrapped around his waist, and those sexy heels linked behind his back as he slid into her body.

Then he’d remembered the way she’d rejected him, and Brady put a stop to the fantasies. He knew why she’d come over, and the reason had nothing at all to do with getting him into bed.

He yanked open the fridge door with more force than necessary, scrubbing a hand over his face as he stared at his options. Bottles of unopened Abita beer and Irish Channel Stout sat on the top shelf like good little soldiers, despite the fact that Brady hadn’t reached for one in months. His was a job where vices had no place. A few years ago he might have come home and poured a shot of whiskey to stave o the edge. Not anymore.

Brady knew too many good cops who couldn’t sleep— couldn’t erase the images staining their retinas—without

something to wash away the stress.

He stared sightlessly at the beer, fully aware that Shaelyn was watching him and probably wondering if he’d lost his mind. The answer to that was no, he hadn’t. Though the events of the last few nights were certainly pushing him in that direction.

They’d caught their perpetrator this morning. A twentytwo year old male named Caleb Kemper, who had memorized his father’s gun safe code, and committed a little thievery while the old man was at work. The murders had been executed on the fly, because apparently Kemper liked to hear the kick of the .22 whenever he pulled the trigger. Another person had been killed yesterday—another male with dope in his pockets and money in his wallet.

But it still didn’t add up. The four victims were synonymous across the board: men in their twenties and thirties, wallets filled with wads of cash, and drugs stashed inside plastic baggies in their pockets. Why them, if Kemper was only in it for the psychopathic kill? Why not the mother pushing her kid in the stroller, or the group of guys sitting on their porch, soaking up whatever breeze there was to be had in this godforsaken summer heat?

Brady slammed his eyes shut as he gripped the refrigerator door handle.

He’d spent days trying to break it all down, setting up press releases in the hope of luring the murderer out from his cave, visiting the victims’ families, carefully linking each fatality to a known drug ring in the area.

And then he’d received a call early this morning from Caleb Kemper’s father. The man had noticed that his gun was missing from the safe. Having heard about the homicides on the 6 a.m. news, Kemper Sr. had phoned in.

Caleb hadn’t been home for days.

SWAT had found Caleb Kemper hiding out with his two girlfriends about three blocks from where most of the murders had occurred. He hadn’t even put up a fight when the handcu s clinked shut around his wrists and he was brought in for questioning. Seated across the table from Brady, Kemper had admitted to everything. From the unconcealed excitement in the young man’s eyes, there was no reason to doubt that they’d found the person responsible for four senseless deaths.

But, hell, it still didn’t add up, not to Brady. And not to the four people who were dead because some kid had been out for a fucking joyride.

His fingers brushed a cool beer bottle. At the last moment, he switched direction and grabbed the gallon of milk.

“Brady?” Shaelyn asked from behind him.

Her voice was a balm to his frustration, just as it had been years earlier. He opened the cabinet over the sink and grabbed a pint glass, which he filled to the brim. After sticking the gallon back in the fridge, he positioned himself against the sink. “Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

Not really. He wished they had the sort of relationship they’d enjoyed as kids. Shaelyn hadn’t only been his girlfriend; she’d also been his closest friend. His confidante.

Brady wanted nothing more than to sit at his kitchen table and work through the jumbled mess in his head. Except that there were a few problems with that scenario: she didn’t trust him, and Brady had plans that didn’t involve an exgirlfriend on the hunt for vengeance.

His gaze went to her fuck-me heels. Yeah, Shaelyn Lawrence was a complication he just didn’t need.

Knowing that she was waiting for a response, he said, “It’s been a long week.” Which was the understatement of

the century.

Her hazel eyes roved over his face, searching. “You do look like shit,” she finally said.

An unexpected chuckle escaped him. He covered it up by drinking the milk. “And here I was thinking you’d been immobilized by my good looks.”

He knew he’d struck too close to home when she made herself busy with yanking out a chair from the table and sitting down. She placed her purse on the table and defiantly folded her arms over her chest.

He finished o the milk and put the empty glass in the sink. “Don’t worry,” he added casually, “my good looks aren’t contagious.”

Satisfaction pierced him when her pretty pink lips parted.

He resisted the urge to go to her and press his finger to her chin, so that she might close her mouth sometime in the next century.

“You can be such an asshole, you know that?”

Because Brady could never resist needling her, he winked.

“Comes with the job description, sweetheart.”

Her gaze turned green, murderous. Maybe he’d actually pushed her too far this time. Just as he went to apologize (again), the fire in her hazel eyes banked.

Her curvy jean-clad legs crossed at the knees, and dammit if Brady’s gaze didn’t track the movement like a starving man after days-old scraps. His body was wholly aware of hers, in a way that should have pissed him o but only made him desperate for a single taste of her.

One taste won’t be enough.

Shaelyn brought him back to reality by clearing her throat. He plastered a smug grin on his face as if he’d intended for her to notice his blatant once-over appraisal.

“Is this where I apologize for finding you attractive?”

Brady wasn’t sorry at all for getting caught. He was only sorry that she seemed to be against giving into their mutual attraction.

“So. Did you look up Tony Mardeaux?”

And so the real reason for her visit came to light. Running a hand through his hair, Brady shoved it into the front pocket of his jeans. “I did.”

When he didn’t provide more information than that, Shaelyn urged him on with a let-me-have-it wave of her hand. “And?” she prompted impatiently. “What did you find out?”

If there was ever a time to crack open one of those beers, this was it. Instead Brady grabbed another glass from the cabinet, the milk from the fridge, and commenced with round two. He pointed the full glass in Shaelyn’s direction.

“Want one?”

She held up a hand and then dropped it back to her lap.

“No, I’m okay.” She paused, the moment stretching out awkwardly as though she was unsure if she should say anything else. After a few seconds, she added, “Thank you, though.”

He grunted. “No problem.”

Thing is, Brady didn’t want to talk about Anthony Mardeaux. He understood that Shaelyn wanted to help her younger cousin; she wanted to be the one that her family turned to when they needed help. Through Brady, she could succeed with all of that. He just didn’t think that the truth would be what she wanted.

Polishing o his glass, he wiped away the wisp of milk from his upper lip with the back of his hand. He needed to be smart about his next move, smarter than he’d been with the Caleb Kemper case.

He placed the second glass in the sink and ran the water from the faucet into both empty glasses. Twisting around, he

again resumed his stance against the cabinets. “Listen,” he said, “I’m gonna need some more information.”

Shaelyn’s legs uncrossed and she leaned forward. “What do you mean, more information? I thought all you needed was his name.”

He cringed. Realistically, all he needed was a name. It’s all he’d had when he had researched Ben Beveau, after all.

Brady looked at Shaelyn, really looked at her. He allowed his gaze to trace over her curly hair, her almost-sheer white blouse, down over her jeans to those cheetah-print heels.

She was naturally gorgeous. The expression on her face, though? The hope and worry mingling in her hazel eyes nearly undid him.

The thought of delivering bad news—he just couldn’t do it. He needed more time. More time to wrap his head around what he’d discovered, and more time to figure out how he might explain why a Julian and Mardeaux reunion should probably never happen.

Clearing his throat, he pushed away from the cabinets and took the seat opposite hers. “I’m going to need a picture or a birth date, Shae.”

“That’s it?” Shaelyn fumbled with her purse. “I can’t promise you a picture, unfortunately. I’ll text Anna right now to see if she remembers Tony’s birthday.”

Brady cursed under his breath and placed a hand over hers. Shaelyn stilled, and Brady let the heat of the physical contact wash over him for just one blissful moment. Then he pulled his hand back, breaking the connection.

“You don’t have to ask right now,” he said, “just whenever you see her next.”

Her hair fell forward to shield her features from his gaze as she bent over her phone. His hand itched to tuck those crazy curls behind her ear.

Resolutely he kept both hands safely on his knees, where they belonged. They sure as hell didn’t belong anywhere on her. Not if he knew what was best for both of them. “Shae.”

“I’m texting her right now.”

“It’s okay if she doesn’t get back to you right away. I’ll keep looking.” As in, Brady planned to scourge the databases in hope that another Anthony Mardeaux existed somewhere in Southeast Louisiana.

“Is there anything at all that you can tell me?” Shaelyn set her phone on the table and glanced in Brady’s direction.

“I don’t know anything about Tony, but if you’ve got some questions, I can definitely ask Anna about them tomorrow at work.”

Brady opened his mouth and then just as quickly clamped it shut.

“Julian is really nervous and excited about the prospect of meeting him. He wants Tony to come to his first football game of the season.”

If Brady had any say in the matter, Julian would never meet his biological father.

Anthony Mardeaux was a Class-A criminal. The man’s track record was extensive, dating back to a few misdemeanors in high school but really revving up ten years ago when Tony had been twenty-three. Aggravated battery, theft, breaking and entering, possession of illegal firearms (once), and domestic abuse calls (twice) had landed Julian’s father in jail multiple times. Four times, Tony’s parents had posted bail. For the sixth o ense, he’d done a year-and-ahalf stint at Louisiana’s state penitentiary.

It was like the man had gone to a bu et and decided to sample every option.

A quick search of Anthony Mardeaux’s name had revealed more than Brady had ever wanted to find. And to hear that Julian was planning for his dad to come to his first football

game . . . Brady was screwed. He could only put o the inevitable for so long. No way did he want to crush the hope in Shaelyn’s eyes, and he especially didn’t want to hurt Julian, even though he didn’t know the kid. But after learning about Mardeaux’s background, Brady saw nothing but disappointment in the road ahead.

“Brady?”

Jerking at the sound of Shae’s voice, he dropped his elbows to his knees and clasped his hands together. “Give me a few more days, okay?”

“Sure, of course.” He heard the feet of her chair scrape closer before he saw one slender hand reach out to rest on his knee. A silver moon-shaped ring on her index finger shone under the florescent kitchen light. “I-I just want to say thank you for doing this. I’m not sure if I have yet.”

Lifting his chin, his gaze sought out hers. “You did last week.”

He watched her swallow hard, felt the hand on his knee squeeze imperceptibly. “You’re right, I did. I forgot.”

This game he was familiar with. He grinned, dropping his voice to a husky murmur when he asked, “You distracted by something, Shae?”

Though she rolled her eyes like she was over his excessive flirting, a small, hesitant smile lifted her lips. “If you’d put on a damn shirt, it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“So you’re saying that you are distracted by me?”

“I’m saying that modesty isn’t a bad thing.”

Brady covered her hand with his, his thumb curling under her palm so they were almost holding hands. “Modesty is overrated, sweetheart—haven’t you heard?”

His gaze flicked up to hers, just in time to catch the nervous swipe of her tongue along her bottom lip. He’d always heard the saying that time slows when something momentous is about to happen—and he’d always thought it

was a load of crap. When he’d been a patrol o cer, those moments when something big happened always sped by way too fast. One minute he was chasing a criminal through dark, vacant lots, and the next he had the suspect on the ground, handcu ed, as he recited the Miranda Rights from memory.

If anything, those moments felt like a black hole. Sucked in during one second and spat out somewhere else in the next.

But in this moment . . . . In this moment, the argument that time had the ability to somehow slow sounded like the damned smartest thing he’d ever heard. He watched Shaelyn study him, her hazel eyes soft as she looked to where their hands were clasped together. He felt the slightest tremble of her fingers beneath his. Heard the hitch in her breath when he turned her hand over and traced the shallow lifelines of her palm with his fingertips.

It would be all too easy to pull her close and drop his lips to hers. All too easy to tug her curvy body onto his lap. All too easy to have her whimpering his name over and over within moments of first touching her.

Except that he wouldn’t make the first move, not this time around. He’d done so last week in his o ce and look where that had gotten him. Nothing but his lips on her cheek and an expression on her face that suggested she’d been a half second away from vomiting.

Nothing killed a guy’s erection quicker.

No, he wouldn’t be kissing her first today. Didn’t mean he couldn’t help her along.

Brady kept his gaze steady on Shaelyn’s face as he whispered his fingertips over the base of her palm to the sensitive flesh of her inner wrist. He traced small circles over her pulse, smiling when he saw a slight shiver rack her shoulders. His fingers flicked open the two delicate buttons

at the base of her sleeve before sliding the gossamer fabric up to her elbow.

“Brady?”

He pressed his lips to the pulse at her wrist. “Yes?” He repeated the movement, his mouth sensually dragging over her exposed skin.

Her only response was a ragged sigh that echoed in the otherwise silent kitchen. Lust speared him—the kind that if he didn’t ease would result in a bad case of blue balls.

“Yes, Shae?” Another kiss, this one nearing the center of her forearm.

Brady snapped his gaze up to her face. Her hazel eyes were all hot and smoky, and a pink blush colored her cheekbones. Jesus, she was beautiful. They stayed that way for what felt like an eternity, she with her sleeve rolled up and her gaze on his mouth, and he with his mouth hovering over her skin, waiting.

In a gravelly tone he barely recognized as his, Brady whispered, “Tell me what you want.”

Once more, her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “I-I don’t know,” she stammered.

He laughed softly, dipping his head again to kiss her soft skin. Her hand twitched in his, like he’d hit a sensitive spot.

“I think you do.”

“Brady.” She might have intended his name to be said as a warning, but it came out like a plea. A benediction.

He liked it. A lot.

He liked hearing her beg for him.

“Say it, sweetheart.” Another kiss. “Where’s that brave girl I used to know?”

Her eyes squeezed shut like she wanted to block him out, to pretend this whole scene was a dream—or a nightmare.

Then, her lashes fluttered open and her gaze latched onto his mouth. “Kiss me.”

Thank God. “I couldn’t hear you—what was that?”

Shaelyn gave an unladylike snort and muttered, “Don’t push your luck, Taylor.”

Just like that, Brady was transported back to when he was seventeen years old and completely in love with the woman before him. “My luck’s gotten me this far, hasn’t it?”

“If by ‘luck’ you mean ‘delusional attitude,’ then yeah, we can roll with that.”

Without giving any warning, Brady’s hands went to her waist and he lifted her onto the kitchen table.

“Brady!” she shrieked, her hands falling to his shoulders in a tight grip. “What are you doing?”

“I’ll be honest, I prefer the way you said my name the first time around.”

“What, when I was getting ready to shove you away?”

She was baiting him and he knew it. He eliminated the distance between them, stepping into the cradle of her thighs as his hands slowly traveled up to the nape of her neck. “You aren’t pushing me away right now,” he murmured huskily.

“You aren’t giving me a choice now, are you?”

Brady paused in their bantering. “You always have a choice,” he murmured soberly, noting the way her gaze shuttered at his words. As much as he wanted to push for information, to make her reveal her secrets, he held his tongue. End of the day, he wasn’t one of those guys who got his rocks o on forcing a woman to be with him. They were both consenting adults . . . and, Jesus, but he wanted her like nothing else.

He stepped closer, and he knew the minute she felt his erection press up against her stomach because she released the faintest of whimpers and her head tipped back into the

cradle of his hands. Her shuttered expression disappeared under a wave of desire.

“Am I being delusional?” he asked, his lips hovering near the curve of her ear.

He felt the quick shake of her head as her loose curls teased the side of his face.

“I didn’t think so.”

His hands went to the tops of her thighs and squeezed, silently encouraging her to wrap her legs around his waist.

When she did, a rough shudder rippled down his spine. After a small hesitation, feminine hands went to the waistband of his jeans and yanked him closer. His mouth skimmed her cheek to press a small, barely-there kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“Shaelyn?”

One of her hands left his waistband to brush over his abs.

“Yes, Brady?”

“For the record, I prefer to hear my name from your lips when you’re begging.”

And then he did what he’d wanted to since he saw her kissing her fake fiancé—he claimed her lips with his and staked his claim.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

J

ust before Brady’s lips descended, Shaelyn experienced a fleeting sense of panic. Not because she didn’t want this—whatever this was—but because she worried what their let’s-rip-our-clothes-o attraction meant for the future.

Would they have a one-night stand and go their separate ways? Was she okay with casual sex?

She hadn’t done casual anything in years. No dating. No kissing. Nada. She’d existed in a bubble unto herself, safe in the knowledge that as long as she held the opposite sex at arm’s length, she was okay. There was no judgment or worry. No fear or anxiety of groping hands or crude words.

Her lungs seized, and the threat of submerging beneath the gray clouds of worry nearly did her in.

Then their lips met, fused, and the only coherent thought after that was more.

Because even though this was Brady, the man who had once ripped her heart out, she knew, strange as it was, that she didn’t have to fear him. Not physically, anyway.

With his hands cushioning the back of her head, his lips feasting on hers, she felt like a bu et ready to serve up his every need and desire. She locked the back of her legs around

his trim waist, whimpering when she felt the hard ridge of his erection press against the center seam of her jeans.

His mirrored groan signaled that he was just as needy as she was, and that knowledge spurred her on.

Her hands greedily wandered over the expanse of his broad chest as she nipped at his bottom lip, demanding entrance. He chuckled against her mouth, muttered something along the lines of “oh sure, now you want to be in charge,” before returning the favor with a soft bite to the center of her bottom lip.

She pulled back, just far enough to make eye contact.

“You realized you just started a war, right?”

“Is that so?” he drawled, his mouth curving into a naughty grin.

Shaelyn pressed a kiss to the under side of his jaw, dragging her mouth down until her lips found the fast pulse racing at the base of his throat. “Mhmm.”

His breathing audibly hitching, Brady’s hands released her head to smooth down the curve of her spine. They paused at the twin dimples just above her tailbone, curling around to her front before slowly lifting. The sensual upwards glide dragged her blouse up and over her belly. He paused at her rib cage, thumbs resting on the underwire of her bra.

“What are the terms of the war?” he whispered huskily.

“Give me more,” she answered, before wrapping her hand around the back of Brady’s neck and yanking him down for another scorching kiss.

“More” was a word that he knew quite well.

His mouth latched onto hers like she was the only sustenance he needed for survival. The kiss was anything but gentle; it was a battle for control with consumed sighs, clashing tongues, bruised lips. An exchange of unspoken

sentences that started with please and ended with take whatever you need.

Shaelyn couldn’t recall the last time she’d been so utterly absorbed by a man, long before she started working for Carla, and it was more than a little shocking to realize that it was Brady Taylor who had turned her into this desire-driven mess. He left her no choice but to feel. Feel in a way that she hadn’t in years, to allow her mind and body to be connected in the present.

Brady pushed and prodded and played with her until she had no choice but to give as much as he was o ering. Her hands eagerly sought out the ridge of his abs, the tips of her fingers dipping and sliding over the hard-earned grooves.

As his mouth moved deeply over hers, his thumbs caressed back and forth over her diaphragm, as if waiting for permission to continue further. She gave in by moving her hands to her blouse and sliding each button from its hole.

When she finished, the light fabric billowed out around her torso. Brady silently slid the material from her shoulders until it pooled around her elbows, trapping her arms by her sides.

She moved to shrug it o , but Brady shook his head with a quiet order. “Keep it on.”

His gaze went to her breasts, cupped in a nude demi-bra.

The bra was plain, her still-concealed panties even plainer.

She could practically hear Meme Elaine’s warning that Brady was up to no good.

But Shaelyn had come to his house, and he’d waited until she told him exactly what she wanted before making a move.

She’d asked him to kiss her, told him to give her more.

Whatever his motivations were, she had asked for this.

The sensation of his thumbs brushing the soft skin along the underwire of her bra teased goosebumps to her flesh. She glanced at his body. His hips were still encircled by the tight

clutch of her thighs, but it was the determined look in his blue eyes that caught her o guard.

He wasn’t going to make the next move until she asked for it, Shaelyn realized. From the rigid set of his shoulders, it appeared that he was prepared to wait out a possible stalemate for forever.

Shaelyn wasn’t sure what she wanted for the future, but she knew what she wanted right now.

Emboldened by the heat in his gaze, Shaelyn leaned back and propped her weight upon her bent elbows. The position tightened the blouse across her back, pushing her breasts up for his perusal.

She warned herself not to think about the other times she’d been in this exact same position while in Carla’s employ; forced herself to watch Brady’s blue eyes as they raked over her body like he had all the time in the world; forced herself to remain mentally in the present.

“Touch me.”

“Where?” Brady’s gaze flicked up to hers. “Here?” His finger went to the fabric bridging the bra cups together.

Shaelyn let out a choked laugh, even as she was fully aware that her belly was on open display, and she may or may not have—okay, she had—stopped by for some delicious pastries at her local bakery before driving to his house. Then again . . . Brady seemed to have no trouble with the fact she was, at the end of the day, a curvy girl.

“You still there, sweetheart?”

Her breath caught as he traced the edges of the bra cups, teasing her with the inevitability of more.

“Here I am thinking about where you want me to touch you,” he murmured silkily, “And you were where?”

All thoughts fled the moment his palms slid directly over her breasts. Sure, it was through the cotton material. Sure, he hadn’t done anything more than cup the girls. But the fact

that it wasn’t a false alarm pretty much rendered her speechless.

“Now I’m wondering if I’m not doing enough to keep you entertained,” he added casually.

“Oh, you’re doing enough!” Shaelyn’s toes curled in her cheetah-print pumps. Oh yeah, you’re doing just fine.

At his bark of laughter she realized that the admission had been voiced out loud. Embarrassment was out of the question when his pupils dilated and his breathing turned shallow, signaling that he’d more than appreciated her honesty.

Not that he was done teasing her, because right then he grinned smugly. “I think I’m gonna have to try harder.”

Leaning down, he softly captured her lips with his. It was barely a caress, more tantalizingly sweet than anything else.

“I’m gonna ask you some questions, and all you have to do is say yes or no. Okay?”

He brushed his lips over hers again, completely scattering her thoughts.

“Shae?”

Her hands wound around his neck. “Sure, I’m down.”

Shameless hussy, of course you are.

In for a penny, in for a pound, Meme Elaine had always said.

He pulled back, taking hold of her wrists and stretching her arms above her head. She felt the length of his cock against the seam of her jeans, and she wiggled her hips to get a little more of that downstairs action. Immediately he yanked his hips back, denying her the relief that she desperately craved.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said gru y. One large hand went to her bra and shoved the material up, masculine lips covered her nipple, and he flicked his tongue against the sensitive peak. “Yes or no?”

He expected her to form coherent sentences? She couldn’t even remember her own name. Somehow, she managed to yell out “yes!” but only because he’d done something delicious with his teeth.

Brady took her response for all the encouragement that it was worth, and Shaelyn had no doubt that when it all was done and over, he was going to have to carry her limp body to her car.

Locked down by his weight, her hands curled into tight fists against the table. She wanted to touch him the way he was touching her, give him more pleasure than he’d ever conceived possible. To know that she’d made him feel that way.

“You like that?” he whispered as he flicked his tongue out against her nipple.

She found the strength to whimper a pathetic “yes” as she arched her back. His free arm slid under her, supporting her upper body with just his hand. He nipped, teased and suckled, clearly determined to drive her mad.

Leisurely he retreated, letting her slowly come back down to rest on the table as he released her captive arms. His lips were wet, full; he looked like something out of an erotic dream. Her erotic dream. She subtly pinched herself to check if this was real.

It was.

That naughty smile of his reappeared when he dropped his hands on either side of her hips and glanced up at her face. “I think you’ll like what I do next even more.”

Shaelyn couldn’t help the sassy remark that slipped past unchecked. “Do you really think you’re God’s gift to women?”

He shrugged, his tattooed shoulder lifting. “Only for you.” And then he rocked back on his heels, dropped his hands to her thighs and ordered, “Hold your knees for me.”

“What?”

“Do it, sweetheart.” The lopsided, carefree smile he gave her juxtaposed the gru y given demand. Shaelyn snapped into place, holding her knees with her hands as she rested back on her elbows.

“Are you ever going to let me touch you?” she asked.

“Because I’d really like to, obviously. I want to lick your tattoo.”

“Later,” was all he said before his finger went to her jeans. And then he proved he was indeed God’s gift to women because that seam was oh-so-appropriately placed over her clit, and Shaelyn had no control over the unbidden moan that escaped her.

He applied pressure to just the right spot, circling his finger, prolonging the sensual moment until she thought she might come. Damn you, Brady Taylor.

“Do you like that?” His eyes were dark with lust. “Yes or no, sweetheart.”

Shaelyn never had the chance to answer. Her cell phone starting howling, Sir Mix-A-Lot’s one-time classic, “Baby Got Back,” sounding o as her phone vibrated under her butt.

Brady’s brows furrowed like he wasn’t sure if it was appropriate for him to laugh. “That’s your ringtone?

Seriously?”

She threw him a dirty look as she scrambled o the table.

“Julian’s handiwork, I’m guessing.”

“And here I was hoping that you’d done that just for me, in honor of all the good times we’ve shared.”

With that remark, the reality of what they’d been doing— what they had been about to do—came crashing down. She’d almost had sex with Brady Taylor, who had cheated on her and dated her because his grandmother had forced him to.

Had she lost her mind?

Her gaze flicked to the heavy bulge in his jeans. Yes, yes she had.

Shrugging her blouse onto her shoulders, she held the fabric closed over her chest after she yanked her plain bra into place. With Brady’s blue gaze settling on her like he wasn’t done with her yet, and Sir Mix-A-Lot still rapping about big booties and anacondas, Shaelyn did the only thing a desperate girl could do in a moment like this.

She evaded the situation and answered the phone.

“Why, hello, Shaelyn darlin’!” came Carla Ritter’s Southern Belle drawl. “I sure wasn’t expecting you to pick up the phone. It must be my lucky day, sugar.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It

was a truth universally acknowledged that being properly clothed lent an air of confidence.

Or not. Shaelyn felt no more confident with her blouse buttoned to her neck than she had with it trapped around her elbows. South-Carolina-born Carla Ritter had that e ect on people. Probably because she was, despite her flame-colored hair and Bohemian-chic style, the supplier of Doom and Gloom.

A great white shark in a maxi skirt, thong sandals, and a loose-fitting blouse.

Curling a trembling hand around the phone, Shaelyn mouthed “sorry” to Brady, and then forced herself to walk calmly into the living room. Like all was well. Like it was just any other phone call.

Like her head didn’t feel on the verge of splitting open, and the urge to disappear wasn’t dogging her heels.

“Stop calling me,” she hissed as soon as she was camped out by the couch and out of earshot. “I quit, remember?”

Carla made an tsking noise with her teeth, and Shaelyn could all but see the middle-aged woman shaking a manicured finger, as if Shaelyn were an errant toddler prone

to misbehavior. “Now, Shaelyn Magnolia, is that any way to speak to an old friend?”

Were they old friends? Shaelyn had never thought so, not when she’d been hired o a Craigslist Ad and not when she’d finally handed in her notice almost five years later. Chalk it up to rediscovering her self-worth, but Shaelyn wanted to be as “friendly” with her former employer as she did with a sharp-toothed barracuda.

And if all of Carla’s other faults didn’t annoy Shaelyn enough, what between the weird word emphasizing and the overall belittlement, the fact that Carla preferred to use Shaelyn’s middle name drove her straight up a wall.

“Anyway, darlin’, I’ve got some crazy news and I’ve called to share. You sittin’ down?”

Nothing said “di cult conversation ahead” more than asking if a person was already seated.

Her butt sank into the plush couch cushion with a sigh of the springs. When Carla Ritter delivered bad news, it wasn’t an exaggeration. Sometimes Shaelyn had wondered if the other woman thrived on the drama. It was why she was so ridiculously successful—without drama, without infidelity, her entrepreneurial skillsets would never have received their glistening polish.

“You seated, sugar?”

She was seated, but she had nothing to say. Nothing but that she had left and no part of her life in New York was supposed to have followed her to Louisiana. But here she was, her perfectly coiled emotions rapidly unraveling at a much faster rate than she had ever learned to stitch them up.

The urge to throw something was strong; the urge to cry even stronger.

She reminded herself that New Orleans was temporary.

Carla Ritter couldn’t follow her everywhere.

“Listen, sugar,” Carla exclaimed. “Some bad stu has gone down, and I’m in a bit of a pickle.”

Shaelyn snorted. Only Carla could liken “bad stu ” with, say, a “colonoscopy” with just the tone of her voice.

“Remember those two new girls? They up and quit. One decided to hop on that damn Trevor Fulk, who has been cheating on his wife for at least three years. No standards, I tell you. Then the other said she was tired of me! Me, Shaelyn Magnolia. I don’t know where she gets o , speaking to me like that.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

Carla giggled. Or maybe it was supposed to be a giggle. It sounded like a foghorn on steroids. “You see, sugar, I need you back where you belong—here.”

A loud thundering in her ears silenced her ex-boss’s country drawl. Her skin tightened like a rash was coming on, even as sweat beaded on her forehead and her hands grew clammy.

In . . . Out . . . In . . . Out. She had to go. Where, she wasn’t sure. But she had to get o the phone, had to leave Brady’s house.

Brady, oh God— Her eyes flew to where he stood on the opposite side of the room. She hadn’t even heard him enter, but that wasn’t much of a surprise. He held himself as still as a statue cut from the finest marble. At some point since she’d gotten on the phone, he’d pulled on a black T-shirt. His feet were still bare.

Was he wondering who was on the other line? Had he heard everything? She dropped her gaze to her lavenderpainted toenails, anything to keep from looking at him.

“Now Shaelyn Magnolia, I know you’re determined to stay in New Orleenz, but it’s best if you come back home.

What else, really, you got any qualifications for? Come back to New York, darlin’, and I’ll give you a raise.”

What else, really, you got any qualifications for?

It was the same thought that had kept her tied to Carla for already too long—the fear that she wasn’t good for anything else. The fear that she’d been permanently stained by the deeds she’d done to survive. For years she’d feared that she wasn’t the type of person who could amount to anything moderately important. To hear her former employer say the same thing . . . . Well, insecurities were lovely, weren’t they?

“I have to go,” she told Carla.

“Sugar, now I know you’re upset, but don’t blame me for a bunch of quitters. You’ve never been a quitter, Shaelyn Magnolia, and I want you back on our team.”

So she could resume feeling worthless? No, thank you.

“I’m not coming back to y’all.”

“Don’t be sayin’ y’all like you aren’t one of the family.

You’re one of my girls, Shaelyn Magnolia.”

Shaelyn swallowed past the lump in her throat long enough to whisper, “not anymore,” before she ended the call. She dropped the cell into her purse, and strived to keep herself in the present. Only, the present included Brady, who had yet to say a single word.

This is why you don’t do relationships. She’d learned that the hard way when she’d started working for Carla. Men didn’t understand what her job had entailed.

Are you a stripper?

So, you prostitute yourself?

Is it just for the money, because if so, I’ve got a lot of that, honey.

Shaelyn had never been a stripper, a prostitute, a call girl or an escort—or whatever other insulting name had been hurled her way.

Desperation had led her to Craigslist five years ago.

Behind on rent—waitressing at two di erent restaurants had not brought in enough income—her landlord had slapped a yellow Post-It note on her front door: You have until the end of the week to pay or you’re out.

The smiley face drawn in red Sharpie at the bottom had felt less like encouragement and more like a threat.

So, she’d done what she had to do.

She found an Ad listing o basic qualifications: Do you have a good personality; are you punctual; can you act; are you outgoing? Shaelyn figured that possessing three out of four skills wasn’t that bad. In the end, Carla Ritter had taken one look at Shaelyn and hired her on the spot.

You’ve got that girl-next-door appeal that people will love, sugar, Carla had said.

Shaelyn suspected that her subtle New Orleans drawl hadn’t hurt, either.

The premise of Carla’s Girls (because Carla was nothing if not egocentric) was relatively simple: if a person thought their significant other was cheating, one of the girls was brought in to a pre-organized situation to act as a decoy. If the client’s significant other fell for the staged flirtation, footage was recorded and provided for the client as proof of infidelity.

It was Cheaters in real life and, honestly, a lot more depressing.

Sometimes the client wanted to be present for the gig, hiding in the background so they could have a bird’s eye view of the crazy sauce that was about to go down. Namely, learning if their significant other was willing to cheat.

In those situations, things got Jerry Springer wild.

Shaelyn had never given a man—or a woman—more than a kiss in the name of the job. Sometimes she’d had to wear

revealing clothing for the sake of the setup, but in her work bag had always been a pair of jeans and a comfy T-shirt.

That Carla thought Shaelyn would ever come back? Not even when pigs learned to fly. Shaelyn had struggled for too many years to climb out of that dingy hellhole to slither back now, for any reason.

As for Brady . . . . She finally looked his way. They had no chance for a relationship, now or ever. She’d learned that men saw only what they wanted to, and when she admitted to her less-than-stellar past, her status as potential girlfriend switched to secret side-girl. No more, and certainly not with the one man who had already hurt her more than she would ever admit.

This . . . session had been a mistake, a mistake she didn’t plan on repeating.

Planting her hands on the thighs of her jeans, she pushed up from the couch and swung her purse onto her shoulder.

No matter what, she would not let Brady see that she was on the verge of falling apart. It was best for them both if she created some distance.

She flashed Brady a wide, fake smile. “Sorry about that! It was one of my girlfriends from New York. She’s going through some tough times. Anyway, I should be heading out.”

He blew out a breath of frustration. “You’re not going to even discuss the fact that you just sat on the phone for ten minutes and didn’t once look at me? After what we just did?”

He paused, drawing out the silence. “You’re still not even looking at me.”

He was right. Fear of him learning about her past kept her eyes down, and Shaelyn threw herself into self-preservation mode. “I think we’re done here.”

“Done?” His tone was incredulous. “We didn’t even start.”

“That’s probably for the best.” Pursuing a relationship with him would only lead to more hurt, and she was dreadfully tired of feeling like the scum at the bottom of a barrel. “I’m sorry,” she added to soften the blow. If there was a blow to be softened. It wasn’t like he’d hinted at wanting anything more than just sex from her anyway.

She sidestepped the co ee table and made for the front door.

“Is the fact that I had my hand on your pussy for the best, too?”

The closeness—and the vulgarity—from which he’d uttered the words were like iron anchors on her stilettos. She swiveled around, intending to put him in his place, only to find that he was less than two feet away.

“I had my jeans on,” she said lamely. Really, girl? Way to go for the obvious.

“Are you really going to use that as an excuse?” he demanded. “We both know that if your phone hadn’t rung, I would have had your jeans o within the next thirty seconds.”

He leaned down as he spoke, putting them at eye level.

The undercurrent of sexual tension was still there, still heating the air up between them. Shaelyn grappled for control, even as she resisted the urge to ask him for a hug.

For reassurance that all would be okay.

In the end, all she said was, “It was a mistake.”

Brady tossed his head back with a harsh laugh. “Oh come o it, Shae. Don’t embarrass yourself by using that stupid line. You had ample time to tell me to stop, but you know what? You didn’t.” His voice turned gru when he added, “I’m sorry, let me rephrase myself—you asked for more.”

Oh God. She shouldn’t have expected Brady to play nice. There was a simmering anger in his gaze that set her back on her heels.

But whether that anger was directed at her or at himself, she didn’t know. Brady was a smart guy, and she knew that he’d interpret her rejection as yet another round of her being a tease. It was better this way, she decided. Better than him knowing the truth, which was that his ex-girlfriend had pawned herself for easy cash.

Not for easy cash, her conscious whispered, for survival.

Her fingers involuntarily tightened around the strap of her purse. “I know,” she whispered.

Running his fingers through his hair, Brady fell back a step. His eyes squeezed shut like he couldn’t even bear the sight of her. Sometimes she couldn’t bear the sight of herself either.

“Jesus, Shae.”

Shaelyn kept her elbows locked to her side to keep from reaching for him and begging him to understand. “Brady—” “If this is some ultimate revenge scheme you’ve concocted, keep it to yourself.”

His words were a slap to the face that she wholly deserved. What reason had she given him to think that she hadn’t planned a little revenge? Little did he know that from the moment he’d pressed his lips to hers, payback had been the last thing on her mind.

There was no way Brady would believe a single word she said in her defense. And since Shaelyn couldn’t see herself being honest with him about Carla, there wasn’t much hope for a future with him.

Disgusted with herself, Shaelyn stepped back, the sharp point of her favorite heels echoing loudly as it made contact with the dark wood floor. “I should go.”

He opened his eyes and crossed his muscular arms over an equally muscular chest that she wanted to rest her head against. “You’re not even going to deny it?”

Her hand found purchase on the round doorknob. “I’m sorry, Brady.”

Just as she twisted the knob, one of Brady’s hands covered hers. The other planted flat on the door to prevent her from leaving. His big frame crowded her from behind, as the unevenness of his breath rustled the curls at the nape of her neck.

To anyone watching, they might have looked like a couple about to jump into bed and get it on. Shaelyn knew better.

She should have felt calmer, knowing that her secret was safe. But if it was even possible after the conversation she’d just had with Carla, Shaelyn felt shittier than she had ten minutes ago.

Brady lowered his head so that his face brushed hers.

From her peripheral vision, she could see the slope of his nose, the hollows of his cheeks. His closeness was as dangerous as it was tempting.

Tipping his head, his lips came perilously close to brushing the column of her throat. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not coming after you again.” She watched his fingers scrape against the wooden door as he curled his hand into a fist.

“And, before you ask, I’ll get Anthony Mardeaux’s info but I’ll contact Anna. Me and you? You’re right, it was a mistake, but only because I don’t play games. Not even if they’re yours.”

The pounding in her ears was back, loud enough to impress the sensation that she was moving through a fog, yet soft enough that she could still hear every single word leaving his mouth.

Cold. He sounded so damn cold, and it tore at her to know that she had done this to him. Except that . . . he couldn’t honestly care about her, could he? He’d given no indication that he was interested in anything besides sex. It had to be about male pride, then. Brady Taylor didn’t seem like the

type to ever be rejected, and she’d done so twice in the span of a week.

She forced herself to resist the temptation to sink back into the comfort of his strong chest. With an aloofness she didn’t feel, she asked, “Is that all?”

The hand that had balled into a fist on the door came down like a band around her waist, tugging her back against his front. Warmth immediately seeped into her body, heating her up from the inside out. With his fingers splayed against the center of her belly, Brady released a low growl. “If you walk out that door, just remember that I’m not coming after you. You change your mind about what you want? You’ll have to come to me next time.”

“I came to you both times, technically,” she felt inclined to point out.

His arm tightened around her waist. “You know exactly what I mean.”

He released her, his arm falling back to his side as his other hand dropped away from the doorknob. Wrenching open the door, Shaelyn made it as far as the first step leading o of the porch when his voice rang through the night.

“Shaelyn?”

Shoulders sti ening, Shaelyn held her ground. She refused to turn back and look at him. If she did, who knew what she would end up doing?

You’d jump his bones. Ask him for forgiveness. Bare your soul.

“Remember that I like it when you beg.”

Despite the fact that his words elicited a warm tingling coursing through her limbs, Shaelyn didn’t reply. She hightailed it to her car, sidestepping the monstrosity of all potholes, as she reached for her keys to unlock the driver’s side door. She entered in one smooth movement, slamming the door as soon as her butt connected with the leather seat.

A quick peek in the rearview mirror as she drove o showed her that he’d stayed on his front porch. Had he stayed out there because he cared about her safety, or because he was just— Shaelyn reached for radio volume and turned it up to the max. Some country song about slicing the tires of your cheating lover’s car. Grimacing, she shut o the radio and stewed in silence all the way back to Meme Elaine’s house.

She focused on everything that was not Brady Taylor, even though her eyes stung with what felt suspiciously like tears.

She had no reason to cry. None. She had told him it was a mistake. She was the one with issues that she couldn’t shake.

She was the one who had ultimately walked away. Again.

She told herself all of these things during the ten-minute drive home. And yet one single question kept shoving through all of the rest: if this was for the best, then why did she feel just as devastated and confused as she had twelve years ago?

That single question kept her tossing and turning all throughout the night, and by the next morning, she was still no closer to figuring it out.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“W hy are we here again?”

Ignoring Brady’s question, Luke reached for the tumbler of whiskey that the female bartender slid across the bar’s steel counter.

The bartender hesitated, one finger working a strand of her long blond hair as she eyed Luke like he was a cocktail she wouldn’t mind sampling. She propped her elbows on the bar, giving both men a view down her shirt. “You want me to put that on your tab?”

Brady could practically hear panties hitting the floor when Luke mirrored her stance and gave a slow, practiced smile.

“Naw, honey,” Luke told her with an exaggerated drawl.

“Put it on this guy’s tab”—he clapped a hand on Brady’s shoulder—“he’s the reason I’m here tonight.”

Rolling his eyes, Brady took a drink of his beer. “You dragged me here.”

Luke cupped his hand around his mouth like he had a secret to confess. Like clockwork, the bartender giggled and pressed her ear to Luke’s hand, giggling when he said, “Don’t mind him; he’s on his period.”

Another girlish giggle. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Brady narrowed his eyes and swung an arm around his friend. He glanced at the blonde, o ering her a sympathetic smile. “Thanks. But I’ve got to tell you, I’d rather take on PMS than an STD—right, buddy?”

The hair fiddling skidded to a stop as the hungry expression on her face gave way to awkwardness. “Uh . . . ” Luke’s hand found Brady’s wrist and squeezed, but Brady was having too much fun at his friend’s expense. As the bartender inched farther away, he hollered, “Don’t worry!

He’s been taking his meds. Too bad his fetish for blow-up dolls can’t be cured as fast as the clap.”

The bartender threw a horrified look at Luke before bolting for the employee’s only section. Some of the patrons turned to stare, but between Luke’s formidable scowl and Brady’s wide grin, it was pretty clear that a prank had just been pulled. The older men seated at the bar high-fived Brady and then wished Luke the best of luck with his “infliction.”

“I hate you,” Luke grunted after he’d downed his whiskey. “She was cute.”

Brady lifted his dark stout in salute. “Yeah, if you like them college-aged.” Which Brady didn’t. He preferred curvy women with short curly hair, about the age of thirty. “Aren’t you too old to be cradle-robbing?”

“We can’t all have the honor of being obsessed with our ex-girlfriends.”

Clearly, Brady had made a mistake in telling his best friend about his and Shaelyn’s confrontation. He’d omitted the hot-as-hell foreplay session, mainly because he wasn’t interested in hand-delivering Luke more ammunition. Also because that moment between him and Shaelyn had been . . . private.

“At least I have an ex-girlfriend.” Brady swiped a finger over the condensation on his glass. Actually, if he was

counting, he’d had three girlfriends. Number two and three had been short-lived, mainly involving beds and flat surfaces. In other words, unsatisfying to anything but his cock.

Luke drummed his fingers on the bar. “I’ve had a girlfriend.”

Pointing his stout in his friend’s direction, Brady challenged, “Name one.”

“Cherry, Diamond, Chastity—” “I’ve got the feeling that ‘Chastity’ isn’t what’s written on her birth certificate.”

Luke flashed a grin. “We met at a strip club.”

“Somehow I’m not surprised,” Brady muttered into his beer.

Luke dropped his gaze to his empty glass, leaving Brady to wonder if there wasn’t more to the story. Pushing wasn’t his style, so they settled into comfortable silence.

He tried to keep his attention on the flat-screen TV above the bottles of alcohol, except that golf had never really been his thing and Brady found his thoughts involuntarily returning to Shaelyn.

That night with her had been the hottest and most sensual in his entire life. His former, high school self had desired Shaelyn. How his body reacted to her now completely blew their past out of the water. He craved the sounds of her heady moans and quiet whimpers; he craved the feel of her skin flush against his.

He craved more than she was willing to give, apparently, because while he’d been thinking that the feel of her in his arms felt a lot like fate, she’d turned cold on him so fast he’d su ered whiplash.

Brady stared at his beer, even as his mind’s eye brought forth the lonely image of Shaelyn huddled in his living room on the phone. In almost the span of a single breath, he’d

watched her deflate before his very eyes. And in her eyes, well, he’d seen nothing but pure, undiluted panic.

Before he could o er comfort, she’d shut him out.

Shaelyn was a shitty actor, and he hadn’t believed her lame “this is a mistake” excuse for even a minute. He might have, if she hadn’t sunk into his touch by the front door.

Either way, he meant what he’d said—he was done playing her games. Her wishy-washy, back-and-forth shtick had gotten him nowhere. He was over it, while not exactly over her. It seemed that with Shae, he was destined to have the equilibrium of a Jenga puzzle. Brady frowned and took a drink of his beer.

“Hey! Y’all got started without me?”

Brady glanced over his shoulder to see Danvers picking his way through the tables. When he reached the bar, the younger detective dropped into the empty seat beside Brady.

“What are you drinking?”

“Irish Channel.”

Danvers nodded in apparent approval. “Good choice. How ‘bout you?” The question was directed at Luke, who sat on Brady’s other side.

Luke looked down at his whiskey and then up at Danvers.

“Who are you?”

Brady rolled his eyes at his best friend’s inability for basic social interactions. Luke didn’t have to try much with women thanks to his good looks, and Brady suspected that Luke got along with his brothers-in-arms thanks to living together for so long, but otherwise? Luke had all the social graces of a rampaging bull, with much less enthusiasm.

“Luke, this is Danvers. We work together in homicide.

Danvers, this shithead is Luke. Don’t expect decent conversation out of him unless a woman with breasts magically appears. He’s on leave.”

As Danvers hailed down the bartender, he turned to Luke and Brady and deadpanned, “How ‘bout a man with breasts?

They acceptable too?”

Out of his peripheral, Brady saw Luke slam down his whiskey glass and then point his finger at Danvers. “You know, I like you.”

Danvers nodded, handing over his credit card when the bartender passed him a drink. “I’m contagious.”

Brady held up his hands in a universal hold on now gesture. “Before y’alls bromance blossoms and you start picking out wedding invitations . . . what the hell is that?”

Luke shoved Brady back slightly with a palm to the shoulder so that he could see, too. When he noticed the cocktail with the rainbow-colored papier-mâché umbrella bobbing in the pink liquid, he said, “Bromance is over. What the fuck is that?”

“This?” Danvers plucked the mini umbrella out of the drink and placed it on his black napkin. “It’s a Sex on the Beach.”

“I’ve had sex on the beach,” Luke said, “and there was nothing but sand in awkward places.”

Lifting the girly cocktail to his mouth, Danvers tipped his head back and drank a healthy swallow. Resetting his drink back on the napkin he’d been given, he o ered, “You did it wrong, then. You’re supposed to have sex in the water. The sand is abrasive to the skin.”

Luke swiveled his head to stare at Brady. “Where did you find this guy?”

Danvers picked up the umbrella and twirled it between his fingers. “Technically, the NOPD found me.” Leaning forward, he stood from the barstool just far enough to grab a packet of gum from his back pocket. “Before that, I guess you could say that the Marines found me.”

“You were in the Marines?”

“Semper Fi,” Danvers reverently murmured with a closed fist to his chest.

After that, Brady might as well have been invisible as his coworker and best friend debated whether the Rangers or Navy SEALs were the best special ops organization in the American military forces. Though he threw in random insults here and there to keep the conversation interesting, Brady couldn’t help but wonder what Shaelyn was doing at that exact moment.

AT THAT EXACT MOMENT, Shaelyn was contemplating di erent ways to murder her grandmother.

“Would you pass the cornbread, Shaelyn?” Mary Taylor asked from across the table. “I know I shouldn’t be having any more of this but I can’t help myself. It’s delicious, Elaine. Where did you buy it?”

Meme Elaine’s blue eyes squinted at her nemesis/best friend from behind her black frames. “Are you suggesting that I’m incapable of baking cornbread myself, Mary?”

Pressing a hand to her chest, Miss Mary exclaimed, “Why, of course not, Elaine.” She turned to her husband. “I would never. Right, Arthur?”

Brady’s grandfather made a congealed harrumph noise in his throat, and continued flicking o fried onions from his green bean casserole with his fork.

Apparently satisfied with her husband’s agreement, if one could call it that, Miss Mary shot Meme Elaine a triumphant look. “See? An honest mistake. I have no doubt that you spent all day cooking this entire dinner spread.”

Meme Elaine let out a similar-sounding harrumph as her old flame and then silence reigned over the dining room table.

“The dinner spread” had more selections than a fourperson dinner party needed. There were sweet rolls and cornbread, green bean casserole and pasta salad, blackened red fish, roasted chicken, and pecan pie.

Not a single bit of it had been cooked by Elaine Lawrence.

Nope, Shaelyn had done the dirty work, hitting up three di erent grocery stores to complete the list Meme had thrust at her.

After returning, she and her grandmother had spent the next hour and a half turning the ovens on—for heat e ect, Meme Elaine explained—and re-plating every dish from their original plastic containers. Meme Elaine had then shoved a black trash bag in Shaelyn’s direction with the strict order to “destroy the evidence.”

So long as the Taylors decided to stay out of the cityissued garbage bins at the end of the driveway, they would never know that Elaine Lawrence was a cooking fraud and Shaelyn her accomplice.

Shaelyn felt Freckles rub against her leg, his flu y tail swishing around her calf. Gently, she edged the cat away, only to feel sharp little claws sink into the top of her foot.

Holy— She lurched up in the chair, biting back a curse that would horrify the Taylors.

She cut a piece of the salmon with her fork and, with a quick peek at their guests, Shaelyn dropped the fishy meat to the floor. An excited meow greeted her before she saw Freckles scamper into the kitchen, his tail wagging in the air.

Even the cat was plotting against her.

“It’s unfortunate that my dear Brady wasn’t invited to dinner,” Miss Mary said after sipping her champagne. “It would have been like the old days when the two of you were courting and we were all one big happy family.”

Arthur Taylor starting making his harrumphing noises at rapid speed; Meme Elaine looked on the verge of stabbing her old friend with the antique silver fish fork; as for her part, Miss Mary looked pleased.

Everyone at the table recognized the jab for what it was: Mary Taylor blamed the breakup on Shaelyn, as her own grandson was “infallible.”

Ha. If only she knew.

Shaelyn grabbed the stem of her own champagne glass and unceremoniously gulped half of the bubbly. “It’s been a long time.”

“Not so long.” The older woman tipped her head to the side as if in deep thought. “Your grandmother informed me that you were at his house the other night?”

Murder suddenly seemed too quick a fate for the matriarch of the Lawrence family. Shaelyn sent her grandmother a dirty look over the rim of her glass. In turn, the older woman lifted her shoulders in a helpless what can you do shrug.

“I had to discuss something with him, Miss Mary. I wasn’t there for long.”

Lies.

Better to lie than to admit that Mary Taylor’s grandson had been minutes away from fucking Shaelyn on top of his kitchen table.

She made a show of heaping more pasta salad onto her plate. “Delicious, Meme,” she said around a forkful of food.

“Never would have known that this was store bought if I hadn’t picked it up myself.”

She watched as Meme Elaine’s mouth dropped open at the time Mr. Arthur pulled his white linen from his lap and began coughing uncontrollably into the fabric. If the dinner table had been the Cold War before, it definitely was WWIII

now. She should have felt bad for throwing her grandmother under the bus, but . . . nope, not a single trace of guilt.

“No secrets between family, right?” Shaelyn said, smiling warmly at her grandmother and shifting forward to pat her sunspotted hand.

Meme Elaine yanked her hand away and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Grabbing the handle of vodka that sat in the middle of the table, she popped the lid and made a new glass of her sweet-tea concoction. “If that’s the case, I should probably tell you that I invited Brady over for dinner.”

Shaelyn’s fish fork clattered to the porcelain plate. “You did what?”

Gesturing to the Taylors with her fork, Meme Elaine stabbed a piece of roasted chicken and shoveled it into her mouth. “Well, cher, you happened to come in a bit late—” “I was working,” she ground out.

“So you missed a very heartfelt conversation between Mary and I—” “I’m surprised you’re both still breathing.” At this, Mr. Arthur lost his composure and promptly excused himself from the room.

“And Mary hasn’t seen her grandson in weeks, not since their BBQ. So, I thought, why not invite him over for a late dinner? So we can all be a family again.”

Miss Mary nodded, murmuring, “Such a lovely, lovely surprise.”

The two women exchanged an unreadable glance. Shaelyn didn’t trust either of them. They were obviously in some sort of strange senior citizen cahoots plan, a plan that did not include anyone under the age of sixty-five.

Miss Mary grabbed another piece of cornbread from the woven, faux-bamboo basket. After slicing it in half and slathering it with a garlic-butter glaze (perhaps the only

thing on the table Elaine Lawrence had prepared herself, save for her sweet-tea-vodka mix), Miss Mary fixed her attention on her friend. “What time did you say my grandson was arriving?”

Meme Elaine grabbed her cell phone o the table and waved it around. “Cher, how do I make it tell me the time again?”

“Do you have yourself an iPhone?” Miss Mary asked as she munched on the cornbread. “Brady purchased me one.

Press the circular button.”

Clearly Shaelyn had taken a wrong turn somewhere and had ended up in an alternate universe. Then again, had anything been normal since she’d returned to New Orleans?

It sure didn’t feel that way.

While the older women discussed the advantages of “cellular devices,” Shaelyn mentally prepared herself for Brady’s arrival.

They could be adults about the situation, couldn’t they?

There was no reason to freak out about seeing him, no reason at all. So what if he’d had his hands on places where no other man had touched her in years, even through layers of clothing? It was nothing. It meant nothing. And as for that phone call— There was no way for him to discover Carla Ritter’s identity.

Shaelyn figured an apology would probably help to soothe any hurt feelings. Ironic, wasn’t it, that since they’d reconnected a few weeks ago, they each had apologized for anything and everything but the one thing that had torn them apart years ago.

The soft whisper of Freckles’s tail brushed her skin again, disrupting her thoughts, and she used the top of her foot to push him away gently. “No, baby,” she murmured below her breath as she nudged him away. A low-keeled meow reached

her ears seconds before her beloved—scratch that—monster of a cat launched his small body onto her calf and clung like a stripper to a pole, Jerry Springer style.

Two pairs of eyes locked on her when she scrambled up o the chair, shaking her leg to loosen Freckles’s grip.

Freckles hung on for the joyride. Then, no doubt having realized that there was nothing to be gained from maiming his owner (besides personal vendetta), he released his front paws and free-sailed through the air. Landing gracefully on all fours, he looked at Shaelyn over one slim shoulder and then flared his tail in the air as he pranced away.

Miss Mary looked appropriately scandalized, if not somewhat amused. Her own grandmother, on the other hand, sardonically supplied, “We wouldn’t have this problem if you’d fed him to Chow, cher.”

Shaelyn didn’t even have time to respond. Behind her, a male’s voice drolly asked, “Are you resurrecting your dead dog, Miz Elaine?”

AT THE SIGHT of Shaelyn wiggling her leg to free herself from her (clearly) demented cat, Brady couldn’t help but think that she looked damn cute. Shaelyn, that is, not the cat. All that jiggling about did fantastic things for her breasts.

On the heel of that thought came another: he wanted to go to her and protect her, even if it was from a damn feline.

And then one more: it wasn’t going to happen.

Brady was a man who pushed until he got what he wanted. But he was human like everyone else, and— although he might only admit it to himself—her two rejections stung like a bitch. That he wasn’t willing to strike out on a third round? He saw nothing unreasonable about that.

So although his eyes hungrily tracked her movements as she finally de-clawed herself from the Devil Cat, Brady headed toward his grandmother as if he hadn’t been on the brink of getting on his knees and begging Shaelyn to give them a chance.

Like he’d already said—not gonna happen.

He’d barely bussed Mary’s rouged cheek before she broke into her favorite lecture with a pointed finger. “You haven’t come to see me in weeks.”

Brady stifled a sigh. This was a conversation they had more often than not. “I’ve been working, Gran.”

Her blue eyes—a color eerily similar to his—followed him as he kissed Miz Elaine’s cheek and then took the empty seat at the end of the table.

“You work too much, Brady,” his grandmother protested.

He had no doubt that if he’d become a lawyer like she’d wanted, he would have worked even longer hours. Not because his job as a homicide detective was any less stressful or time-consuming—it definitely wasn’t—but because he would have procrastinated so badly that what should have taken him twenty minutes probably would have taken him an hour or more.

His single year as a Tulane pre-law major had been painful enough to show Brady that his strengths blossomed when he was out on the field and not saddled to a desk or stuck in a courtroom on a daily basis.

Although she would never say so outright, he knew his grandmother was disappointed in his career choice.

Introducing your grandson as a cop didn’t sound nearly as prestigious as boasting that your grandson was a partner in Whatever-the-Fuck Firm.

Attempting to lighten the situation and ease the furrow pulling at his grandmother’s forehead, Brady fixed a strained

smile on his face. “Tell that to my boss, Gran. He thinks you raised a lazy piece of sh—bum.”

Out of his periphery, he saw Shaelyn roll her eyes and mouth bum as she chugged her drink. Champagne, if he had to guess. Miz Elaine knew that his grandparents were the nose-up-in-the-air kind and she had obviously poured her best. As for her own drink, Brady figured Elaine Lawrence was drinking some of that sweet tea and vodka she liked so much.

Shaelyn’s grandmother was a creature of habit.

“Dear,” his own grandmother started again, “why don’t you reconsider letting your grandfather—” “No.” “No” was not in Mary Taylor’s vocabulary.

“But he could help.” She looked over her shoulder and then at the empty chair across the table from Brady. “Where did he go?”

“He fled the mayhem,” Shaelyn said as she ran her finger down the stem of the champagne flute. He swore he could feel her touch running the length of his back, or the length of his . . . . Brady threw up a No-Go Zone sign at those Rated R thoughts. He did not need to get a hard-on at the same table as his grandmother and her best friend, although sometimes he thought the clichéd term frenemies was more appropriate.

“Shaelyn, get the boy a plate and some utensils.” Miz Elaine looked pointedly in his direction. “I’m sure you’re hungry.”

“I could eat.”

“Do you ever not eat?” Shaelyn hu ed as she pushed back her chair.

He waited until she glanced his way, until he held her full attention, before he drawled, “I’ve got to try everything at least once.”

The blush that colored her cheeks was like a white flag thrown up in the air with the football at the five-yard line during the last fifteen seconds of the fourth quarter. He’d put up a good o ensive play, she’d attempted a commendable sack of his QB, but he scored a touchdown anyhow.

Shaelyn muttered something under her breath and stalked out of the dining room.

The pathetic part of him liked knowing that regardless of whatever bullshit lines she’d handed him the other night, he still got under her skin.

“Your grandfather could help you, Brady. Don’t be a silly.”

Brady sighed. His grandmother had so many di erent ways of getting under his skin that he couldn’t keep track of them all.

“We’ve gone over this, Gran.” He glanced at Miz Elaine, who was listening for all that she was worth. With her chin propped up on her upturned hands, the older woman wasn’t even bothering to pretend to have her attention anywhere else. “I don’t want your help or Gramp’s or anyone else’s.

Let me do my job.”

“Aren’t you still fourth in line for the promotion?”

Only Mary Taylor could make fourth sound like he was dead last and crawling behind the pack by a mile with his hands and feet hogtied. “Third, actually,” he clipped out.

He wasn’t happy about third either, but Gran had always been unfailingly able to make him feel worse than he should have. And the reality was that he was a thirty-year-old homicide detective, third in line for a ranked position.

Compared to a lot of other cops his age, Brady was lightyears ahead. In his grandmother’s eyes, though, Brady was nothing but a man who dirtied his hands as a cop.

When he’d told her that he had transferred to the homicide department some years back, he might as well have told her he was a gravedigger.

Brady didn’t like seeing death but he found pride in bringing closure to families who had been torn apart by senseless violence.

His grandmother would never understand. She’d been coddled for most of her life. That was okay. He wouldn’t wish what he saw daily upon even his worst enemy. Would it hurt her, though, to just be a little proud of him?

Shaelyn came back in with a plate and utensils in her left hand, while in her right she dangled two glasses from her fingers. She put the plate down and then e ortlessly flipped the glasses around to set them right side up. He looked at her face and noticed that the blush was long gone. Regret slammed into him, and he was tempted to say something else just to rile her up again. He didn’t, but only because Miz Elaine was watching him way too closely and she was one person who truly scared the shit out of him.

“Thank you, Shae,” he said.

She gave a little shrug and reseated herself diagonally from him.

By some miracle, Gran dropped the interrogation and his grandfather returned to the table. While he and the Taylor patriarch discussed the Saints’ upcoming season, Brady kept half of his attention on the women.

“So sad to hear about your break up, Shaelyn. Are you desperately upset?” his grandmother asked.

Brady rolled his eyes as he stu ed pasta salad in his mouth. Even if her engagement hadn’t been a total fraud, Shaelyn and Beveau’s chemistry had been more boring than watching paint dry—Brady would know. He’d been slowly painting his house over the last few months, though he

never really progressed anywhere thanks to his busy schedule.

“Not at all,” Shaelyn told his grandmother. “We’re two very di erent people. I don’t know why I thought it would work.”

He flinched, like her words were actually aimed at him.

They weren’t. He knew that. Plus, she had a valid point, if she was making a jab at him. What did they really have in common after all these years? They’d once been inseparable; aside for those few minutes at his kitchen table the other night, they’d done nothing but argue in the last few weeks.

“You were blinded by lust, cher,” Miz Elaine said bluntly.

Brady choked on a sweet roll. His grandfather pounded him on the back and told him to “pull it together.”

There was nothing quite like Taylor family encouragement.

“I’m good, Gramps.” He waved a hand at the older man and went for his glass of water. He had work to do at the station later and his one Irish Channel Stout at the bar earlier had been his limit. No doubt Danvers and Luke were still going at each other, arguing about God-knows-what as Luke tossed back more whiskey and Danvers sipped another dainty Sex on the Beach.

“So, how’re you feeling about the promotion, son?”

Brady eyed his grandfather. Et tu, Brute? “I don’t really feel like talking about it.” Slicing o a sliver of roasted chicken, he popped it into his mouth and concentrated on chewing. It tasted as bland as the rotisserie chicken he bought from the grocery store when he was too busy (and exhausted) to do anything but mechanically shovel food into his mouth.

“I’m friends with Joe Gepano—” Brady gave up on the food and pushed his plate away.

Stress tended to diminish his appetite. His family had the

same e ect on his food intake, probably because they stressed him out as much as his job did. He half hoped that Shaelyn was as miserable as he was right now.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he shook his head. “I don’t need the help, Gramps.”

“But Gepano can get you the position.”

“You’ve done work for him in the past, Gramps, and getting a hand-out from the police commissioner is not something I want attached to my name.”

Nepotism wasn’t unheard of in the New Orleans Police Department. But Brady’s pride wouldn’t let him accept his grandfather’s o er. Some might call him stupid for rejecting the opportunity—he didn’t give a damn. If he got that promotion, it would be on account of the fact that he was a hard worker and deserved it. It would be because he wanted to make sergeant more than he’d ever wanted anything else.

Shaelyn’s subtle New Orleanian drawl drew his attention to her like a moth to a flame. She was explaining something, her hands fluttering enthusiastically. A black choker necklace encircled the delicate column of her neck. It enticed him to lean in close and hook his finger under the material so that he could kiss the pulse beating beneath it.

As his grandfather lectured him on the nuances of maneuvering through the local government’s social ladder, Brady caught only snippets of Shaelyn’s conversation.

“She’ll be inheriting this house soon,” Miz Elaine said.

“Just has to sign on the dotted line.”

“Do you want the house?” That was Gran.

Hesitation on Shaelyn’s end stretched into a halted silence. “I hadn’t planned on staying long in New Orleans.”

She hadn’t? Instinctively, he wanted to stand up and demand to know why she hadn’t told him that New Orleans was only a temporary fix for her. Except, it really wasn’t his business, was it?

“Oh?” Gran murmured. “Do you have plans to return to New York, then?”

“No!” The outburst was unexpected. Shaelyn must have realized it, too, because she drew back, a hand resting just below her diaphragm. “I mean, probably not. I haven’t given it too much thought.”

The thought of Shaelyn heading back to New York City or anywhere else that wasn’t New Orleans left Brady feeling distinctively unsettled. Even the past few days without their constant bickering had felt oddly hollow. Brady didn’t think for one moment that he was in love with her, but he’d be lying if he didn’t say that he wanted her to stick around.

He wanted to be the reason she frowned in annoyance and laughed in delight and moaned in pleasure.

Brady could almost hear Luke’s voice now, yelling at him to “grow a pair.”

Brady wasn’t salivating, but he figured he tipped the scale somewhere between Lust and Let’s Go Out on a Date. Not that he could imagine Shaelyn accepting an o er to go out, just the two of them.

Just one more reason to get over this asinine crush he was sporting. Only an idiot held out hope for something that wasn’t going to happen—and Brady had stopped being an idiot a hell of a long time ago, at least where Shaelyn was concerned.

“Why don’t the two of y’all pick up the dishes while us old folk camp out in the parlor?” Miz Elaine said as Brady pierced the last slice of roasted chicken on his plate.

“What is this, the nineteenth century?” he teased.

“She’s been watching too much Downton Abbey lately,” Shaelyn told him in a fake-hush-hush voice. “She’s getting ‘ideas.’” The last was said with air quotes. Brady could only

imagine what sort of “ideas” had occurred to Elaine Lawrence over the years.

Actually, he’d rather not know. Shaelyn’s grandmother seemed like the sort to have all sorts of secrets hidden in her closet, under the rug, and behind every closed door. Starting with her awful matchmaking.

Miz Elaine proved his point when she said, “Ideas, conspiring—it all gets better with age, wouldn’t you agree, Mary?”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Elaine,” Gran said as she stood with her champagne flute in hand. With one regal sip, she finished o her drink and placed the crystal glass on the table. “I trust you and Shaelyn can pick up the dinner plates?”

Brady had the distinct impression that somehow he’d just been had. “Do we have a choice?” “‘Choice’ isn’t a word your grandmother is familiar with, son.”

Truer words had never been spoken, and considering that Arthur Taylor had spent the last forty-plus years married to the woman, Brady was positive that his grandfather spoke with full authority on the subject.

Brady watched as his grandparents and Miz Elaine headed o in the direction of the parlor. Not a single one of them paused to look back. He thought Miz Elaine might have had a change of heart when she retraced her steps but, no, she only grabbed her glass and the vodka and wiggled her fingers in the air at them.

For a moment, both he and Shaelyn sat in silence. Empty plates and half-eaten serving bowls littered the table.

“Do you think they planned this?”

He glanced in Shaelyn’s direction and dropped his gaze to the pink shirt she wore. Her arms were completely exposed and the tight elasticity of the fabric hugged her curves

deliciously. “If you mean letting us pick up after them? Yeah, I think they did. They might even be hoping that . . . ” He tore his gaze away from her. Probably best not to go down that road.

Shaelyn wouldn’t be deterred. “What were you going to say?” she pressed.

“That they might want to see us back together.”

She blushed. “They’re probably just taking bets on which one of us will die first.”

Brady o ered a tight smile. “Guess you won’t have to worry about inheriting this house, then.”

The house thing was obviously a sore subject because her brows furrowed and her teeth dug into her full bottom lip.

Rising from her chair, she started stacking dirty plates. He followed suit, gathering dirty utensils and empty glasses.

She didn’t answer until they’d stationed themselves at the sink, with Shaelyn washing the dirty dishes and him on drying duty. When he went to open the dishwasher, she lifted one hand to click the dishwasher door shut. A single, quick glimpse inside was enough to see that the machine was full of mold.

All right, hand drying it was then.

After what felt like an eternity, she finally spoke. “So, you were eavesdropping?”

“Nah,” he said with a shake of his head, “Eavesdropping is only when you listen to a private conversation. What I did was purely legal.”

“Says the police o cer,” she deadpanned.

“Yup.” He accepted the wet dish she handed him and toweled it dry. “So, the house?”

Over the running water, he heard her sharp inhale.

“Meme has decided that I’m it.”

“Do you not want to be ‘it’?” he asked, as he put the plate on the counter.

“This place is huge.”

He knew that without even having to glance around. The Italianate Revival was massive, although it was one of many just like it in the neighborhood. For someone with ample income, it could have been a beauty. Hell, it was beautiful.

But much like the broken dishwasher, the house was no longer as pristine as he remembered from his childhood. The kitchen was a 1970s throwback; the parlor’s crown molding, he’d noticed on his way to the dining room, needed heavy conservation. As a hobby, he dabbled in house restoration.

Elaine Lawrence’s mansion would take him years to freshen up, at the pace he currently worked.

“Four thousand square feet too much for you?” he teased in an attempt to pull a smile out of her.

Shaelyn didn’t look his way. “Closer to six or seven thousand square feet, actually.”

From the quiet way she said it, he knew that she wasn’t boasting. He whistled. “Man, that’s big.”

This time she did turn to him, but her hazel eyes were brown and anxious. “Do you know how much a place like this costs to upkeep? Way more than I would make in a years’ time.”

There was something about the way she spoke that hinted that money was an excuse she used often. Except that it was just that—an excuse. Relying solely on instinct, and the fact that he once knew this woman better than he’d even known himself, he gently bumped the side of her hips with his.

The yellow and green sponge dropped into the stainless steel sink as she grabbed for the wine glass just before it splintered.

“Brady!”

“Sorry, sorry!” He wasn’t sorry at all, and he laughed as he nudged her hips again. Just because he could. “Loosen up, Shae.”

Grumbling something under her breath, she looked up at him, eyes wide. “I’m being a worrywart, aren’t I?” Brady held up the towel in his right hand like a white flag.

“I plead the fifth.”

The look she leveled him with said it all, but as she rinsed the wine glass of any suds, she leaned to the side just enough to bump his hips. He bit back a smile. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, there was a small smile playing on her lips too.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

D oing the dishes with Brady felt a lot like husband-and-

wife status, like Shaelyn was one unborn child away from wearing a kitchen apron and trading in her stilettos for neon-colored crocks. Surprisingly, she didn’t want to run away. She was even—dare she say it—enjoying him. Just a little.

Probably because, for once, they weren’t tearing at each other’s throats.

But their temporary stalemate didn’t explain why she tapped her hips to his, smiled like a fool, and blurted, “I keep waiting for a spark, like I’m exactly where I belong.”

“And you don’t feel it?” His voice was curious.

“Not nearly as much as I’d hoped.” Except that the elusive spark was suddenly, inconveniently, sparking to life right now. Just as it had when she’d been laid out on the table under his hard body.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

She gave him her best I’m-all-good smile. And she was, mostly. His gaze locked on hers, and his expression compelled her to go on. “I think my problem is that the house doesn’t remind me of my family. Not anymore.”

“What does it remind you of, then?”

“My guilt.”

To his credit, he didn’t tell her that she was stupid. His only response was a gentle touch to her wrist, a subtle prompt to let her know that he was listening, if she wanted.

She inhaled sharply, passed him the last dirty dish, and then shut the faucet. Her hands still dripping wet, she folded them over the lip of the sink.

“When I was told my parents had passed, I didn’t know what to think. I was angry, heartbroken. I bet they fought each other to the very last breath.” She laughed hollowly.

“Mama wanted to stay for co ee after Sunday Mass, and Dad wasn’t up for it. I’m guessing they must have been arguing real bad because my dad was always a careful driver but he —” She broke o , swallowing hard. “He ran a red light.”

They’d been hit on the passenger’s side. Doctors said that Charlotte Lawrence had died upon impact, and her father had lasted until EMS was just two blocks away from University Hospital.

Silence tickled by one heartbeat at a time before Brady said, “I looked for you at the funeral.”

Her gaze jerked to him. “You were there?”

“Of course,” he said, though there was no of course about it. At the time of her parents’ accident, she and Brady had been strangers. He must have realized that he’d shown too much because he busied himself with drying his hands.

Shaelyn tried not to read between the lines, searching for something that wasn’t there. “I spent most of the time with Meme Elaine, who was beyond herself.”

“And you weren’t?” he asked.

“I wasn’t what?”

“Beyond yourself?”

With only those two words, Brady returned the conversation full-circle. Back to why she didn’t want the house on Coliseum Street. “I’m not sure how much your

grandparents have told you . . . . My parents . . . I think it’s safe to say that there weren’t open arms waiting for me back home.”

He mimicked her stance and curled his hands over the edge of the sink. They both stared at the window. It was dark out—nearly eleven—and the glass might as well have doubled as a mirror. Her reflection watched her, as did Brady’s. Shaelyn struggled to keep her eyes o the man beside her.

“Mama was furious after I left, you know, back then. I’d try to come home for a visit, and I was handfed excuse after excuse as to why it was never a good time. Until the excuses wore out and all I was left with was ‘no, Shaelyn.’”

His reflection winced.

Shaelyn’s nails scratched the sink as she fisted her hands.

It wasn’t any secret that her mother had been mighty unforgiving. While she may have praised the Lord daily, Charlotte Lawrence had not been a woman without faults.

Unintentionally, Shaelyn had developed a habit of pressing her mother right over the edge. Forgiving Brady way back when would have been the right thing to do in Charlotte’s eyes. Except that Shaelyn hadn’t done so— heartbroken and alone, forgiving the boy who’d caused the heartbreak had been the very last thing on her mind as she hopped on a Megabus destined for Jacksonville.

“Twelve years is a long time to stay away, Shae,” Brady said, yanking her from the painful memories.

“Yeah, well, when your mother informs you that you are her biggest disappointment, you sort of make it a point to never cross state lines again.”

Cursing under his breath, Brady took hold of her right elbow and turned her to look at him. “Is this all because of me?”

“Egotistical, much?”

His large hands slipped up to her biceps. “Seriously, Shaelyn. Did your mom lose her shit because we broke up?”

It was the first time since they’d parted ways that Shaelyn’s constant companion, Burning Resentment, wasn’t bubbling beneath the surface. It felt strange to be able to stare up at his face and not see red clouding her vision.

Finally, she said, “In part, maybe. Mostly she hated that I never amounted to anything. I’m not a doctor like they wanted or a lawyer or anything particular noteworthy. I spent the last decade just . . . drifting.”

His Destin-blue eyes searched her face. “Were you happy?”

Her heart squeezed. No one had ever asked her that— everyone assumed that she’d been living the life. For the first few years, she’d definitely enjoyed her newfound freedoms.

It had been fun to wake up at noon on a Sunday just because she wanted to, even more fun to go out on a Friday night and not stress that her mama might give her a lecture on sin at the crack of dawn Saturday morning. Or that if Shaelyn wasn’t careful, she’d end up just like Anna, alone as a single mother.

Charlotte hadn’t been evil, and in relation to other mothers, Shaelyn understood that she’d had it good. Food had been on the table; she’d attended a prestigious grammar school; she hadn’t been abused. She’d just wanted love, an emotion that her mother and father hadn’t deemed important when raising a daughter.

“I wasn’t unhappy,” she told Brady truthfully. Lonely, yes, and in the last few years under Carla Ritter’s “guardianship,” also ashamed and embarrassed. But the only times she had felt truly unhappy were on the rare occasions when her parents visited and . . . well, the times she thought of the man standing in front of her.

Shaelyn almost laughed out loud, because wasn’t that a bitch and a half. After twelve years, she was just as emotionally entangled with Brady Taylor as she had been the summer before college.

“So, the house?” he prompted, his hands still locked around her arms like he feared she might turn skittish and scamper away.

“It feels like a noose around my neck.” Some of the pressure in her chest eased with the admission. “I know Meme wants me to have it, but between the funds needed to maintain the property and”—her gaze flicked up to his briefly—“everything else, I just can’t seem to drum up any excitement.”

Then, in true Brady no-nonsense fashion, he simply said, “Tell your grandmother you don’t want it.”

“And squash her dreams in the process?” Shaelyn shook her head. “No, thanks.”

“Aren’t you squashing your own dreams, then?”

For somebody like Brady whose career fit him to perfection, it should have been an easy question to answer.

But for Shaelyn . . . God, this was so not the time to develop allergies. Her nose suddenly felt itchy and her eyes watery.

Okay, so maybe not allergies after all.

Do not cry!

The truth was: Shaelyn didn’t think she had any dreams of her own.

Since that seemed too embarrassing to voice out loud, she opted for sarcasm. “I’m sure that Anna is just thrilled to have me lurking around.”

“I’m pretty sure that Anna isn’t waiting with baited breath for your resignation, Shae,” he said wryly. “You two seem like a good team from what I’ve heard.”

Raising a brow, Shaelyn leaned into his hold and tilted her chin up to look at him. “And just where have you heard

anything?”

He jerked his head toward the dining room. “You really have to ask? Gran is like a goddamn fly on the wall. She knows about everything that happens in this city.”

“Does she really know about everything?”

A.k.a, does she know about you, me, and the sexy-time activities on your kitchen table?

Oops, that was said out loud.

Large hands tightened around her arms. “Did you just—” “Did I what?” Shaelyn ducked under his arms with a small skip in her step. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It was crazy—this was crazy—especially as she’d been the one to tell him that another hookup was not in their future.

Their easy camaraderie as they’d washed the dishes and the easy way he’d listened like he still cared, all made her crave things she shouldn’t, though.

Like the last handful of buttery popcorn or the last slice of pizza.

Crazy as it was, maybe the reason they couldn’t stop arguing was because their chemistry wasn’t being properly addressed. In bed.

Honest truth time here: as bad as it was for her, Shaelyn wanted that last handful of popcorn and that final slice of pizza. Even if that meant switching gears and embracing the risk that he might A) call her crazy, or B) tell her that she was indecisive.

Brady must have sensed the shift in her body language because he slowly stalked her across the kitchen. What was it about them and kitchens? Him, her, and stainless steel appliances. It sounded like the start of a bad naughty ballad.

Her back hit the refrigerator door at the same time that his hands came down to clutch her hips. “Are you playing games with me, Shae?”

His close proximity, mingled with the deep timbre of his voice, weakened her knees. “No.” “You said the other day that this was a mistake.”

Swallowing her nerves, she straightened her shoulders.

He wasn’t going to let her o easy, not with the way she’d shut him down twice now. “I know. I did.”

“You wouldn’t even look at me during dinner.”

She understood that from his point of view, “fickle” might as well have been her middle name. Hell, it might as well have been her first. In all honesty, she wasn’t even sure the exact moment when she’d changed her mind about them getting naked together. All she knew was that she wanted him, and even though hooking up with him might actually be the biggest mistake of her life, she wanted him anyway.

Getting naked didn’t have to mean spilling all of her secrets . . . right?

Wetting her bottom lip, she glanced up at the man she’d once loved. The common thread of fear that slipped through her body moved aside in the face of her desire for him. His blue eyes were dark with desire, his pupils dilated. Warmth hit her square in her belly, a tingling sensation that slid lower the longer that they held eye contact.

“Do you think, maybe, we just need to get it out our system?”

His hands moved to her back, then slid into the back pockets of her jeans. “Get what exactly out of our systems?”

Like a bucket of water being splashed over her head, realization dawned that he was really going to make her work for it. His parting words from the night she’d left him on his porch rang in her ears: “I like it when you beg.”

So, he wanted her to grovel.

He was out of luck—Shaelyn didn’t beg. Not like this. Not for anyone.

Didn’t mean she couldn’t play his game, though.

Tipping her head back against the fridge, she ran her hands down his arms until her hands rested over his, which were still tucked into her back pockets. The pose arched her back, thrusting her breasts up for his gaze.

“Maybe,” she murmured slowly, “you need a reminder?”

His blue eyes dipped to the girls, which were, admittedly, completely concealed by her blouse. Not her fault. She hadn’t factored in “seduction” when she’d picked her outfit for the day. Which . . . oh, crap. She’d worn boring white cotton underwear today. Extra points for the fact that they weren’t her period panties, though. The irony wasn’t lost on her that she worked for a lingerie boutique and yet didn’t own a single pair of fancy underwear.

“What kind of reminder?”

Brady’s voice was so gravelly that the deep pitch reverberated through her. Her nipples tightened like he’d physically flicked on her switch. It was so unfair that he did this to her.

Time to take control of the situation.

Tipping her hips forward to meet his, she whispered, “This sort of reminder,” and then promptly wrapped her hand around the back of his neck and pulled his head down for a heart-wrenching kiss.

They moaned simultaneously, needy sounds that echoed in the kitchen. This kiss, unlike the one they had shared at his house, was a battle for control. Leaning up on her toes, she combed her fingers through his hair and nipped his lower lip.

Brady chuckled against her lips, muttering, “tease,” just before he dug his fingers into her butt and jerked her close.

Yep, definitely the right decision, she thought, as he teased her lips open. Brady was sex on a stick, and Shaelyn wanted him desperately. Just his body, though. She wasn’t in the market for his heart.

But, boy, did she physically ache with all the wanting. She wanted him kissing her like he was now, as if he would never tire of the taste of her. She wanted him in her bed, his bed, or any nearby flat surface. She wanted to see that slow, teasing smile of his just before he said something inappropriately sexy.

If she wanted anything more than that, Shaelyn didn’t let herself dwell on it. Sex was one thing. It didn’t have to be complicated and hearts didn’t have to be involved. If he saw someone else, well, hey, no harm, no foul, right? It wasn’t as though she planned to stick around in New Orleans for that much longer anyway.

Shaelyn pressed herself so close that she could feel his rapid heartbeat echo in her own chest. He kissed her like he did everything else in life—thoroughly, confidently. Her hands coasted down the back of his neck to his hard chest.

“Shaelyn!”

Abort! Abort!

At the sound of Meme Elaine’s voice, Shaelyn whirled away so fast that she slammed the back of her head against the fridge, and let out a four-letter expletive that would have shocked a Bourbon Street regular. Clutching her head, she swiveled away from Brady at the same time that he reached for her with a look of concern.

She put her hands up. “It isn’t what it looks like.”

Brady snorted.

She wasn’t even sure why she bothered. Maybe if she’d hit her head before her grandmother had walked in they could have faked a need for CPR, but . . . nope, this scene was pretty damning.

Meme Elaine folded her hands over her breasts and arched one overly plucked eyebrow. “What do you think it looked like?”

I plead the fifth.

She shifted her focus to Brady, widening her eyes and making small gestures with her hands toward her grandmother. Brady, the jerk, did nothing but give her a look that all but said, She’s yours.

She tried again. “We were just . . . ” “Saving the dishes?” Meme Elaine supplied with a lift of her chin.

“We finished those, Miz Elaine. Don’t worry.”

Oh, so now the mute wanted to speak.

“Will it be necessary that I wash them again later?” her grandmother asked pleasantly. “By that, I mean, should I assign Shaelyn dish duty when you aren’t around to distract her?”

Shaelyn wondered if anyone would notice if she shoved her head into the broken dishwasher and inhaled the mold.

Nothing could make this conversation any more uncomfortable—actually, scratch that. If Miss Mary decided to join the fray, then, yes, things could get worse.

“Is everything all right in here, Elaine?”

This, Shaelyn realized dumbly, this was her life.

She watched in silent horror as Brady’s prim grandmother wandered into the kitchen, wine glass grasped delicately in one hand, while she cuddled a rather contentlooking Freckles in the other.

Never before had she seen her cat look so peaceful. Had the woman plied him with liquor? Freckles usually hovered between Royally Pissed O and Cat PMS and . . . did he just purr?

“What have I missed, Elaine?” Miss Mary asked again as she ran the tips of her fingers through Freckles’s mane.

“You didn’t miss anything, Gran.”

Really? Shaelyn waited for Brady to glance her way, then subtly scratched her forehead with her middle finger.

“Promise?” he mouthed, flashing her one of his perfectly executed slow smiles.

She hated him, she really did.

“Your grandson was playing tonsil hockey with my granddaughter.”

While Shaelyn considered the ramifications of throwing herself o the second floor veranda, Brady held up a finger like he was checking the wind direction. “Hold on now—” “Are you sure it wasn’t the other way around?” Miss Mary ducked her face to nuzzle Freckles’s furry nape, and Shaelyn’s traitorous cat stretched lazily in the older woman’s arms, dropping his head back in abandoned submission.

“My eyes don’t lie,” Meme Elaine averred, and tapped her black frames.

Miss Mary withdrew her attention from the cat long enough to ask, “Are you planning to go home with my grandson tonight, Shaelyn?”

After this interrogation? No, she was not. She wanted to head upstairs, slip on her ratty pajamas, and binge-watch The Bachelor until this whole debacle was viscerally erased from her memory.

Shaelyn slid a finger under the fabric of her necklace and tugged it away from her clammy skin. Sweat beaded by her hairline. “Not that he’s invited me—or, um, that we have a relationship like that—but I’ve got work tomorrow.” Shaelyn snuck a peek at Brady, not surprised to find that he was leaning against the kitchen table, looking completely at ease.

Did the man not care that his grandmother was this close to discovering his sexual preferences?

She looked at her watch and clapped her hands together.

“Okay, wow, look at the time! You certainly don’t want to be driving so close to midnight, even if your own grandson is a cop, Miss Mary.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Brady’s grandmother murmured agreeably. “I’ll gather Arthur. I think he’s watching a Viagra infomercial.”

“Gran,” Brady ground out, sounding pained.

Meme Elaine patted her old friend’s hand sympathetically. “Has he finally hit that age? Never had a problem with me, but ‘vitality is youth,’ as the Parisians say.”

Out of the corner of his mouth, Brady muttered, “I don’t actually think the Parisians say that.”

Miss Mary froze in putting Freckles down on the ground, changing direction so fast that Shaelyn’s poor cat startled from his nap, paws swiping through the air like a pinwheel.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but Arthur chose me after you’d already—” “Fragile ears!” Shaelyn shouted, clapping her hands over her ears. “No more, for the love of God.” Brady raked his hands down his face, digging his knuckles into his eye sockets like he could rake out the images staining his retina. It was too late. She wasn’t sure which was worse: her grandmother, probably riding Arthur like a rodeo cowboy, or Miss Mary, all prim and proper and instructing her husband “a little bit more to the left.”

“I think it’s time to head out, Gran,” Brady said as he moved beside her. Slipping Freckles out of Miss Mary’s grip, he set the cat on the ground. “Don’t you have a snobby meeting early tomorrow morning?”

“How many times have I told you,” Miss Mary muttered, “Charity is not snobby. I like helping others help themselves.”

“The Viagra is making sense now.”

Everyone turned to Elaine.

“What?” Meme Elaine asked, blinking way too innocently.

Oh yeah. Shaelyn’s grandmother was this close to needing a muzzle.

Shaelyn sent Brady a beseeching look that she hoped he interpreted correctly as, End the madness. Run far, far away.

From the grin that tugged one corner of his mouth, she assumed he’d received the message loud and clear.

“All right, Gran,” he murmured, dropping his hands onto her shoulders and steering her toward the living room.

“Let’s collect Gramps and head out.”

“He’s watching Jimmy Kimmel; we’ll have to force him.”

“I thought he was learning about the little blue pill,” Meme hollered after the Taylors.

The single glance that Miss Mary spared over her shoulder said it all: Elaine Lawrence had been had.

“I knew I hated that woman,” Meme grumbled as she stomped her hot-pink cane on the ground. “No class whatsoever.”

“What bothers you more, the fact that Arthur Taylor doesn’t need Viagra or the fact you don’t know one way or the other?” Shaelyn asked as she listened to Brady bribe his grandfather away from the TV with the promise of taking him to a Saints game. The sound of the front door closing came moments later.

Harrumphing, Meme Elaine demanded, “Does family loyalty mean nothing to you?”

Shaelyn waltzed over to her elderly grandmother and pressed a kiss to her papery-thin cheek. “I’m experiencing déjà vu. From when, you ask? Oh, the time you signed me up for a fake engagement with a married man.”

Shaelyn might have expired on the spot from the withering look her grandmother gave her, if it weren’t for the twinkling gleam in the older woman’s blue eyes. “I helped, didn’t I? Although it certainly was never my plan for Brady to dry-hump you against my fridge . . . ”

Her eyes narrowed. “Can we agree to never say the words ‘dry-humping’ again?”

“I call it like I see it.” Meme Elaine rapped the tip of her cane against Shaelyn’s leg. “I give it a week before y’all are goin’ at it like rabbits.”

Shaelyn held up a finger. “First of all, ‘goin’ at it like rabbits’ just made it to the Things-Never-To-BeMentioned-Again list.” Another finger went up. “Secondly, you didn’t ‘call’ anything—you told me to stay away from Brady. You don’t even want me near him.”

Meme Elaine stared at her steadily from behind her blacked, cat-eyed frames. “You don’t know what I want, cher.”

And with that mysterious comment, Meme Elaine headed o to the living room—probably to catch up on What Not to Wear reruns.

The words “you don’t know what I want” nagged Shaelyn as she scrubbed her face clean and brushed her teeth for the night. They stuck around as she changed into her ratty, I Love NY T-shirt and even rattier cotton shorts.

It wasn’t until she was settled in bed, staring up at the ceiling, that she realized that she and Brady hadn’t finished their conversation. She checked the time on her phone, noting the fact that she had no new messages. It was nearly one in the morning. Way too late in the evening to text him.

He probably thought she didn’t want him. Considering that she had turned him down twice in the matter of weeks, Shaelyn could see why he might be hesitant to believe her now. Plus, what would she even text him?

Hi, I know you think I’m indecisive, but I’d like to jump your bones.

Or: Hey there, I haven’t had sex in four years. How about you do me a solid and help a girl out?

Better yet: I’m tired of just dreaming about having sex with you. Let’s make this a reality. You bring the condoms. I’ll bring the post-coital snacks.

Shaelyn shoved her face into the pillow. He was probably counting his lucky blessings for avoiding what would have been a massive mistake for the both of them.

Sure, they’d momentarily lost their minds, but she’d had a few hours to rethink her impulsiveness and, really, this was the right call. She had no plans to stay in New Orleans permanently, and he’d given her no indication that he wanted anything more than just a random hookup session.

Not having sex with Brady Taylor was the way to go.

Her phone vibrated, the light sensor illuminating the room like a poorly budgeted EDM show. When she heard her cell slam against the wall and drop to the floor with a hollow thud, she teetered o the side of the bed, fumbling for it on the ground.

Half hanging upside down, she turned her cell around so she could read the text.

Did you change your mind?

Heart thundering in her chest, Shaelyn didn’t bother hauling herself from her uncomfortable position. Her thumbs flew across the screen, and she hit the little arrowsend button before inhaling her first breath. No, have you?

His answer was just as quick. I’ve been sitting here at my kitchen table thinking about you since I got home. Another text came in, just behind the first: So, no, I haven’t changed my mind, sweetheart.

A silly, giddy smile spread on her face at the endearment.

Dammit, she didn’t want to experience the happy, fuzzy feeling warming her body. She’d gone down the relationship path with Brady Taylor before and she’d been burned. Badly.

This wasn’t about love; it was about attraction. Lust.

You’re not staying in New Orleans, she reminded herself sternly.

Her phone vibrated again. Did you fall asleep?

No, she typed out. At your kitchen table still? Reliving certain memories?

Maybe she shouldn’t have said that. What was the acceptable line between coy flirtatiousness and demanding to have his babies?

Tease. His following text read, The next time I see you, I fully expect to finish what we started, whether we’re on my kitchen table, the floor, or in a bed.

Her toes curled against the Egyptian cotton sheets. How could he heat her up when they weren’t even in the same room?

Still . . .

I can’t come tonight . . . . Meme will know, she sent o .

Are you working tomorrow?

A double. One of the other girls requested tomorrow evening o .

Shaelyn didn’t mind the extra hours. She liked helping women—and men—who came to the store to discover their sensual selves. She liked helping them to uncover who they wanted to be without feeling ashamed.

With her thumb hovering over the screen, it never went black and she read Brady’s reply as soon as it arrived. Ask Anna for an extra hour for lunch. Don’t say no. We both want this . . . . I want this and I know you do too. G’night, Shae.

She wanted this. Maybe it was a mistake, but her heart wasn’t involved. They could have uncomplicated sex. She was leaving soon anyway. Just as soon as Meme Elaine got the thumbs-up from her doctor, which would probably be any day now.

Sex with Brady had to be simple, clean cut. She wasn’t eighteen anymore. She had a job, and friends—okay, two friends, if you counted her crazy grandmother—and Freckles. Even if the cat had tried to maim her only hours earlier.

She didn’t need Brady Taylor for anything besides his fantastic, masculine body.

As she resettled herself in bed and listened to Freckles’s nails click across the hardwood floor before he jumped onto the bed, Shaelyn couldn’t help but wonder, what if.

Thankfully, she quickly fell asleep, saving her from pondering where that dangerous thought might have led.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“H ow

much would you hate me if I asked for an extra hour today at lunch?” Shaelyn asked her cousin as she refitted a mannequin with a new satin thong.

Anna put down a pair of lacy underwear. “Is everything okay? Do you have a doctor’s appointment?”

Flushing at the memory of Josie Beveau talking about OBGYN role-playing with her husband, Shaelyn gave a quick shake of her head. While she was eager to get Brady naked, she’d leave the role-playing to the professionals. Her days as a decoy were thankfully over, and the next time she got a guy into bed, she planned to do so as Shaelyn Lawrence, only.

“Um, not exactly.” Admitting that she was less than three hours away from sexy times with Brady was a whole lot harder than she’d thought.

“Is something wrong with Elaine?”

Shaelyn bit the inside of her cheek. “Meme’s fine. Cranky, wild, o her rocker, the usual.”

Anna laughed. “I want to be like her when I grow up.”

Recalling the previous night’s conversation with Meme Elaine at the helm, Shaelyn conceded that Anna had a point.

Elaine Lawrence wasn’t scared to grab life with two hands.

She was a woman who meant what she said, and said what

she thought. Maybe she’d do well to take a few pointers from the Lawrence matriarch . . .

“I’m going to have sex with Brady today.”

Shaelyn clapped a hand over her mouth. Her cheeks burned with hot embarrassment, and she suddenly wished she had something to fiddle with, as opposed to just standing there with her hands at her sides, her defenses down.

And okay, it was just Anna but still. Shaelyn didn’t do girltalk and she certainly didn’t spill secrets . . . . Come to think of it, she did feel kind of airy. There were no unicorns, no rainbows, no pots of treasure awaiting her at the end of this particular tunnel, but the anxiety cloaking her all morning was gone.

She wanted to have sex with Brady. She was going to have sex with Brady. She might as well own it.

“I was hoping, since I’m working a double, I could take o a bit early.”

Yup, she’d just crossed into Do-Not-Enter territory: telling your boss that you wanted to leave work to have sex.

This was a new low. Or a new high, depending on how you looked at it. Shaelyn laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. She, the girl who had kissed so many people for the sake of a job, was finally going to get laid, and she was leaving work to do it.

The irony would have been funny if it weren’t so painful.

When her cousin did nothing but stare at her, openmouthed, seeds of doubt wriggled into Shaelyn’s head. She was totally being judged. And that was okay, really. It was stupid, totally unprofessional, to even suggest such a thing.

Lust had made her crazy—she hadn’t been thinking with her head so much as she had with her lady parts.

“No worries,” she said, awkwardness raising the pitch of her voice. “Oh, and I’ve already contacted the shipping

company to tell them that they forgot one of our boxes of garter belts. I noticed we had a last pair in the back. I’ll organize a nice display; customers won’t even notice.”

“I’m so jealous.”

Shaelyn’s head snapped toward her cousin. “Of the garter belts? I mean, you can do the display if you want.” It wasn’t like Shaelyn was salivating to set that one up.

Anna waved her hand in the air. “No, Shae, that you’re about to do it with Brady.”

Calling sex “it” sounded so high school, but Shaelyn preferred it to her grandmother’s metaphors so she let it go.

Not to mention . . . “Are you trying to tell me that you like Brady?”

Unfettered jealousy flared at the thought of her cousin and Brady together. Although Brady drove her insane that didn’t mean Shaelyn could deal seeing the two of them all coupled up.

Another bonus point to leaving New Orleans soon. If the beautiful blonde and the hotshot cop decided to hook up and make all the adorable, gorgeous model kids, Shaelyn wanted to be long gone by then.

Anna’s hand shot out and flicked Shaelyn square in the forehead.

“Ow!” Rubbing the sore spot, Shaelyn glared at her cousin. “What was that for?”

“For thinking that I wanted to bang Brady. Does it look like I want to bang Brady?”

From Shaelyn’s perspective, it didn’t not look like Anna wanted to bang Brady. What exactly did “wanting to bang Brady” look like, anyhow?

Maybe take a look in the mirror? she told herself.

No thanks.

“I’m happy for you, Shae,” Anna said, leaning up against the display table. “Just know that you’ve doing this for the

both of us.”

“Are you sure you aren’t trying to tell me you’ve got this weird, unrequited love thing going on with him?”

“Good Lord, you’re so dense.”

“I’m not, really—” “You’re right,” Anna said. “You’re just so in love with Brady Taylor that you can’t even imagine someone else not feeling the same way.”

Shaelyn’s mouth clamped shut, her teeth audibly clicking together.

Correction: she was not in love with Brady Taylor. She wasn’t even sure that she liked him most days. Anna was just complicating things, which was understandable. It was a little weird when you thought about it: they’d dated back in the day, he’d broken her heart, she’d run away, she’d returned, they still hated each other, and now they wanted to jump into bed together.

It sounded like some clichéd script ripped o from the Hallmark Channel—which Shaelyn only ever watched during Christmastime—but this wasn’t a Hollywood production. It was her life. Lucky her.

“I’m not in love with him.” Shaelyn folded her arms over her chest. Realizing that the stance only made her look more defensive, she dropped her hands to her sides. “It’s just sex.”

Anna arched one brow, and Shaelyn had the distinct feeling that it was the Mom-Move she used against Julian.

“Can you do just sex?”

“Sure.”

“Have you before?”

Screw it. Shaelyn crossed her arms. “No, but there’s a first time for everything.” She raised her hand in the air, student-style. “Weren’t you just telling me that you were jealous?”

“Oh, I definitely said that. It’s been ages for me and you know—” “Yep, gray pubes.” With a flash of her palm, Shaelyn signaled, stop-now-for-the-love-of-God. “Recalling the conversation vividly.”

Anna’s eyes closed as her palms kissed, fingertips brushing the underside of her chin in a prayer. “One day,” she whispered in a dramatic whisper, “One day my day will come.”

Resting one hand on her cousin’s shoulder, Shaelyn lowered her voice. “Patience is a virtue, young padawan.”

Her cousin blinked. “Did you just quote Yoda at me?”

“Maybe. How do you feel? Sensing the force yet? Ready to go knock some boots with the next guy you see?” “‘Knock some boots?’” Anna’s brows furrowed. “Don’t ever say that again.”

“What about ‘going at it like rabbits’?” Shaelyn shuddered just remembering her grandmother’s conversation.

Anna’s blue eyes narrowed to slits. “What, are you twelve?”

“Thirteen, actually.”

“I think you’re deflecting.”

Shaelyn shot a wary glance at her cousin. “From sex?”

“From the reason why you want to have sex with Brady,” Anna amended, twisting away to move toward the window display. She motioned for Shaelyn to follow with a crook of her finger. “Tell yourself whatever you want, Shae, but we both know the truth.”

Shaelyn suspected she knew exactly what her cousin was implying.

Love.

Shaelyn had experienced love twice before—the first time with Brady, and the second time when she’d been twenty-

three and living in D.C. His name was Connor and he’d been the sort of gentle soul who very rarely made demands. After the heart-wrenching dump fest with Brady, Connor had been exactly what she’d needed. So what if he hadn’t made her heart pound with excitement? He’d been nice.

Turns out Connor hadn’t been all that nice. Within months, he’d struck up an a air with a pretty yoga instructor, and Shaelyn had been left out in the cold.

Literally. He’d stood her up in the middle of a winter snowstorm.

For days she’d hovered on a scale ranging from where’smy-Cherry-Garcia-ice-cream? to yoga-pants-for-days.

But her current feelings for Brady . . . . Well, they felt nothing like her raging high school emotions nor what she’d felt for Connor.

Anna was just trying to mess with her head. It came with the territory of girl talk.

“If you’re going to get laid today, you’ve got to wear something that’ll knock his socks o ,” her cousin said, her hands pulling at various hangers. “I’ll bet everything I own that you’re wearing a Walmart bra and underwear combo right now. Polka dots?”

Shaelyn sco ed. “I’m not a tween, Anna.”

“Horizontal stripes?”

Her shoulders slumped.

Anna tapped her nose and then pointed her finger at Shaelyn, murmuring, “knew it,” before she took a hanger o the rack. “This one. The green will make your hazel eyes pop.”

It was a forest-hued set, a demi-bra with a scalloped lace edge and matching cheeky-panties. Twinkling rhinestones were sewn into the fabric, scattered here and there like hidden gems glimmering in the woods.

The bra and underwear were beautiful.

They looked just like a set she’d worn a year ago during a decoy stint.

With one glance at her cousin’s hopeful expression, Shaelyn couldn’t find it in herself to turn down the o er. She trailed her finger over the lace bra strap, and pushed away the bad memories. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

Anna reached out and squeezed her hand. “Don’t you?”

“I guess this means I can have an extra hour for lunch?”

“Take two,” her cousin said with a wide grin. “It’s on the house.”

Laughing, Shaelyn hugged the hangers to her chest. It felt good to joke around. A little stab of anxiety pierced her at the thought of leaving New Orleans, and leaving this new friendship behind.

“Thank you,” she said, and meant it.

Anna swatted the comment away with a dismissive flick of her hand. “I’m just your average fairy godmother.”

“Somehow I don’t think Walt Disney envisioned this RRated version of Cinderella.”

“Then he should be thankful he never went down to Bourbon Street on Halloween.”

Shaelyn pretended to tip an invisible hat o to her cousin.

“Touché,” she exclaimed, “Touché.”

As Anna moved past her toward the checkout desk, she bumped hips with Shaelyn. “Go get him, girl.”

She smiled. She’d get him, all right, but not before she let him catch her too.

Just one time.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

H ours taken o

for lunch? Check.

Sexy lingerie? Double check.

Old unmentionables thrown into the trash at Anna’s urging? Check squared.

Currently sitting in her car, trying to pull herself together — Sir Mix-A-Lot’s classic pierced the silence, and Shaelyn leaned over the console to dig through her purse. “Julian, you’re killing me,” she muttered.

Her hand curled around her phone just as the one-hit wonder rapper reached the chorus. “Hello?”

Brady’s husky drawl filtered through the receiver. “How long are you going to sit in my driveway?”

Drumming her fingers against the steering wheel, she glanced over at his house. “You don’t have a driveway.”

He snorted, and the sound made her grin. “Same thing here in New Orleans.” He paused briefly, and Shaelyn had the impression that he had pushed away from whatever furniture he’d been leaning against. Brady paced whenever his nerves skyrocketed. “Are you comin’ in anytime soon or are you concocting another scheme with your grandmother about having my babies?”

It was her turn to sco , as she ignored his reminder that Meme Elaine was up to no good. Instead she went in for the kill. “I think we need to establish some rules before we have sex.”

“You would,” came his sexy grumble.

She’d thought long and hard—no pun intended—about the intricacies of them having sex. Anna’s conversation had confirmed one thing: emotions made things messy. Rules safeguarded the possibility that either of them might get in too deep. Even Carla had given her girls a contract listing acceptable interactions with a client’s significant other.

Conversations outside of the decoy setup were not allowed.

So were any physical interactions beyond the initial, choreographed flirting, so as to see if the alleged cheater fell for the ploy.

Rules established boundaries. She and Brady needed boundaries.

“I think they could help,” she told him. “There aren’t that many.”

“How many?”

“Four.”

“Four!” He sounded deliciously disgruntled.

“Yes. I wrote them down.” She hadn’t, but she had a sneaking suspicion that even the thought that she had would push him over the edge. Teasing him, driving him to that point of no return, had always brought a smile to her face. “I used my hot-pink pen,” she added, just to needle him further.

The front door of his house flung open and Brady stepped outside, his feet bare. He looked like a warrior ready to toss her over his shoulder and steal her away. Or, a cop with a nononsense attitude intent on getting what he wanted. His plain black T-shirt and faded jeans were as physically

appealing as if he’d been naked. Okay, almost as physically appealing, because two weeks had done nothing to erase the memory of his hard chest, and years had done little to fade the equally satisfying memory of Brady Down Under.

“Forget the list, Shae. Come inside.”

She clutched the phone tighter. “I still want to discuss the rules.”

Despite the distance separating them, she felt the intensity of his gaze. “We can talk them over after you come inside.” She watched him subtly jerk his hand in the direction of the house next door. “Crazy Shirley is probably one hot minute away from calling the cops on you for loitering.”

“Crazy Shirley” turned out to be an elderly woman dressed in a Hawaiian shirt tucked into a pair of jeans that came up to her boobs. A pair of bright yellow crocks completed her ensemble. She stood on the sidewalk, sweeping leaves into the drainage pipe and glaring at Shaelyn in her car.

“Why is she . . .?”

Brady chuckled. “You should see her during hurricane season when she sweeps the water into the sewer.”

With her gaze still fixed on Crazy Shirley, Shaelyn asked, “If she were to call the cops, wouldn’t she just call you?”

The silence on the other end of the line was long enough for Shaelyn to redirect her focus to Brady, who was combing his fingers through his hair. His tattoo peeked out from under the short sleeve of his T-shirt.

“I may have arrested her for public nudity and disturbing the peace two years ago during a bad storm.”

“Oh.” “Don’t ask; I know you want to.”

He knew her too well. Her gaze flicked to Crazy Shirley and then returned to Brady. “I’ll resist.”

“Good. Now are you going to come inside or what?”

Shaelyn grinned like a fool. His patience was wearing thin. As teenagers, he’d never had much in the way of that department. She couldn’t count the number of times he used to tell her “you’ve got five seconds” before he claimed her mouth for a hot-as-hell kiss.

“What if she tries to attack me with her broom?”

“You gonna let a little old lady intimidate you, sweetheart?”

Heart fluttering like a thousand butterflies trapped inside a mason jar, Shaelyn rolled her eyes—even though he couldn’t see her do so—and played it cool. “I could handle her.”

“I’m sure you could, but then I’d have to arrest you for brawling with a senior citizen.”

“You’ve got a point there, Mr. Taylor,” she said, laughing.

“Don’t I know it, Miz Lawrence. But let me ask you a question.” His voice lowered, deepening to a husky timbre that hinted at tangled sheets and entwined limbs. “Can you handle me?”

Her lips parted, and only silence tripped o her tongue.

With just those four words, he’d cleared every witty remark from her supply bank and replaced them with naughty visions of them together in bed.

Shaelyn watched as he slid his thumb into the belt loop of his jeans. Watched as his mouth moved a split-second faster before his voice came through the receiver and said, “If you think you’re up to the challenge, come on in.” He took one step backward across his front porch. “Door’s open, Shaelyn.”

Without waiting to see if she might follow, Brady slipped into his house. True to his word, the door stayed open.

She hesitated only a second before grabbing her purse, shoving open the driver’s side door, and stepping out. Crazy

Shirley turned to stare her down, broom clutched tightly.

“Great, uh, job there,” Shaelyn stuttered as she skirted around the Pothole of Doom.

Crazy Shirley didn’t say anything.

Right, time to get out of there. Just as her foot hit the first step of Brady’s porch, Shaelyn heard a sharp whistle and jerked around.

With broom bristles pointed in Shaelyn’s direction, Crazy Shirley nodded her head at Brady’s house. In a wobbly voice tempered by age, she called out, “Go get him, girlie!”

For the second time in less than five minutes, Shaelyn was struck mute. Which was fine, apparently, because Brady’s elderly neighbor had enough to say for the both of them.

“Broke an old woman’s heart when he arrested me for trying to show him the goods a few years ago.”

Oh, God. Shaelyn’s gaze fell to the “goods,” which were all but hidden by the woman’s Urkel-like wardrobe style.

“We would have had a grand time, you know, but I’m past my prime. Go get him, girlie, for the both of us.” And then Crazy Shirley, who was honestly living up to her nickname, went back to sweeping the leaves into the sewage drain.

Shaelyn might have thought she’d imagined the whole thing had Crazy Shirley not looked up just then and winked.

Winked. Raising a hand awkwardly in the air, Shaelyn practically sprinted up the last remaining steps.

She was going in. She and Brady were going to have sex, and now she had to do it for the three of them.

Herself. Anna. And that nutty Crazy Shirley next door.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

T

hanks to years working for the NOPD, Brady knew a little something about curbing his impatience. He’d spent thousands of hours in cruisers, roaming the streets for expired license plates or drug hand o s—more hours than he could count in front of a computer, clicking through arrests, warrants, and other violations. Brady may not have been a patient guy growing up, but his time in blue had beaten his natural impulsive tendencies into the dirt.

Thank God for that, because at the sight of Shaelyn entering his house, he wanted nothing more than to strip her out of her pale yellow dress. She reminded him one of those custard pastries that food critics salivated over, but that you could finish o in just one bite.

He cleared his throat and gestured to the table. “I ordered some food for you.”

She o ered him a small, hesitant smile as she edged past him to check out the spread on the kitchen table. Three di erent types of cheeses awaited them, along with toasted French bread (Leideinheimer’s, the best in town), smoked salmon, and an assortment of fruits and veggies.

“This looks like heaven,” she told him as she popped a purple grape into her mouth. “I didn’t realize that lunch was

actually part of the deal. I would have brought something besides myself.”

Not necessary.

The words almost escaped, but no, now wasn’t the time.

He had no intention of scaring her o before they’d even gotten started. Hell, maybe it should have unnerved him the way he wasn’t feeling the need to call it quits with her yet.

Should have unnerved him, maybe, except that he wanted this. He wanted her. He always had.

His gaze trailed down the feminine line of her back. “You only had to bring yourself,” he murmured. Slicing a piece of warm bread, he slathered it with baked Brie and plunked a thin sliver of tomato and salmon on top. “Here.”

Her hazel gaze went to his o ering. She accepted, and Brady’s heart soared. Progress, he thought. Just weeks ago she would have thrown the food at his face or accused him of tampering with it. Now, she took a bite and gave a satisfied moan that sent blood rushing south to his cock.

“Good?” He couldn’t keep his voice from dropping an octave. Watching her eat was seductive as hell. She enjoyed her food, and he hadn’t even realized how sexy that was until now.

He was a goner.

Somehow he couldn’t find it in himself to give a damn.

She flicked her tongue to gather a crumb resting on her bottom lip. “So good. Don’t tell me you made it all yourself.”

Brady nodded solemnly. “I did. Gutted the salmon, too.

Me, Tarzan, you Jane.”

Rolling her pretty hazel eyes, Shaelyn set upon making herself another half-sandwich. This time, she replaced the tomato with a cucumber slice. Definitely not to his taste, but the restaurant had thrown everything into the bag as a standard house order. “If I were maybe one of your groupies

I’d fall for that,” she replied, “but thankfully I’ve developed an immunity to your charms.”

Oh, had she now? He’d see about that.

Wrapping his fingers around her wrist, he felt the quick tattoo of her pulse as he lifted her hand and sampled the smoked salmon and French bread for himself. Huh, he thought with mild surprise, the cucumber combo wasn’t so bad after all. He flicked his tongue against the pad of her thumb.

“Delicious,” he murmured.

Her gaze lifted to meet his. “The food or me?”

Coming from someone else, the question would have been strictly sexual. From Shaelyn, her tone ringing with brutal honesty, it was laden with various nuances. Her gaze unveiled every last insecurity.

“Do you have to ask?” He placed her arms around his back and then settled his hands on her hips. After a moment, her palms slipped up to the middle of his back, just on either side of his spine.

“I mean,” she whispered, “the salmon-brie mix is really tasty.”

“You’re deflecting.” He sank his hand into her crazy curls, watching with fascination as the tight ringlets wrapped around his fingers. Medusa with a new, modern twist.

He preferred this version.

“Ask me again if I prefer the food or the woman eating it.”

Brady felt the flex of her fingers against his back. “Are you a fan of fish or meat?”

Trust Shaelyn to twist his words around. Grinning, he tugged gently on her hair and brought his lips a breath away from hers. “I prefer ‘carnivore,’ actually.”

The corners of her lips turned up in a smile. “So scientific.

They teach you that in the police academy, too?”

“They teach us a lot of things.” He brushed a soft kiss over her mouth. “But what they really focus on is always having the upper hand.”

And with that, he shifted his hands to the backs of her thighs and hauled her up into his arms. A shocked gasp was his reward.

“Brady!” Her fingers dug into his triceps.

“Unless you’re gonna ask me to take a bite out of you, I don’t want to hear another word.” He patted her butt to clue her in that he was only teasing.

“Really?” she demanded, rolling her eyes. “That was beyond lame.”

“You know I’ve said worse.”

Their gazes caught, held. It was one of the few times since she’d returned that one of them had voluntarily brought up their tangled past. He watched as that age-old distrust clouded her hazel eyes and, Jesus, it nearly buckled his knees.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

She blinked and the cloud dissipated. “Are we not going to o cially christen the kitchen once and for all?” she asked as he carried her toward the back of the house.

“Sweetheart . . . ” She shook her head. “Not right now, Brady.”

Some part of him had always known that his words were solely responsible for her hightailing it out of town twelve years ago. He’d crushed her as much as her abrupt departure had crushed him. They were going to talk about this, lay it to bed once and for all.

But first, he had her in his arms. Finally.

He dropped another kiss to her lips. “To answer your question, I thought we could do it for the first time in a bed.”

Brady wondered if she, too, found the words ironic. Did this technically count as a “first time?”

If she felt the same, he’d never know because all she did was duck her head to avoid hitting the top of the doorway.

“The bed? How very traditional of you.”

He stopped dead in his tracks. Dipped his chin to glance at the woman who had stolen his heart as a boy and was driving him up the wall of insanity as a man. His hands clenched the soft skin just above the back of her knees. She didn’t want “traditional?”

Brady could work with that. Easily.

Twisting on his heels, he pressed her back to the wall. She gasped at the sudden contact, her legs tightening around his waist. Lust surged through him, heavy and hot. She’d be the death of him. Fuck, it’d be one hell of a way to go, though.

“Are you going to put me down?” Her voice was helplessly breathless. Satisfaction followed hot on the trails of his desire.

His lips found the curve of her ear. “Now why would I do that?”

She squirmed in his grasp. “I just think—” When he pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat, Brady couldn’t help but grin at the knowledge that she’d completely lost her train of thought. “You just think what, Shae?”

Her fingers discovered the crease of his shoulder blades and pressed down, nails carving small half-moons into his back. “You’d probably be more comfort—” “How about you let me decide what’s comfortable or not?” Then, with his weight distributed evenly to keep her steady, he reached up and ripped the stupid flowery flounce o the neck of her dress. The answering shrip-p-p as the material separated from the rest of her sunshine dress was equally as satisfying as having her in his arms.

“You just tell me if I’m meeting your monthly traditional quota.”

And then he stifled her retort by capturing her lips with his.

HER BRAIN WAS on the fritz.

Not only was Brady hoisting up her against the wall like she weighed as little as cotton candy, but from the determined way he moved his lips over hers, he clearly felt as though he had something to prove.

His mouth ate greedily at hers, demanding entrance, demanding submission. And, oh God, she readily gave him everything that he wanted. More, even. When one hand came up to her chin to hold her steady for his plundering kiss, Shaelyn was already this close to throwing her arms up in the air and begging him to take her.

They paused, drawing apart ever so briefly, and Shaelyn took the opportunity to halfheartedly ask, “Rules?”

Head tipping back in a laugh, Brady caressed her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “Not on your life.”

Her teeth grazed his thumb. Bit down gently, only to swipe her tongue out and soothe the sting. His blue eyes flickered to the simmering heat of a blue flame.

“When you fall in love with me, don’t forget I didn’t try to put rules in place.” She said it flippantly—a reminder that love was not in the cards—but damn it if his eyes didn’t warm with interest. Alarm bells jingled in her head. Hastily she tacked on, “That wasn’t an invitation.”

“Who says I need an invitation?” he inquired bluntly, just before he loosened his grip on her thighs.

Her body slid along his, and the feeling of his hard erection grazing her belly, despite the interference of their clothes, pulled a small moan from her lips. When her feet landed on the soft, plush rug, Brady dropped to his knees.

Was he . . .?

She dragged her hands through his perpetually messy dark hair, then wrapped them around his biceps and pulled up in a silent command. He didn’t pay her any attention.

Could they do this? Could she do this? She wanted this, him, so badly but where was the line drawn?

If he claimed her body, would he claim her soul too?

It’d been that way as kids. Only, they weren’t kids any longer and the emotional fall if he broke her heart now would be ten times more devastating.

She whispered his name, unsure if it was a plea to fulfill her unquenched desire or for him to sate the lonely spot in her heart.

No. She couldn’t a ord to confuse the two. This was only sex, about sating the itch, about— She gasped as he flipped up the skirt of her dress and propped up her foot on his broad shoulder.

“Palms against the wall.”

Her gaze flew to the top of his head. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Yep, roger that, she’d heard him loud and clear. Even though she was experiencing a strange sense of déjà vu, she did as he said. His fingers traced the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, traipsing closer and closer to her center. But every time he drew near, he retraced his path in the opposite direction of where she wanted him. Again. And again. And again. Until she was quivering with need and tearing her hands away the wall to— Brady’s hands shot out from under her skirts and returned her own to their place on the wall. “Stay still.”

Stay still? What, was she a dog? Shaelyn opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind, but he chose that particular moment—the wretch—to finally make contact. Her head tipped back, her eyelids fluttering closed.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he said reverently.

She felt the soft press of his lips to the left of her new underwear just before he hooked his finger around the flimsy fabric and pulled it to the side. Her eyes shot open. Oh. Oh, wow.

His mouth worked over her center, languid and slow like he had all the time in the world. “Brady,” she whimpered, but besides a masculine chuckle that she felt all the way to her toes, he didn’t stop. Lips teasing, tongue flicking out for short, mind-numbing caresses, Brady eased the fabric of her panties even farther to the side so that he could slide one finger into her.

All the while, he maintained that slow, easy pace. It was driving her wild. He was driving her wild. Her nails scraped against the wall. She wanted to touch him, but fear that he might stop held her back.

He added another finger, curling them forward to hit just the right spot, and Shaelyn came apart. Her vision blurred, little dots dancing in the peripheral, and she clutched his shoulders to keep herself upright.

If left on her own, she’d melt into a puddle and never move again.

“Holy cow.”

Brady gave one last flick of his tongue against her clit, and she shuddered at the contact. Laughing, he removed her foot from his shoulder and slowly rose to his full height.

“How was that for traditional?” he asked, wrapping his hand around hers.

The sight of him down on his knees was the only thing emblazoned in her mind. Traditional? If Brady wanted to do missionary sex for the rest of life and still make her orgasm like he just had, she’d have no problems obliging him. Still, to keep up the joke, she retorted, “On a scale of one to ten, I’d give it a six.”

More like a two-hundred, but the mediocre score was all the more worth it when he halted in his tracks and jerked around, his blue eyes narrowed, his broad shoulders stilling with disbelief.

“You’re kidding, right?”

She shrugged, stifling a smile. “Don’t get me wrong. It was very nice.”

“But?” he demanded, his voice low and gravelly.

It occurred to her that she might be playing with fire. She plodded on anyway. “Doing it in the hallway with the bed five feet away really doesn’t make the sex any less vanilla.”

She almost didn’t think he would respond. Then, with lightning fast movements, he ducked down to wrap his arms around her legs. She flew up in the air—or at least it felt like she was flying, he was so tall—and then she was hanging upside down over his shoulder with her ass in the air and her dress hiked up around her torso.

“You really just want to do it on the kitchen table,” he grumbled as he headed for the front of the house.

Laughter bubbled up from somewhere in the vicinity of her heart. “I didn’t say that!” she told his backside.

Inspiration struck. She wound her arms around his waist, playing with the tab on his jeans, before slipping her hand down to fondle his erection over the denim.

He slapped playfully at her hand. “Hey, no touching!”

She continued anyway, tracing the line of his cock through the fabric of his jeans. “That’s not at all fair, don’t you think?”

His shuddered breath was all she needed to know that he was all talk and no bite. He lifted her over his shoulder and plunked her down on a sleek mahogany table. With one glance around the room, she realized that he’d opted for the dining room.

“Classy,” she teased as her hands went to the hem of his black T-shirt. She wanted another look at his tattoo.

He helped her with the removal process, his hands going to the back of his shirt and drawing it o in that sexy way only males seemed to know how to do. “Will the dining table do?” he drawled sarcastically. “Or will only throwing the food to the ground and doing it on the kitchen table be su cient?”

She glanced up at him, noticed the laugh lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes, and heaved a long, su ering sigh. “I mean, it certainly lacks spontaneity but . . . ” She trailed o as his nimble fingers slipped the bronze button from the hole of his jeans, then drew the zipper down ever-so-slowly. He was playing it up for her.

Then he shoved the denim down his legs and, oh, he was blessedly naked. His erection was long and thick—and, yep, memory had served correctly—and Shaelyn wet her lips because it was either that or pass out.

“You’re not wearing boxers,” she said dumbly.

Shamelessly, he gripped his cock and slowly jerked his hand up, twisting at the head. “I don’t wear boxers anymore.”

She watched, shamelessly, as he repeated the motion.

“No more SpongeBob?” His bark of laughter made her smile. “I’ve got that gag gift somewhere in the house.”

Her gaze leapt to his. “You do?”

Those blue-on-blue eyes said it all, and she swallowed the spark of happiness that fluttered through her. He’d kept a stupid gift she’d given him for his sixteenth birthday. His admission shouldn’t have meant anything, except that it did.

She reached out, clasping her hands on his narrow hips, and drew his body close. When he uttered her name in a

questioning tone, she only shook her head. She wasn’t ready to delve deep into their past.

“Are you a fan of spontaneity?” she asked him, and then closed her lips over the tip of his cock. He groaned, combing his fingers through her hair as his other hand continued pumping the base of his erection.

She moaned at the eroticism of it all. He didn’t let her continue for long, however, before he stepped away. One look at his face showed that he was on the verge of losing all control.

Now, his expression said.

“Condom?” she asked him.

Brady nodded shortly. As he lifted his jeans o the ground, Shaelyn made quick work of her clothes. She kicked o her nude-colored heels, undid her dress and let it slither down her body, and then removed the new lingerie.

She wasn’t even upset that Brady hadn’t seen the whole package because when he turned his gaze on her naked body, condom package in hand, he looked like he’d been punched in the gut.

“Jesus,” he swore softly, “I could look at you all day.”

He said it, even though she’d put on weight since high school; he said it, even though she was curvy and looked nothing like the beauty standard of fit, willowy, and tall.

She held out her hand and that was all the encouragement he needed. He rolled the condom over his erection and stepped between her legs. Mouth dipping to hers, he teased and nipped until she acquiesced and parted her lips.

“Just so you know, it’s been a while,” she admitted when he lined himself up with her entrance.

Understatement of the century, she thought to herself.

He pulled back to look at her. Something in his gaze warned her that this moment between them wasn’t only about sex. It should have scared her, and it did just a little,

but when he brushed a soft kiss to her forehead and whispered, “trust me,” Shaelyn realized that she did.

Brady entered her in one smooth stroke that she felt all the way to the tips of her toes and to the wary corner of her heart. As he rocked against her, Shaelyn couldn’t do anything but wrap her legs around his lean waist and cling to his shoulders. She kissed his chest, and his shoulder where his abstract ink swirled in an endless line that seemed to stretch to infinity.

His lips were everywhere: on the hollow of her neck, the sharp ridge of her clavicle, on the curve of her ear. With each thrust of his cock, Shaelyn felt the ice around her heart chip and splinter. He dipped his hand between their bodies to find her clit, rubbing in tight circles, and Shaelyn broke apart as she cried out his name.

He followed right after, driving into her body with one last hard stroke.

And when she came back into herself, Shaelyn knew only one thing.

Having sex with Brady Taylor was o cially the worst mistake of her life.

If only she wasn’t already craving to do it again.

If only her heart didn’t skip a beat when he gave her one of his sexy half-grins and cupped her cheek for a soft, earthshattering kiss.

If only she knew how to not fall in love with Brady all over again.

CHAPTER TWENTY

T

wo days.

In the scheme of life, two days was a minor blip on the radar. Normally, it wouldn’t be an issue. But considering that it had been two days since Shaelyn had last heard from Brady (and since they’d had sex), two days felt like a lifetime.

For the umpteenth time in the last forty-eight hours, she stared at her cell phone and willed it to ring, as she and Julian waited on a shipment at the boutique. Since Anna had her son help with unloading shipments twice a week, they were stuck at the boutique until the delivery guy came with the goods.

Meanwhile, if only her phone would just ring . . . . Then again, her cell phone service was shoddy here in Louisiana.

Totally possible that she’d stepped into a dead zone just when he’d decided to finally call. On the other hand, it was just as likely that Brady had gotten what he’d wanted, and now he was done with her.

Shaelyn ground her teeth. This was what she’d asked for: one day of hot sex, unencumbered by complications or unnecessary emotions.

She was full of crap.

Shaelyn leaned over the counter at the boutique to reach for her phone when it was abruptly pushed out of reach.

“I might only be thirteen, but it can’t be healthy the way you’re obsessed with that thing.”

Her phone disappeared into Julian’s Loyola University sweatshirt pocket.

“Isn’t the millennial generation supposed to be attached to their phones?” she asked as her butt hit the barstool again.

“I’m too young to be a millennial.” Julian pulled out the barstool next to hers and sat down.

Dropping her chin on to her upturned hands, Shaelyn glanced over at her young cousin. “Yeah?” She drummed her fingers on the marble countertop. “What are you then?”

“I dunno.” He shrugged, and Shaelyn noticed that one of his drawstrings was thrown over his shoulder. She felt the urge to coddle him and fix it. “I refuse to be defined by society’s standards.”

She laughed, good and hard, even when he gently punched her in the arm. “I think you may have just classified yourself, Mr. I-Refused-To-Be-Defined,” she said, pressing one hand to her cheek to ease the cheek cramps.

He grumbled, “You can’t talk, Shae—aren’t you a pescetarian?”

“I am. Except that I stopped eating meat long before it was cool.”

He nodded sagely. “A year ago then?”

It was hard not to laugh again, even though he’d just soundly insulted her. She snuck out a hand and gave him a noogie. “Let’s say I’ve been avoiding meat since the time you were born.”

Disentangling himself from her grasp, he cracked, “You’re aging yourself again.”

“How does your mama put up with you?”

His shoulders rolled in another half-shrug. “I bribe her with hugs and mother-son time.”

“Makes sense.”

They settled into a comfortable silence, and Shaelyn was left to wonder what it might have been like if she’d never left New Orleans. Would she and Julian have the same camaraderie they shared now or would she have developed more of a maternal-aunt role in his life?

And what about Brady? Would they have figured things out? It was hard to imagine how her life would be now if they’d reconciled at eighteen. Maybe they would have broken up in college like most high school sweethearts. Maybe they would’ve held on tight to their relationship until after college graduation when the world sank its claws into their romance and submerged them beneath all the weight of being an adult.

Shaelyn sighed. It was a moot point anyway. They’d had sex—fantastic, dream-worthy sex, in her opinion. After, she’d carefully gotten dressed, made some awkward comment about having to head back to work, and hightailed it out of his house.

Crazy Shirley had given her a thumbs-up as she’d hastened to her car. Shaelyn should be happy that her yearslong dry spell had ended. She should be, but she worried that she’d damned herself in the process.

For twelve years, she’d told herself that she would never fall for Brady’s good looks and charm again. She’d told herself that she was better than a pity fuck, and she was certainly better than a fake relationship, tethered together only by his grandmother’s urgings.

What did it mean that she’d then gone and done the down-and-dirty with him, despite all her prior misgivings and despite the fact that she had given no other man the chance in the last four years?

No man but her ex-boyfriend, Brady Taylor.

It was worrying.

“Hey,” Julian said, snapping her out of her stormy thoughts as he nudged her shoulder. “You got a text.”

If the fact that she’d had sex with Brady scared her, the way she nearly tore her phone from Julian’s hands should have told her that she had no hope of ever regaining her dignity.

Her stupid heart soared at the sight of Brady’s name.

I saw your car out on Chartres. Sign says the boutique is closed. Can I come in?

Could he come in?

Yes. Yes, he most certainly could.

The front linen shades were pulled down over the windows. Shaelyn leapt down from the stool and picked her way through the various racks of lingerie.

“Is this my cue to leave?” Julian called out as her hands went to the front door’s dead bolt. “I like having 20/20 vision.”

Trust Julian to make her grin even when her palms were sweaty and her heart was thundering wildly in her chest.

“Have you forgotten I’m your ride home today?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Should I go sit in the storage room?” he asked pointedly.

“No commentary from the peanut gallery, you.”

Julian made a zipping sound with his lips just as Shaelyn pulled on the thin chrome handle and opened the door.

The sight of Brady hit her straight in the gut. He was dressed in what she was starting to think of as his o -duty uniform: faded blue jeans, a black T-shirt, heavy black combat boots. On his head he wore his black Saints ball cap; the bill was curved and torn along the edge, as if he’d worked it between his hands like a stress reliever.

The upper half of his face was completely obscured by the hat’s bill. Even so, the utter exhaustion radiating o him was nearly tangible, as if the weariness cloaking his body had seeped through his skin. At the sight of his unshaven jawline, Shaelyn felt the sudden need to tug at his arms and pull him into a hug.

Her hands rose up, then dropped back down to her sides.

“Are you okay?”

Reaching up to resettle the ball cap on his head, Brady gave one short nod. “Just really fucking tired.” For him to admit even that showed that his nerves were definitely frayed. Then, his chin tipped up and she guessed that he’d spotted Julian. He proved her correct when he asked, “Anna’s son?”

Shaelyn instinctively glanced over her shoulder at her cousin. “Yeah, we’re partners for the night. We’ve waiting for a shipment.”

Brady’s chin jerked in her direction. “Yeah?” His voice dropped to a husky timbre. “What sort of shipment? Fuzzy handcu s? Vibrators with fake rhinestones?”

Laughing, she reached out to swat his chest. How was it that their familiarity now was just as easy as when they’d actually been best friends? “I thought you were tired.”

His broad shoulders lifted as a sexy grin brightened his sullen, full mouth. “I’m sure I could rise to the occasion.”

She didn’t even have the opportunity to deliver a witty response—which she hadn’t thought of yet, but only because the thought of Brady “rising” to anything turned her to brain to mush—when Julian unzipped his lips and shouted, “Shae! Do I need to leave?”

Over her shoulder, she said, “No, your 20/20 vision is safe . . . for now.” She sent Brady a mischievous glance and indicated for him to follow her. If she felt the urge to reach out and link her pinky finger with his, just to have contact,

she squelched the sensation. Only sex, she reminded herself.

Don’t confuse that with anything more.

“Julian, can I introduce you to Brady?”

“Oh!” Julian snapped to attention and stuck out his hand.

“Shaelyn’s cop—wait, am I supposed to salute you?”

If Shaelyn could have melted to the ground right then and there, she would have. Gladly. “He’s not my cop, Julian.”

Jules would not be dissuaded. “I thought y’all dated,” he went on, his blue eyes twinkling with pure teenage delight.

Had she thought they were friends? She’d been sorely mistaken.

Brady opened his mouth. “We did—” Shaelyn cut him o . “Back in the day,” she hastily threw in. “Years ago, really.”

A masculine hand cupped her elbow. Then, fingers trailing down her forearm, they skimmed over the sensitive skin of her inner wrist before clasping her hand. Her gaze dropped to their entwined hands, and oh boy, Brady Taylor was holding her hand.

Way better than pinky flirting.

“We’re actually going on a date tonight,” Brady informed Julian.

“We are?” asked Shaelyn at the same time Julian said, “You know she doesn’t eat meat, right?”

Brady’s fingers squeezed hers. “She might have mentioned something about that, yes.”

Julian nodded as if this made complete sense—like she and Brady dating made complete sense. “Did you know she makes an awesome veggie burger?”

With his free hand, Brady grabbed the bill of his Saints ball cap and twisted it to the back, and Shaelyn would have bet big money that if he’d executed that same, masculine move in front of a group of women, panties would have hit the floor. It was so unfair that even a tired, withdrawn Brady

had the ability to make her nipples tingle and the apex of her thighs grow wet with desire.

“How good?” Brady asked, and for a moment she thought the question had been intended for her. As in, how was sex with me? To which her only answer would be, Amazing. Let’s do it again.

“Flippin’ great,” Julian answered enthusiastically, dropping his elbows to the counter. His eyes widened with hero worship, and Shaelyn mentally kicked herself. Of course Julian would warm to Brady. After all, Brady was the guy tasked with finding Julian’s father . . . . Though it seemed to be taking Brady a rather long time to track Anthony Mardeaux down.

It was worrying. She couldn’t help that her thoughts leapt to the worst possible outcome.

Had Brady discovered something about Anna’s exboyfriend that was better left buried?

When she tried to pull her hand from his, Brady looked down at her with a barely-there frown but let their hands fall apart. “I’ll have to ask her to make a batch for me at some point.”

“Make sure you tell her to dress it with her special sauce.” Julian’s hands flew up in animation. “Have you had Raising Cane’s sauce?” he asked. “It’s just like that but spicier.”

“Julian and I decided to get dinner tonight, so I’m not sure I’ll be able to make our date,” Shaelyn cut in. She tried to ignore the way the light in Brady’s blue eyes dimmed. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to get dinner with Brady. But she needed to protect herself against him. He’d shattered her heart once already; if the last few days were any indication, she was hurtling down a fast-paced track for round two.

Sounding as tired as he had when she’d first let him into the boutique, he asked, “Where at?”

“Julian’s in the mood for BBQ.” Shaelyn suspected that she sounded just as worn out as he did. This push-and-pull thing between them was incredibly tiring. “We’ll probably head down to Magazine Street and hit up one of the restaurants.”

Brady’s fingers dove into the front pocket of his jeans, his thumb curling around the belt loop. His gaze shifted to Julian before coming back to rest on her. “If you don’t mind heading away from your house, there’s this great place in the Bywater. You can smell the food from two blocks away.”

“Maybe you should come with us,” Julian jumped in. “My mom’s got something going on tonight anyway.”

Both guys turned to Shaelyn, expectant expressions appearing eerily similar despite di erent bloodlines and ages. “We still have to wait for the delivery guy,” she interjected lamely. She wasn’t going to say no to them. She knew it. They knew it.

“Yes!” Julian’s fist-bumped the air. “I’ve got so many questions for you, Brady. First, is that gun on your hip real?”

Brady obviously hadn’t been prepared for the onslaught because he blinked and then glanced down to where his Tshirt slightly billowed out at his hip. His broad fingers pinched the fabric, tugging it up so that the bottom of a leather holster peeked out from under the worn cotton. “You noticed?”

“Kinda, yeah.” Julian idly played with the drawstrings of his sweatshirt. “We had some o cers come to school and talk about safety. So, have you fired it before?”

If Shaelyn hadn’t been paying close enough attention, she would have missed the way Brady’s gaze imperceptibly shuttered when his hand dropped away from his side. “How about we save the questions for dinner? That way we’ve all got something to talk about.”

The subject change didn’t shock her. Brady had always been adept at slipping out of a particular conversation whenever it got “too much” for him. His penchant for avoidance had sparked many arguments back in high school, especially when junior year had rolled around and the topic of college had sprung up between them.

He’d wanted to go to Loyola, not Tulane. Which wouldn’t have been a big deal if his grandparents hadn’t been dead set on him following family tradition. As for Shaelyn, she hadn’t been all too certain that college was for her. That hadn’t gotten over well, with either her parents or the Taylors or Brady.

“It’s just the stress,” Brady had told her repeatedly. But it hadn’t been the stress that had eaten at her; it had been the fear of failing to meet her parents’ extreme expectations.

At the jingle of the front door, Shaelyn shook herself out of the past. “Shipment and then BBQ. Plan?”

Then, as if Brady and Julian had known each other for years, they saluted her at the exact same time and answered, “Deal.”

A deal it was, then.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“W here do y’all wanna sit?” Brady asked as he held the

door open for his dinner companions. The restaurant he’d brought them to was a hole-in-the-wall, mom-andpop type joint, and one of Brady’s absolute favorites in the city. Wooden tables and matching benches bordered the wall; on every table sat a roll of paper towel, a metal tin full of utensils, and an assortment of di erent bottled sauces.

Brightly colored picture frames haphazardly covered the walls, and the low murmur of conversation, mingled with the small square footage, impressed the sense of familiarity and home.

Brady jerked his chin toward the exit door to the left of the checkout counter. “There’s a small patio out back that we can scope out if y’all want.”

“Sounds good to me,” Shaelyn said, nudging Julian’s shoulder to get his opinion.

The kid was too busy staring at the chalkboard menu like he’d discovered the pearly white doors of Heaven.

“Pulled pork?” Julian whispered in awe. “Brisket?” He twisted to glance back at them. “I can’t decide.”

Brady shrugged. “Get both.”

Julian’s gaze shot to his cousin. “Can I—I mean, is that cool?”

Shaelyn ru ed the kid’s blond hair. “Of course it is. I can’t have your mama think I’m starving you.”

They placed their order, grabbed their drinks from the fountain machine, and sat themselves out in the courtyard.

Brady listened as Shaelyn and Julian traded banter. They were two peas in a pod. They laughed at the same exact jokes and often finished each other’s sentences. When their food arrived, they both quieted and dug in, and Brady couldn’t help but wonder if this is what the rest of his life could be like if he just played his cards right.

And if you admit to her that you’re not telling her everything.

Guilt was a bitch. Here he sat, knowing without a doubt that the kid was just biding his time before he asked about his father—a man whom Brady had just spent the last fortytwo hours trying to track down.

Not, however, because of Julian, but because the results from Caleb Kemper’s last murder had finally come back from the lab.

The previously unidentified fingerprints on the gun belonged to Anthony Mardeaux.

How, and who, had allowed Anthony Mardeaux firearms when the man was a convicted felon was just another problem in this shit-tastic mess. And since the Kemper case was Brady’s shit-tastic case . . . well, he honestly wasn’t sure the last time his blood pressure had ever been so high.

So, yeah, sitting across from Julian? The guilt was a notso-friendly reminder that he had a thirteen year old relying on him to be a hero and find the man who definitely wasn’t Father of the Year.

“Are you going to eat your toast?” Julian asked, pulling Brady from his turbulent thoughts.

Brady glanced down at the Texas toast on his plate, which was slathered with enough butter to give a small rhino clogged arteries. Considering the stress he was already facing, he was probably better o without adding “heart failure” to his list of worries.

“Have at it.”

Julian didn’t have to be told twice. He snatched the toast and sank his teeth into the corner. Around a mouthful of bread, he asked, “Can I ask another question?”

“I think that Brady’s through with the questions,” Shae piped up as she snagged the other half of the toast from Julian’s fingers. Ripping o a chunk, she dunked it in the vinegar-based BBQ sauce on her plate and popped it into her mouth. If they hadn’t had juvenile company, there would have been no stopping Brady from leaning over and planting a kiss on her.

With her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and her fingers darkened with sauce, she looked damned adorable.

Brady settled for squeezing her knee under the table. Her fork clattered to the plastic tray, and she knocked knees with him in warning. He wasn’t so easily scared o . Letting his fingers trail up the soft slope of her thigh, he turned to Julian. “What’s your question?”

Please don’t let it be about Mardeaux.

He needed more time. What had started as a reasonably simple request had morphed into something that was decidedly the NOPD’s territory. He wanted to give Julian the information he sought; he wanted to give Shaelyn a reason to trust him. But Mardeaux was no longer just a hard-nosed criminal. He was now a suspect in a murder case.

Truth is, Brady had no idea how to get himself out of this mess, personally or professionally. It had been forty-two hours since Mardeaux’s prints had come back. Forty-two hours of sitting in unmarked vehicles, waiting for the guy to

show up at his own house or at the auto shop he owned for something, anything—even a goddamn shit break. Fortytwo hours of talking to neighbors, relatives, and clients at the body shop.

Brady was no closer to finding Anthony Mardeaux now than he had been two days ago, and from the way Lieutenant Cartwell had informed Brady of his slip from third to fifth place for the promotion, Brady suspected that his inability to solve the Kemper case might just take him out of the running completely for the job.

“Ow.” Jerking, he glanced over at Shaelyn to find her glaring at him. “What?”

“You squeezed my knee too hard,” she said, swatting at his hand under the table.

Shit. “I’m sorry, Shae, I’ve had a—” A what? He couldn’t exactly tell her that he’d had a really long few shifts at work—she’d be sure to have questions.

Questions that he couldn’t answer. He fought back the urge to lean over and press his lips to hers in an apology he couldn’t yet explain.

Removing his hand from her knee, he dug into the pulled pork that needed no knife it was so tender. “Hit me with your question, Julian.”

And please let it be one that I can answer.

Julian’s blue gaze flicked from Brady to Shaelyn.

“Promise not to tell my mom, Shae?”

“If you’re doing drugs, there’s not a chance in hell of that happening,” was Shaelyn’s quick reply.

Brady reached for the sweet BBQ sauce. “His mother will be the least of his problems if he’s doing drugs.”

That seemed to appease her, even though Julian looked to be about two minutes from stomping his foot. He shoved his sleeves up to his elbows, and dropped them to the table.

Brady cleared his plate and leaned back. “C’mon, kid, give me all that you got.”

“All right.” Julian’s plastic utensils dropped to the tray.

“How do I kiss a girl?”

Silence descended over the table like the final curtain call of a play, and Brady felt the absurd urge to wait a moment for the ensuing applause. Of all the questions he’d expected to hear from Anna’s son, this hadn’t been it.

For her part, Shaelyn looked scared shitless.

Guess this one’s for me, he thought, and then adjusted his ball cap. “Is it your first kiss?”

The kid’s cheeks bloomed a vibrant red, which was the curse of all fair-haired people. Even if Julian had tried to lie, Brady would have known. The whole world would know.

“How ‘bout you answer me this,” he said instead.

“What’s her name?”

“How old is she?” Shae interjected. “What does she look like?”

Julian’s gaze eagerly sought Brady for help. Reaching under the table, he once again squeezed her knee to catch her attention. “I think maybe Julian wants some guy talk.”

“Guy talk?” Shae spat the words like they were venom.

“I’m included in this dinner, you know.” She turned to Julian and pointed her fork at him. “You’d better ask me how to land the girl, since I happen to be one.”

“Are you?” Brady teased as he slipped his fingers an inch up her thigh. “Who knew, right, Jules?”

Julian looked like he’d witnessed the start of World War III and was rethinking his life decisions. “Her name’s Alice,” he confessed, his blue eyes darting between them. “She’s fourteen.”

“An older woman—good move.” Brady held up his hand for a high-five, and Julian grinned widely as he answered the call. At his side, he heard Shaelyn snort. Was she thinking

about the fact that she was older than him by almost four months? He hoped so.

To Julian, he added, “Age is just a number, buddy. What matters is that you and Alice connect on a deeper level.”

“I just want to kiss her.”

Famous last words right there. And a feeling Brady understood all too well. Just wanting to kiss Shaelyn had been his downfall ever since she’d returned from New York City. Hell, it’d been his downfall back in high school too.

He glanced at her from under the safety of his ball cap. He wondered if she was rethinking her brilliant idea of onetime-only sex with him.

Something that Brady refused to let slide for much longer.

He wanted her, more than he was willing to show.

But sometime in the last twelve years she’d developed a knack for handing out rejection, and that was something he didn’t particularly wish to find himself on the receiving end of again.

So, he’d move slowly. Take his time. Insert himself into her life in small ways, until one day she looked up and realized that he was as necessary to her as breathing.

And one of those ways was getting Julian to like him, which wouldn’t be too much of a hardship because the kid already looked at him as if he hung the stars.

For how much longer, though?

He stamped down the guilt. He’d figure this Mardeaux thing out.

Shaelyn took a pull of her sweet tea. “What about spin the bottle?”

Julian’s blond brows drew together. “I’m thirteen, Shae.”

Shaelyn put her plastic cup on the wooden table. “What?

Thirteen-year-olds played that when we were younger— right, Brady?”

Brady couldn’t for the life of him ever remember playing that or Seven Minutes of Heaven but he nodded anyway.

Moral support, and all of that. The cornerstone of all budding relationships. “Yep, all the time,” he said agreeably.

Julian shook his head. “I’m not playing spin the bottle.”

“Okay, okay.” Shae fixed her gaze on the sauce bottles in the middle of the table. Her chin kicked up, and she looked at her cousin. “Seven Minutes of Heaven?”

Groaning, Julian dropped his face into his cupped hands.

“What?” Shaelyn flicked her gaze to Brady, a helpless expression on her face. She looked so adorably clueless that this time, Brady couldn’t help leaning over to plant a quick, easy kiss on her mouth. Her tongue darted out to swipe over her full bottom lip, as if trying to capture his essence.

It was erotic as hell.

Shifting on the wooden bench, Brady hitched his jeans by the crease at the knees to alleviate the pressure on his hardening cock. This was definitely not the time, nor the place.

Tell that to your buddy down under.

Fuck.

“Brady?”

He snapped his focus to Julian, who had, from the expectant look in his blue eyes, already said his name a few times. Meanwhile, Brady had been doing everything in his power to not think of Shaelyn riding him at least three di erent ways.

Not helping.

He backpedaled. “Sorry, Julian. What’d you ask me?”

“Who was your first kiss?”

“Miranda Wiltz. Second grade.” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, and reached up to twist his hat around. “She cornered me at recess when I was hanging upside down on

the monkey bars. Took advantage of me when I least expected it.”

“What a Mary Jane Watson you were,” Shaelyn groused. If he didn’t know any better, he would think she was jealous.

He hid his grin.

“Does it count if I wasn’t wearing my super-secret Spiderman suit?”

Her pretty hazel eyes fell on him. “Was it raining?”

Cocking his head to the side, he pretended to think back on it. “Down-pouring.” If he recalled correctly, it’d been about as hot as the Sahara that day without a single rain cloud in the sky.

“Must have been love at first sight, then.”

“Must have been,” he murmured. For a moment, they only looked at each other.

Julian clanged his plastic fork against the tray, like a mu ed wedding toast. Both Brady and Shaelyn looked away.

“What about y’alls first kiss?” Julian asked, using his fork to gesture between them.

Awkward as all hell.

Brady had been so nervous that his hands had nearly dripped with sweat and, when he’d leaned down for the kiss, he’d missed and pecked her chin instead. Shaelyn hadn’t been his first kiss, even after the whole SpidermanMiranda-Wiltz-Debacle, but dammit, Shaelyn’s kiss had been the first one that mattered.

Brady had been so embarrassed after that he’d avoided Shaelyn altogether for two weeks. Even after that, he hadn’t mustered up the courage to lay one on her for another few months.

He grabbed the curled bill of his Saints cap and drew it up, and then resettled it on his head again. “It was, uh . . . you know—” “Perfect.”

Brady swung his gaze over to Shae. She was watching him, and he wished beyond everything that he’d had the gift of telepathy so he could read her mind. But he wasn’t lucky, and all he could do was return the heat of her stare.

She moistened her lips with another sweep of her tongue, and on cue, Brady felt it down to his erection.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice deep and gravelly even to his own ears.

“Yeah.” She o ered him a small smile. “It was perfect.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“T

aylor! In my o ce—now.”

Brady glanced up at the sound of Cartwell’s bellowing. He’d never particularly cared for the guy. Not when he’d transferred to homicide and not now either. Still, when the boss shouted, you fucking hopped to it.

“Have you had your will drawn up?”

Brady barely spared Danvers a glance before grabbing his mug of co ee o the desk. God knew he was probably going to need it. He could only think of one time where a meeting with Cartwell hadn’t ended up with Brady being cut a D-1.

Suspension days were the equivalent to vacation here in homicide. Brady hadn’t been cut too many, but he’d had enough to know that when Cartwell wanted a “private” meeting, he might as well start picking between the Caribbean or somewhere in the Florida Panhandle.

Or his grave.

“I’ll be okay,” he said as he rounded the edge of his desk.

Danvers merely two-finger saluted Brady as he passed by.

He entered Cartwell’s o ce with as much confidence as he could possibly muster up under the lieutenant’s stare, which was as dark and soulless as the co ee Brady held in his hand.

“Dump the java in the can,” Cartwell grunted.

Brady did as he was told, mainly because the two-fifty he’d paid for the co ee wasn’t worth the price tag of picking out a tomb at one of the city’s many aboveground cemeteries.

“Shut the door.”

He edged the door closed with the heel of his boot, and then claimed the seat opposite the lieutenant. “You wanted to talk?”

Cartwell took his sweet time shutting down his computer.

Reaching out, he wrapped a single hand around a black mug and pulled it close. Brady ground his teeth to keep from calling the man a hypocritical ass. He kept silent even when the lieutenant lifted the mug to his mouth and took a long swig of co ee.

Brady waited.

“It’s no secret that you want the promotion, Taylor,” Cartwell finally said.

“I do, sir.”

Cartwell planted the mug on the desk. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “So tell me why the department should consider you when you’re not even capable of wrapping up the Caleb Kemper case.”

It wasn’t a question, and Brady honestly wasn’t too certain that Cartwell cared to know the answer anyway. At this point, Brady felt more inclined to try and protect the job he did have as opposed to fighting for the one he wanted.

Refusing to show any sign of uncertainty, Brady brought his elbows to the desk and leaned forward. “Kemper was behind bars within twenty-four hours,” he said. “If you’re referring to Mardeaux, I put 24-hour surveillance on his house, his shop, and any place that he’s noted for frequently visiting.”

Cartwell didn’t blink. “And, still, you haven’t caught him.

What, are you waiting for him to hire out for another murder before you finally cu the guy?”

Internally, Brady knew that his superior was trying to rile him up. So far, he’d done everything he could to find Mardeaux. Even the man’s mother had been the first to say that she had no idea where her son had gone. “Disappeared” had been the word she’d used.

Telling the rank that the perpetrator had disappeared might actually land Brady in the grave. “We don’t actually know that he murdered anyone . . . his prints were on the gun, which is certainly incriminating. It’s only a matter of time before we get some more information.”

Long seconds passed in which the older man did nothing but drum his fingers on the desktop. Then, “I’m gonna put Summers on the case.”

Brady’s stomach bottomed out. Summers was a decent guy, but a little slow on the uptake. His fingers curled into fists. Which meant that if Cartwell was resorting to replacing Brady with Summers, then Brady was well and truly screwed.

Desperation clawed at his throat, making it di cult to talk. “I’ll amp up the guys at Mardeaux’s local hangouts.

Fuck, I’ll be out there myself.”

“Summers has a good track record for apprehending suspects.”

So do I. There weren’t enough four-letter words to describe how Brady felt about Cartwell, Mardeaux, and Summers right now. Especially Mardeaux. He wanted to jump up and yell; to slam his fist into the wall; to explain to Cartwell that he had everything under control.

“You’re a good cop, Taylor,” Cartwell murmured after watching Brady with an expression that veered toward pity,

“and an even better detective. Just admit that you don’t have control over this case.”

“How about the fact that Mardeaux is one federal charge away from sitting in the state pen right now?” The urge to stand up and storm out of Cartwell’s o ce was overpowering.

By Louisiana law, three-time federal felons got life behind bars. Mardeaux had two strikes against his name. The man might be elusive, but there was no reason to suspect that he was too stupid. One wrong move and Anthony Mardeaux could be learning what it was like to be handcu ed, permanently.

“Do you think,” Brady plunged on, anger heating his voice, “for one second, that Mardeaux has forgotten that Angola is his permanent home if he gets caught? If you had already committed two felonies, do you think you’d just wait around at your house for the cops to scoop you up and cart you o to jail with no hope of posting bail?”

Cartwell’s fingers ceased their tapping, and the man’s dark eyes tracked every one of Brady’s movements. When he said nothing, Brady swallowed harshly.

“I’ve got no doubt that Mardeaux is laying low. We’ve checked his house, his shop. I’ve got o cers posted out there at all times of the day. He’s not there.” Brady broke o to gather his thoughts. If he’d ever hoped to make sergeant, he sure as hell had just ruined his chances.

Which was why he was completely surprised when his superior said, “You’ve made your point.”

Brady desperately fought o the urge to slump down in his chair at the lieutenant’s admission.

“Keep on the case.”

His head jerked up to look at the man seated across from him, but Cartwell didn’t give him enough time to say a single word. Instead, the lieutenant pointed at the door. It was a

blatant dismissal. Not that it bothered Brady; he wasn’t opposed to getting the hell out of the man’s o ce.

His chair scraped across the linoleum floor as he stood.

“I’m still going to put Summers on the case.”

Brady’s fingers dug into the back of the chair. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“I do.”

With those words, Brady’s fate was sealed. He either pulled himself together to focus all his energy on the job, or he might as well give up now before he got swallowed and spit back out.

He waited until he was back at his desk before sliding his phone out of its belt-loop holster. Ignoring Danvers’ inquiring gaze, Brady flicked through his contacts until he got to the S’s.

Anyway I can see you tonight?

He left o the “please” at the end. He had a feeling that Shaelyn would know he needed her anyway.

“TELL me you didn’t stop suckin’ the heads when you were up there in New York.”

Shaelyn paused in decapitating a red crawfish to stare up at Brady. They were seated at his kitchen table, a bucket of out-of-season crawfish at their feet and a white garbage bag on the table for the remains. His text from earlier that afternoon had surprised her. Surprised her, yes, but also excited her.

Not that she’d admit that.

She finished the job, slurping the spicy juices out of the head, and then tossed it into the trash bag. “Do you have to make it sound so sexual?”

The slow smile that spread across Brady’s face sent little warning bells ringing in her head. “Now, sweetheart,” he

drawled in that husky voice of his, “why in God’s name would I pass up an opportunity to make you blush?”

“I’m not blushing.”

His brows arched high on his forehead.

“I’m not,” she reiterated firmly, even though they both knew her face was probably the shade of the crawfish they were eating. “It’s the fact that this is spicy as all get out.”

She gestured at their plates.

He used the plastic ladle to scoop more crawfish out of the bucket and onto his plate. “Probably trying to cover up the fact that crawfish season ended months ago. But I figured you’d be craving some and couldn’t wait till wintertime.” He dug around the bucket with the ladle again and then held it out to her. “Still your favorite?”

Silly as it was, she couldn’t help but feel giddy about him remembering she preferred boiled corn-on-the-cobb to anything else. Meme Elaine would have said that it was the little gestures in life that showed someone cared; Anna would have said that Shaelyn should jump Brady’s bones before the opportunity passed.

But she was just Shaelyn Lawrence, and so she went with what felt comfortable. Grinning, she held out her plate with both hands. “Put that baby right here.”

“Some things never change,” he returned easily. He did as she ordered and then dug into his own massive helping.

“Tell me, do you still do that thing where you have to listen to country music to fall asleep?”

Shaelyn shook her head. “You’ll be happy to know I grew out of that habit around the time that I moved from D.C. to New York. I had a roommate who hated country. She threatened to smother me in my sleep if I kept it up.” Her shoulders came up in a shrug. “I never could get used to the feeling of earbuds against a pillow, so I learned to do without Reba McIntyre.”

“Can’t say that I’m too put out about that.”

“No, you wouldn’t be—I used to have to bribe you to turn on the country station when we drove anywhere.” She didn’t mention that “bribing” had somehow always turned into fondling and sex. From the way his blue eyes heated, she had a feeling that he remembered her bribes all too well.

Brady pointed a crawfish in her direction, and the claws bounced with the movement. “That’s because I had a lick of sense.”

“Debatable.”

His broad hand went to his chest, then shook it out as if he’d been burned. “Damn, girl, rein in the claws.”

Laughing, Shaelyn wiped her hands on her napkin. Thank God she’d changed into a T-shirt after work, because the formfitting dress she’d been wearing earlier would have done nothing to hide how full she was. “I’m sorry, I forgot that as much as you like to dish the insults, you can’t take it.”

“Now you’re just being mean.” Shoving his chair back, Brady nudged the bucket of crawfish under the table and came to her side, his dirty fingers spread wide and coming right for her. “Wanna apologize?”

With reflexes she hadn’t even known she’d possessed, Shaelyn launched herself from the chair and grabbed hold of the kitchen towel o the counter. “Don’t you dare, Brady!”

She snapped the towel at him, and the damp fabric elicited a sharp sound as it cracked in the air. “I’m armed.”

Brady wiggled his brows at the same time he did his fingers. “So am I, sweetheart.” He circled her like a lion after its prey, and Shaelyn felt distinct warmth between her legs.

Hands down, Brady Taylor was the sexiest guy she’d ever met.

Feeling quite like a matador taunting a bull, Shaelyn snapped the towel again and then skipped out of the way

when his questing fingers broached too close to her white Tshirt.

“C’mon, Shae,” he cajoled in a soft rasp, “one kiss to make up for it.”

She laughed, because the sight of him wiggling his dirty fingers at her was honestly the best thing she’d ever seen.

“Not on your life.”

His blue eyes narrowed. “Is that so?”

When she next snapped the towel, he took advantage and snagged it midair like a blue-eyed Mr. Miyagi. She let out a shriek when he reeled her in and encircled her hips with the towel, using it to bind her to him. Grinning widely, he backed her up against the kitchen sink and pressed his hips to hers as he reached around her to turn on the faucet.

“Someone is up and ready,” she quipped, unable to ignore the hard length of his erection pressing into her belly.

The faucet shut o . His hands came to her sides to dry on the towel. “He got a mite bit jealous watching you sucking on all those crawfish heads. Haven’t left your Louisiana roots so far behind now, have you?”

She laughed. “I should have known you’d say something like that.”

His head dipped and he met her gaze. “Then you shouldn’t have given me the perfect opportunity to say it.”

Speaking of perfect opportunities, was he not going to use the one he had right now? Shaelyn danced her fingers over the tight muscles of his biceps. How they’d ended up here again, she wasn’t all too sure. It seemed like not too long ago that even the sight of him incited her temper, but now . . .

“Brady?”

Blue eyes flicked down to her mouth. “Mhmm?”

“Are you going to kiss me?”

Masculine hands gripping her waist, he murmured, “I thought you’d never ask,” and then captured her lips with

his.

It was a searching kiss, slow and unhurried as if they had all the time in the world to explore. In high school, most of their kisses had been frantic. They’d had only stolen moments away from her parents and his grandparents. The backseat of his truck had been a particular favorite when they wanted to be alone. But Brady was proving now that he had more to o er than just a fast and frenzied pace— although he excelled at that, too.

Applying gentle pressure, he coaxed her lips open.

Heaven. That’s exactly what kissing Brady felt like. Her body was wholly aware of his—of the way his fingers balled the loose fabric of her T-shirt and of the way his much taller frame curled around hers. He was both safety and the unknown, wrapped up in a package destined to drive her wild.

He pulled away. Silently, his hand clasped hers.

The kitchen towel fell to the tiled floor. Neither she nor Brady seemed too inclined to pick it up.

“Are we not doing it on the table today?” she asked, following his lead down the hall.

Throwing her a saucy look over his shoulder, he told her, “I’ll take you on the table for the rest of your life. But today, we’re taking advantage of a bed.”

Without allowing her the chance to obsess over the “for the rest of your life” comment, he pulled her down the long hallway to his bedroom. The door was open already, and so were the window curtains. Evening sun filtered in through the slanted blinds, creating pockets of warm light on the unadorned walls behind the bed, on the dark navy sheets, and on the carpeted floors.

Brady turned to her, a crease of light illuminating the column of his throat. His gaze was as warm as the sun kissing her skin, and the thought hit her that she had no idea

how she’d lived without him for so long. Cheating wasn’t acceptable, but some time in the last month she’d forgiven him. Whatever he’d done at the age of seventeen couldn’t be held against him now.

Although she could have sworn she imagined it, the ice encasing her heart thawed, just slightly. The anxiety she’d su ered so acutely while working for Carla had eased, too, and she had a feeling she had Brady to thank for that.

Her fingers sought the nape of his neck, and she tugged him down to meet in a hot play of lips and tongue. Broad, tapered fingers slid up beneath her plain white T-shirt, scorching a path up to her back and landing on the clasp of her bra. Nimble fingers did away with the eye-and-hook closures and the straps creasing her shoulders loosened as her breasts were freed.

When his hands came round to pluck at her nipples, they both released ragged sounds of pleasure. “Brady.”

“What do you want, Shaelyn?” he rasped, touching his mouth to the sensitive place right below her ear.

What did she want? Wasn’t it so very obvious?

Her fingers dug into his neck, no doubt marring halfmoons into his skin where her nails left their mark. He kept going, alternatively pinching her nipples and caressing the hardened tips with the pads of his thumbs. For a girl who’d been celibate for years, Brady’s unique cocktail of pain and pleasure was enough to make her orgasm without any added stimulation to her lady parts.

His hands slid out from under the fabric of her T. “Take o your shirt.”

Shaelyn didn’t question him, her fingers hightailing to the hem of her shirt and pulling the worn cotton up and over her head. She shook her head to right her curls, and then allowed her un-latched bra to slip down her arms. She’d never felt so confident as she did in this moment. Maybe it

was the way his gaze hungrily fixed on her breasts and full waist, or maybe it was just the fact that in letting herself go with Brady, she’d finally remembered to enjoy life.

Whatever it was, she wasn’t about to stand about idle and meek. She gestured at his shirt, which was, as per usual, black. “Your turn.”

With a sly grin, Brady did as he was told, pulling o the back of his T-shirt by the fabric behind his neck. Her mouth watered at the sight of his intricate tattoo and the cut ridges of his abdomen. His basketball shorts hung low, exposing the sharp lines of his hipbones and the tip of his cock peeping out from the elastic waistband.

“What next?” he asked.

She pointed at his feet. “Socks.”

“Done.” He bent over, took them o , and straightened.

Raising his arm, he let his ankle socks flutter to the ground as though they were a set of sexy lingerie. From the wicked grin tugging at the corner of his lips, he obviously knew that he was being ridiculous but wanted her to play his game.

“Excellent, excellent,” she said, falling into character. In the past, she’d dressed up as a dominatrix, a shy schoolgirl, a lone girl waiting at a bar, and a host of other personas while working for Carla Ritter. But never had she felt so genuine, so at ease in her own body, as she did right now.

She knew that Brady was responsible for that. No way could she have done this with anyone else—case in point, the fact that she’d been unable to summon the interest or the courage to date anyone for years.

Not until Brady Taylor had stepped back into her life.

In just her cotton shorts, Shaelyn circled him with a decisive sway to her hips. She danced her fingers up and down his powerful back, then trailed her fingers along the ribbed edge of his waistband. When she reached his erection,

she gave him a silky smile and jumped her fingers to the other side of his cock.

Brady tipped his head back with a guttural groan. “Such a tease.”

She paused, lengthening his torment with the promise that she might return to his already leaking erection. “You like me that way.”

“You’re right.” His chin dipped with intention, and he reached out to snag her by the strings of her cotton shorts. “I like you this way too.”

And then, without giving her any preparation, he skillfully tugged her shorts and underwear down her legs and tossed her onto his bed. Amidst gusts of her laughter, she watched as he shucked his own shorts, his erection bobbing against his stomach, and climbed onto the bed.

Their skin kissed as he stretched his body out alongside hers. Her laughter faded, like the setting sun that now only touched the carpeted floor and left them in a blanket of blues and grays as evening fully set in.

Then, there were no spoken words. Her hands coasted down the landscape of his back; his skimmed the curves of her body, falling in at the waist and fanning out at the hips.

She urged him on with barely coherent pleas for more, and he acquiesced in a perfect rhythm when his skillful fingers found the center of her pleasure and pressed down.

Her lashes fluttered shut as she succumbed to the experience of being touched—dare she hoped, loved—by him.

He stopped, and her hips instinctively rose up o the mattress to coerce him into continuing. “Open your eyes, Shae.”

When she did as he bade, he added, “I want to see your expression when I make you come.” His middle finger found her entrance and entered, circling slowly until her heels were

digging into the bed and her hands had fisted in the sheets.

“I never want you to forget who makes you feel this way.”

He applied pressure to her clit with his thumb, and Shaelyn swore she saw shooting stars scramble across her vision. He never increased his rhythm, never picked up his speed. And, oh God, she knew intrinsically that he was staving o her orgasm until he was ready for her to hit that apex of pleasure. He added another finger, and still he maintained that leisurely pace that would ultimately, she knew, prove her undoing.

She yanked his head down and told him with angry, consuming kisses what she thought of his games. Still, she kept her eyes open. Despite the scarce light in the bedroom, his Destin-blue gaze held her captive.

By some small grace of God, his thumb began circling her clit faster, with just the right amount of pressure. His fingers curled in, hitting her in just the right spot. And then, just when her orgasm kicked o , he rolled away from her body to open the nightstand drawer and take out a condom. She heard the crinkling of the foil, before the bed dipped under his weight.

Silently, he pulled at her hips until she sat up. With a flat palm to her waist, he indicated for her to flip over onto all fours. His large frame came upon hers from behind. She felt the thick head of his cock at her opening before he entered her with one smooth stroke.

She uttered a curse, or maybe that harshly uttered word belonged to him. In the quiet of the room, that was only broken by her pleas for more and his rasped groans, it was di cult to tell where she ended and he began.

His hips pumped in that achingly slow rhythm that Shaelyn discovered she loved as much as she hated. Hated because it meant that he was in control of his body, his emotions, when she felt so disjointed, so needy. Loved

because it slowed everything down, and allowed her to focus on their bodies moving in tandem: his fingers clenched down on her hips; his hard chest curved over her back like a shield; the slow slide of his cock, moving in and out, as though he was determined to make the moment last forever.

The fast thump-thump-thump of his heart beating against her left shoulder.

She reached back to slip one hand into his damp hair, and he turned his face to press a kiss to her shoulder.

How could she ever live without him again? The unbidden thought sliced through the pleasure, and Brady must have noticed the sudden disconnect between them because he wrapped a hand around to her front to find her clit.

The stimulation drove her o the precipice, instigating a litany of “oh God, oh God, oh God” to fall from her lips. He pulled out, rolled her onto her back, and pushed back in with a powerful thrust.

Oh God. Words tripped o his tongue as he met her stroke for stroke, his elbows encased on either side of her head and his breath whispering across her forehead. With one final drive of his hips, he reached his peak—shoulders shuddering and mouth raining kisses on her cheeks, her nose, her chin, her mouth.

When the tremors subsided, he scooted back and left the room. Shaelyn heard the toilet flush, and then his feet padding over the carpet. The mattress creaked under his weight, before he stretched out once again and pulled her flush against him.

The urge to turn over and tell him that she loved him coursed through her. But it was just an urge, and because of that, she stifled the emotion before it could rear its head and ruin everything.

They’d decided on having sex. Just sex. Love had no part in the equation.

And still, as she listened to his breathing even out into slumber, she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever love her back.

On the heels of that came another, more terrifying thought: what would he say if she ever told him about Carla Ritter?

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“D o

you want some co ee?” Brady asked Shaelyn the following morning. “Sugar?”

She was seated at his kitchen table dressed in the same white T-shirt and cotton shorts he’d stripped o her earlier that night. He glanced at the stove’s digital clock: 4:57 a.m.

Early as hell, but after a second round of amazing sex, they’d both decided food was in order. Shaelyn wasn’t due at the boutique until later in the morning; as for himself, it’d probably be in his best interest to get his ass down to Headquarters as soon as possible.

Co ee first.

“Shae? Sugar?” Turning around, he noted that she looked . . . scared. No, not scared. Nervous. Her fingers twined in her crazy curls—curls that had been splayed across his pillow all night.

Forcing casual ease to his movements, he pretended her expression didn’t scare the shit out of him as poured them each a mug of steaming black co ee. He took the seat opposite hers and pushed her mug across the table.

Up close, her nervousness seemed more tangible. His heart squeezed at the thought that she might be gearing up to call it quits. He needed to stick to the plan. Slow and

steady always won the race. No matter how much he wanted to throw himself at her feet, he suspected that wouldn’t get him anywhere.

Follow her rules, Taylor.

He lifted the mug to his mouth, feeling marginally better when the ca eine hit his tongue. She hadn’t touched hers at all.

Unsure of whether he even wanted to hear her answer, he asked, “Are you okay?” He steeled himself for the worst, gripping his mug like a veritable shield.

“Why did you invite me over last night?”

“I, uh . . . ” Brady coughed into his balled fist. “I wanted to see you.”

Abandoning her co ee, she crossed her arms over her chest defensively. “That’s all it was? Just you looking for a hook-up session?”

His gut told him that this was a trap. She’d misconstrue anything he said, so that “I’m busy tonight” inadvertently turned into “I’m having a di erent chick over,” and “Let’s not go to my grandparent’s house tonight” soon equated with “I’m ashamed of you and you aren’t worthy of meeting my family.”

So, Brady chose the option of all men in the entire universe when a woman was on the hunt for castration: he kept his mouth shut.

Wrong move.

Shaelyn flung her hands up in the air with displeasure. “I hate when you do this,” she bit out.

Knowing that his next question might actually lose him his most important asset, Brady cautiously asked, “Do what exactly?”

She waved her arm in his direction. “That,” she muttered with a frustrated hu . “When you get all quiet and pretend that everything is fine.”

“I thought everything was fine.” Do not fall for the trickery.

Brady warily tugged his mug close to his chest, and did the same with hers in the chance she decided to lob it at his head. “We had fantastic sex last night. We made plans to grab dinner tonight after work. I’m sorry if I seem a little confused.”

Shaelyn shoved her fingers into her hair. She looked exhausted, which made sense as he’d kept her up most of the night. “I guess I just . . . ” “What is it, sweetheart?”

Her eyes screwed shut, closing him o to the emotions lurking in her gaze. Hands clasping opposing elbows, her shoulders rounded. Brady had witnessed the same pose in countless domestic abuse victims over the years.

Instinctively his senses went on high alert. Reaching for her hands, he wasn’t surprised when she avoided his touch.

“Shaelyn,” he said with urgency, “What’s wrong?”

“I need to tell you something.”

The most damning phrase in human kind, in his opinion.

Random thoughts skidded through his brain—had this all been a part of her scheme for revenge? Was she actually seeing someone else, and not just some fake fiancé?

His heart stilled as a new thought slammed into him: what if she was rejecting him because she still thought he’d cheated on her?

Screw taking things slowly. He refused to lose her because of some ridiculous misunderstanding when they’d been kids.

“I didn’t cheat on you,” he said, knowing that his attempt to clear the air might prove to be futile. He couldn’t make her want him. “I’ve always wondered if you thought I had, but I didn’t.”

Her hazel eyes blinked back at him. Briefly, confusion edged out the anxiety. “What are you talking about?”

Too late to turn back now. “When we broke up—I never cheated on you before or after that.”

“Then why did you sneak o at Luke’s graduation party?”

Her gaze latched onto his. “I found you alone with that . . . that blond chick.”

Ill-timed humor tugged his lips. “You don’t remember her name, do you?”

Mouth pursing, Shaelyn finally reached for her co ee as though she needed something to hold. At last, she muttered, “It’s been twelve years.”

“If it helps, I don’t remember her name either.”

“But you were the one who nailed her in Luke’s bedroom!”

At her vehement outburst, Brady flinched.

“I didn’t touch her, Shae. She wanted to talk in private about Luke. Seems that she’d been harboring a crush on him for years, but he never gave her the time of day—classic Luke.” Raking his fingers through his hair, Brady recalled how he’d spotted Shaelyn in the mirror’s reflection as he’d sat on the floor and spoke to Luke’s secret admirer. He’d called out Shaelyn’s name, but she’d already fled. “She asked me this random question. I’ll never forget it.”

Shaelyn’s silence encouraged him to continue.

“She wanted to know if I’d ever been in a position where I felt as though my path had been laid out for me.”

“Which you did,” she said flatly, voice faltering, “Me.” “No.” Brady reached for her hands, tugging until she gave in. “I was never forced to date you. But it made me think, you know? You heard my response to that girl, even though you took it out of context. I thought we’d talked it out. You said you believed me.”

“I tried, but—” “But then you heard me talk to my grandmother,” he finished, knowing it was true.

Her gaze dropped to their clasped hands. “You told her to stop butting into your life, and to stop picking out your girlfriends.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

Her brittle laugh slayed him. “You were raving on about going to Tulane and being able to live your own dream. How you wouldn’t have to see me. Was I supposed to take it any di erently?”

Brady nodded, because what she said was true. He had said all of those things to his grandmother. “You missed something important, sweetheart.” When her gaze flicked up to meet his, he nodded again. “If you’d heard everything, you would have learned that I hated the way my grandmother controlled our relationship. Honest truth? I liked you way before she started harping on about us getting together.”

Brows furrowing in confusion, Shaelyn haltingly whispered, “But I thought that you—” He cut her o , words forming on his tongue before he even had the chance to review them. “Sometimes it was weird. I’d say that I wanted to take you to the movies and my grandmother ‘suggested’ that we go to some fancy restaurant instead. I’d say that I wanted to take you down to Grand Isle for some camping, and she would pester me into changing the plans for Destin. By the summer before college, she was talking engagement rings and wedding venues. She wanted us together because our families ran in the same circle.” Pausing, he drew her hands up to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “I wanted us together because you fucking fit me to perfection. I was sick and tired of my grandmother having the upper hand in our relationship.”

“Until that day.”

“Yeah, until that day.” His grip tightened, his large hands dwarfing her much smaller ones. “Despite the fact that she

inadvertently caused strife between us, talking with that girl from Luke’s party opened my eyes. It was like I could see the future, and the future was me trying to balance my feelings for you with what my grandmother expected out of our relationship. I sort of lost it.”

Awareness dawned in her gaze. “So that’s why you were going on about not having to see me in college.”

“I wanted to show her that she couldn’t control me once I left the house. Financially, maybe, she still kept the purse strings, but in every other way I was my own man.” Brady cupped her face in his palms. “I never once thought that you’d heard it all. Considering how the whole graduationparty-fiasco had gone down only the previous weekend, I shouldn’t have been surprised by what you thought happened.”

So softly, he barely heard her, she whispered, “It destroyed me.”

“Fuck.”

Rounding the table, Brady dropped to his knees. His joints popped on the way down, and he ignored the twinge of pain.

He placed his hands on her thighs. The position brought them almost to eye level. “I went to your house the very next day, but your dad told me you’d left.”

“Jacksonville,” she said with a hollow laugh. “It was the cheapest option with seats still available. Booked myself a ticket on the Megabus. Never looked back.”

He knew. For a year or two he’d gleaned every scrap of information about her from his grandparents and her family.

He’d cornered their mutual friends for details into her life.

All the while, Brady had waited desperately for her to visit home.

She never had.

His calls to her phone went unanswered. His emails bounced back marked as spam. One year slipped into two,

and then two into three. By then he’d dropped out of Tulane.

Slowly he’d accepted the fact that she wasn’t coming home. Police academy had been both the best and worst thing to happen to him. The best because he’d finally discovered a new outlet to focus all of his energy; the worst, because he’d simply transferred all of his pent-up emotion from loving the woman in front of him to throwing himself into a new job.

He’d entered the police academy as a heartbroken boy and had graduated as a shell of a man.

A trajectory path he’d continued on until she’d returned.

His grip tightened on her knees. “I’m sorry,” he rasped.

“I’m so sorry for everything.”

Her hands settled over his, e using him with the first bit of warmth he’d experienced since they rolled out of bed earlier.

“Ironically enough,” she said quietly, “I forgave you before you even told me everything just now. I spent years hating you and blaming you for things that you weren’t in any way responsible for.” Her tone turned self-deprecating.

“Turns out I spent years on the run, victimizing myself at your expense.”

“Don’t say that,” he said. “I should have exerted more energy on making you listen to me. I would have saved us both a hell of a lot grief.”

HE WOULD HAVE DONE MORE than that. If they had reconnected, there was a chance Shaelyn would never have worked for Carla.

Which was a perfectly self-centered thought. Brady didn’t deserve the blame for her decisions. She’d been an adult when she accepted Carla’s job o er. At any point in time, she

could have walked away. The blame sat squarely on her shoulders.

Even so, her mind skimmed the what-ifs before settling on the what-had-been. Of the latter, she had worked for Carla. If she ever wanted to move forward, she had to own up to it.

She had to tell Brady.

Since she’d woken that morning with his arm tucked around her waist and his leg sandwiched between hers, she’d rehearsed her tell-all speech over and over again. The plan had been to walk him through those years in a very linear fashion. All the better, Shaelyn had decided, to explain how and why working for Carla had first appealed to her.

It was meant to be clear-cut. Dry. As if she were delivering news on the weather, and not how her life had ceased to mean anything.

Shaelyn opened her mouth, prepared to deliver the speech she’d mentally drawn up.

It didn’t happen.

Memories darted through her, images of men leaning forward to place a sweaty hand on her knee. Men whispering that their wives would never have to know, and wouldn’t Shaelyn be a good girl and keep her mouth shut? Women sifting their fingers through Shaelyn’s long, curly hair, until in a moment of desperation, she’d hacked the whole thing o .

“I don’t . . . ” She swallowed, hard, and tugged at the strands of her chin-length hair as the black cloud that had once wrapped her up so tightly returned. “I had this all mapped out this morning. Everything I wanted to tell you.”

“Tell me whatever you want,” Brady said, still parked on his knees on the floor with his hands clutched tightly around hers. “As little as you want, or as much as you can handle.”

Her echoing laugh sounded brittle and frayed around the edges. “I don’t know what I can handle.”

“Probably more than you even realize.”

He was so confident that she could do this, and she wanted to show him that his confidence wasn’t misplaced.

But I didn’t expect for this to be so hard. Her gaze slid from his, and she forced herself to just get it over with.

“It all started because I needed a job. Rent was overdue, and my waitressing gigs weren’t cutting it. I saw the ad on Craigslist. It didn’t seem all that bad, and in the beginning I suppose that it wasn’t.”

Brady’s fingers tightened over hers. “I’m not sure what that ‘it’ is, sweetheart.”

“Right.” Her eyelids fell shut, so she didn’t have to see him as she bared every secret and insecurity she harbored. “I picked up a job as a decoy. Couple is fighting; one thinks the other is cheating . . . that’s where I would come in, or one of the other girls. My line of work, if you can call it that, was literally to pretend that I was someone who I wasn’t. My sole responsibility was to tempt the suspected cheater into actually cheating. Did they do it? Sometimes no, but most of the times yes. The whole thing was choreographed and arranged between my boss and the client.”

He sat very still. “So, you actually encouraged these people to have an a air?”

Blood rushed to Shaelyn’s head. “It was part of the staging. I didn’t . . . it wasn’t like I had sex with them. My clothes stayed on, even though they were sometimes revealing. It depended on the situation. Some guys went for the buttoned-up look, and I—I’m not making any sense.”

She yanked her hands from his, and burrowed her face against her palms. Tears prickled the backs of her eyes. “I’m butchering all of this.”

His fingers went to her forehead, peeling her hands away from her face. She blinked at him, surprised to find that he didn’t look disgusted. If anything, avid concern lined his features. “Get it all out, sweetheart,” he whispered, brushing his thumb across the crest of her cheek.

“My mom found out.” Shaelyn bit down on the knuckle of her free hand. Could she admit this? The words were pulsing in her chest, ready to be freed. “It was probably right around the time that I started. It was one of her rare visits, and my dad hadn’t come along. I was in the shower when one of my coworkers sent me a picture from the previous night’s decoy session.”

As Brady listened, Shaelyn realized that he felt like a lifeline, holding her steady. Holding her up. His Destin-blue eyes gave nothing away.

“My mother, as you know, didn’t believe in privacy. She heard my phone go o , and she helped herself to seeing who it was.” Shaelyn laughed, low and harsh. “Imagine her surprise when she realized that the woman dressed in nothing but a short skirt, an unbuttoned shirt, and way too much makeup, was me. I was in the man’s lap, because he was the sort with groping hands and didn’t listen when I told him not to touch my shirt. It was one of the photos my boss sent to the client, you know, to show how far her husband was willing to go.”

Brady’s silence finally broke, and his hand pulled back from her face. “Jesus Christ, Shaelyn. And you just let him fucking put his hands on you?”

“I didn’t have a choice. It was my job. I tried to explain that to my mother, but she couldn’t understand. She called me awful names . . . ” Shaelyn tried to push the memory aside, but God, it had wrecked her to see her mother so disgusted. In one fell swoop, she’d fulfilled every fear that she’d ever had of disappointing her parents. “She didn’t visit

after that. When I tried to come home, my mom gave me excuse after excuse until I just stopped trying. I failed them just like they always suspected I would.”

“I’m sure that isn’t the case, Shae. They loved you.”

“Loved,” Shaelyn said, putting blatant emphasis on the word. “To hear my mother tell the tale, I’m pretty sure that love shriveled up and died the moment she realized I wasn’t so good anymore. Not so innocent. And I kept working for Carla Ritter, my boss, because the money was too good to leave. So was I any better than the names my mother threw at me? I don’t think so.”

When she tried to slip her hands from his grasp, he didn’t let her. “The night that you received that phone call when we almost hooked up,” he said slowly, “it was from Ritter, wasn’t it.”

Not a question. They both knew that he was too perceptive for her to play dumb.

“Yes. She’s been calling me on and o since I returned to New Orleans.” Shaelyn glanced down at their entwined hands. “She wanted me to know that a few of the other girls had quit, and she’d hoped I’d come back.”

“You looked ready to vomit.”

Her laugh was humorless. Brady’s bluntness was just so absolutely him. “I was ready to vomit. I’d fallen into complacency while I worked for her, even though I hated myself the entire time. I didn’t have many friends, in the worry that they’d find out what I did and think I was trashy.

I didn’t date, for the same reason. The idea of a man touching me made feel . . . uneasy.”

Brows knitting as if he were trying to solve a mathematical problem, he released her hand to slip her curls behind one ear. “When you said that it’d been a while for you —on the sex front—you really meant that it’d been ‘a while.’”

“A while” was an understatement. “Oh, you know, about four years.”

His gaze jumped to hers, and she truly felt in that moment that she could read his thoughts. Why had she slept with him, if she hadn’t had done so with anyone else? What made him any di erent?

Those weren’t questions that she hadn’t already asked herself. The answer wasn’t something she was willing to admit to him, not just yet.

“You push a hard bargain, Taylor,” she said, as if he’d spoken his thoughts out loud.

Shaelyn suspected that he understood her need to lighten the conversation. Placing his hands on his knees, he pushed himself onto the balls of his feet and lowered back onto the tile. He sat with one leg bent, his wrist propped up on his knee.

“Are you saying I’m irresistible?” he said, no doubt knowing that his position put his rock-hard abs on display.

The man really was sex personified.

Shaelyn snorted, tucking her legs in to sit cross-legged on the chair. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

He flashed her one of his cocky grins—the one where the right corner of his mouth tugged up higher than the left. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I don’t think I said that.”

For a moment, he did nothing but look at her. Then, “Your eyes told me.”

She wanted to laugh o his softly uttered comment. God, did she want to. But the words held her immobile, because if her feelings for him were transparent, what else did he see?

Could he see that she was so close to falling in love with him again?

He went on, using that same tone that reminded her of a cowboy reeling in a skittish colt. “Do you know what else

your eyes tell me?”

Her head jerked in a nod, even when her brain urged her to get up and leave before Brady laid her soul completely bare.

“They reflect the fear and shame you felt, I’m sure, when you worked for Ritter.” His white-knuckled grip slid down to grasp his ankle, and she wondered if he held on tightly so as to keep from reaching for her. “We’ve all got secrets and guilt to shoulder, sweetheart, and no one has the right to pass judgment. The only person you’ve got to explain yourself to is you.”

Shaelyn swallowed past the lump in her throat. Was it possible to fall back in love with a person? Or had she simply never fallen out of love with Brady Taylor to begin with?

Licking her dry lips, she whispered, “So you don’t look at me di erently knowing . . . everything?”

He shook his head, his gaze never leaving hers. “I think you did what you had to do to survive. If you had to go back and choose whether to travel the same path . . . ” Brady shrugged his shoulders. “I hope you would. I like who you are, Shaelyn. If changing the past—and I mean any bit of it, even including our shared past mistakes—means changing who you are right now at this moment, then don’t you dare change a single thing from the last twelve years.”

“I kissed a lot of people,” she felt compelled to tell him.

“Girls, guys. It never went any further, and even the kissing only lasted seconds. Just enough to show a client that their significant other was willing to be unfaithful.”

His big shoulders came up in another shrug. “I guess you had to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince.”

If such a thing were possible, her lungs stopped pumping and the air in the room crackled with tension. “Are you saying that you’re my prince?”

Blue eyes, as warm as the heated blue fire at the base of a candlewick, stared back at her. “Do you want me to be?”

Without thinking, she knew that her answer was yes.

Shaelyn wasn’t entirely certain the exact moment when she and Brady’s relationship had arrived at this point. What she did know, however, was that she’d spent years apologizing for her feelings, or pretending that they didn’t exist so she wouldn’t disappoint others.

She’d hated working as a decoy, but in a twist of reverse psychology, she’d always hesitated in quitting because she felt that she owed Carla for picking her up at her lowest point.

She didn’t want the responsibility of owning her ancestral home, but the fear of disappointing Meme Elaine kept Shaelyn’s mouth shut.

For the first time since she could remember, Shaelyn wanted something for herself. She wanted Brady, and since he’d willingly posed that question, she had to imagine that he must feel something similar.

Scraping her courage together, Shaelyn slid to the ground next to him. She bent both her knees, and wrapped her arms around her shins. With the fresh morning sun streaming into the kitchen, this moment between them felt like an equally fresh start. A chance to put the past and the anger behind them and to start anew.

“I’d like it if you were,” she finally told him.

If she’d thought the sun warming the tiles beneath her was bright, than the smile he gave her was even brighter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“Y ou’re staring again.”

From behind her dark sunglasses, Shaelyn glanced at her cousin, who was setting the picnic table with cutlery. “How can you tell?”

Anna snorted. “Who can’t tell, Shae?” Pointing a plastic knife in Shaelyn’s direction, Anna nodded to where Brady, Julian, and Meme Elaine were hovering over a grill under the branches of a live oak tree. They’d decamped to Audubon Park for a lazy Sunday BBQ. “I wasn’t staring.”

Okay, so she had been. Dressed in cargo shorts, his standard black T-shirt, and a backwards Saints baseball cap, Brady was the perfect blend of confident and casual masculinity. His bare feet sealed the deal.

Shaelyn wasn’t the only woman at the park noticing him, either. A group of women sunbathing not so far from the grill had sent one of their brethren over to him, but he’d been quick to send her on her way.

Hell, one woman running past the grill had doubled back twice to ask Brady where she might find the restroom.

Brady was a chick magnet—probably had been in high school, too, but Shaelyn had never noticed. Until those last

few weeks before college, he’d never given her cause to be on the lookout.

But now Shaelyn wasn’t really sure where they stood.

They’d spent every single moment—when they weren’t working—together for the last week. But he hadn’t mentioned taking things any further than sex, and there was something about the way that he stared o into nothing when he didn’t think Shaelyn was looking that made her think he wasn’t being completely honest with her. Was he having second thoughts about their relationship? Maybe Shaelyn was simply reading too much into his silence.

Hadn’t they shared the same bed every night? Hadn’t he invited her out for drinks with his buddies, Luke and Danvers?

Admit it, you just want more.

She let out a heavy sigh. Since she’d opened up, she’d hoped that he would do the same. Aside from their conversation about their past, he remained as tight-lipped as usual.

“If you say so,” Anna said, and Shaelyn mentally shook herself. She’d been staring. Again.

“I say so.” She avoided catching her cousin’s astute gaze as she finished pouring fresh sweet tea into the final plastic cup. Diverting the conversation away from her love life, Shaelyn asked, “How’s Julian doing? I haven’t seen him in a few weeks.”

“I don’t know.” Anna plopped down onto the wooden bench, a look of worry crossing her face. “He’s acting out a bit. Talking back, locking himself in his room more. I’m not sure where it’s coming from.”

Shaelyn sank down on the bench across from her cousin.

“You think it’s because of Tony?”

They both paused to glance back toward the grill. Meme Elaine appeared to be bossing Brady and Julian around by

stealing the silver tongs and flipping the burgers herself.

Quietly, Anna murmured, “Has he said anything to you?”

On the two or three di erent occasions that she’d asked Brady about Julian’s biological father, Brady had shut down.

He repeatedly asked for a few more days. How many more days did he need? It had been weeks since she’d first approached him about Anthony Mardeaux.

It was one thing if he hadn’t had any luck in finding him —as if the guy had fallen o the face of the planet—but asking for more time felt like a put-o .

“No,” she replied in an equally hushed voice, “I’ll ask again, though.”

Anna o ered a hesitant smile. “I’ll admit that the selfish part of me is glad that Brady hasn’t come up with anything.

It means that I can keep my baby boy to myself for just a bit longer. Then I hear myself, and I’m completely disgusted by my thoughts. Julian deserves to have a father who wants to be in his life.”

Shaelyn place her hand over her cousin’s. “Don’t beat yourself up about this.”

“It’s not just that—” Whatever Anna might have said was washed out by the sound of male voices approaching. Shaelyn could have picked out Brady’s voice out of a crowd. No matter the time of day, his voice carried a perpetual husky timbre, like he’d just woken up or was thinking of ways to rid Shaelyn of her clothes. Waking up in the middle of the night to hear him whispering naughty things in her ears was a turn-on she never wanted to do without.

Julian’s voice, on the other hand, crackled with teenage excitement.

“I can’t believe you just told an old woman that she could out-drink you!” he was saying, thin arms flapping as the two approached the picnic table. One older, one younger. One

dark-haired, one fair-haired. The two couldn’t have been more opposite, except that they seemed to have become fast friends.

Clutching the heels of his tennis shoes in one hand, Brady headed straight for Shaelyn. Her heart thumping wildly at just the sight of him, she barely registered Brady’s response.

“Have you ever seen Elaine Lawrence drink? She’d have me crying into that garbage can over there before the hour was out.”

Julian ground to a halt. “I could take her.”

“When you’re twenty-one, maybe,” Brady teased over his shoulder as his muscular thighs straddled the bench and he sat down beside her. His hand went to the dip of her waist, and Shaelyn instinctively reclined into his touch. Leaning forward, he cupped her chin with his other hand and drew her in for a brief kiss.

Brief, maybe, but no less earth shattering.

She fought the urge to grasp his T-shirt and yank him in for another one when he pulled back. It was probably for the best. There were impressionable children around. She reached for a cup of sweet tea, taking a small sip even though she reckoned she’d feel much better if she just went ahead and dumped the damn iced tea on top of her head.

Brady’s hand tightened on her waist, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

She chugged the rest of the cool drink and then turned to face the man who wasn’t her boyfriend but who wasn’t just a hook-up either. “How’d you end up in a potential drinking war with my grandmother?”

Lifting both hands in the air, Brady said, “Whoa, now. I didn’t do anything.”

From beside his mother, Julian piped up: “How does ‘I wouldn’t count on a win, Miz Elaine’ sound to you?”

“It sounds like a valid point.” Brady snagged an unclaimed cup of sweet tea. “But I was referring to myself.

She’ll outdrink me till my very last breath.” He paused, blue eyes twinkling as though he’d just realized something. “You know, this might be her plan.”

“Plan for what?”

“To touch his abs,” Julian supplied as he rifled through the brown paper bags filled with food. He pulled out a small bag of chips with a triumphant “boo-yah” and then ripped them open. “She gave him the choice of letting her grill or removing his shirt.”

Shaelyn looked at Anna helplessly, who seemed to be on the verge of some sort of conniption. “She does realize that she’s known you since you were in diapers, right?” she asked Brady.

Brady shifted closer. “Do you realize that you’ve known me since we were in diapers?”

“That’s di erent.”

One dark brow arched high. “How?” “We’re the same age, for one,” Shaelyn said pointedly.

His fingers danced up the ridges of her spine. “There’s a photo of us in the bathtub together, Shae. Naked.”

“Do I need to cover my ears again?” Julian asked, shoving a handful of Zapp’s Voodoo potato chips into his mouth. “I feel like things are about to get good.”

“Go see if Miz Elaine needs anything,” Anna told her son with a gentle push at his shoulders. “I’m worried she might take her cane to the next woman who strolls up to her ask about Brady.”

Julian’s neck popped as he swiveled to look toward the grill. “How do you know they’re asking for Brady?”

“Because they’re eying me as if they wouldn’t mind throwing me into the pond with the gators,” Shaelyn murmured.

There actually weren’t any alligators in Audubon Park— that she knew of, anyway. Still, she couldn’t help but grin.

She felt happy, crazy emotion that it was. She was happy that Brady was touching her and not looking at other women, happy that Anna and Julian were here, and that they truly had become her family and not just in name.

And, yes, happy that her grandmother was as crazy as ever and who appeared to be feeling much better.

“I’ll go help her out,” Shaelyn said, extricating herself from the bench. “Why don’t y’all throw the football around or something?”

“What about Mom?” Julian glanced at Anna, doubt flickering over his expression. “The last time she tried to throw the football she fell in dog poop.”

The image of perfect, blond willowy Anna landing in any sort of crap was so outrageous that Shaelyn clapped a hand over her mouth to contain her peel of laughter.

“It wasn’t our dog either,” Julian added, even as his mother’s blue gaze turned to him in warning. “Sometimes I think she did it on purpose, so that way, whenever I ask for a pet she can bring it up as a reason for why dogs aren’t allowed in the house.”

Poor Anna seemed utterly incapable of moving past the “landing in dog poop” comment, because she only managed to grate out, “You have a fish, Jules.”

“Had.” Julian stu ed another handful of Zapp’s into his mouth. “A fish isn’t the same thing as a dog, Mom. I can’t teach it tricks.”

“You taught Nemo to play dead.”

Julian’s blue eyes narrowed. “That’s because Nemo was dead.”

Brady and Shaelyn shared a commiserating glance. In that moment, Shaelyn felt like they were a team. She reached for

his hand before tackling the bigger issue. “You killed Nemo, Jules? Really?”

“I forgot to feed him.”

Anna lifted a cup of sweet tea in salute. “Hence, why he’s not allowed to have any more pets until he gets the feeding thing down.”

Brady lifted a finger. “Is it too soon to make the comment that at least Nemo was found?”

“Too soon,” was Julian’s only response. Shaelyn suspected that poor Nemo hadn’t been Julian’s only attempt at having a pet fish before Anna had decided enough was enough.

“I’m sorry, buddy.” Brady leaned over to drag his du e bag up onto the bench. He drew out a football, tossing it from one hand to the other. “Wanna play?”

“Okay.” After a slight hesitation, Julian nudged his mama in the side. “Want to join?”

An exuberant smile spread across Anna’s face.

Shaelyn bit her lip as a question she rarely let herself think about punched its way to the front: would she make a good mother? Clearly Anna possessed excellent mother genes—genetics that Shaelyn wasn’t all too sure she’d inherited.

As subtly as she could manage, she snuck a glance in Brady’s direction. If they ever had children, would she be like Anna or her own mother, who’d rarely shown her any a ection as a child and even less so as an adult?

“Are you okay?”

Shaelyn looked up at the man who made her think about things better left buried. He was watching her closely, his perceptive blue eyes no doubt noting the pinpricks of sweat dotting her forehead and the way she avoided making eye contact. “Absolutely,” she lied.

“Shae.” He said her name like he didn’t believe her, then sighed. Swiping his baseball hat o his head to settle it on hers, he murmured, “Your nose is crisping.”

Involuntarily her fingers went to her face, and yep, sure enough, the tip of her nose was sore to the touch. “Guess I’m still getting used to the New Orleans heat,” she said with a smile, grateful that he’d changed the topic. This wasn’t the place or the time for heavy conversations. Not with Julian waiting to play football or with Meme Elaine on the verge of setting Audubon Park aflame, thanks to the fact that she seemed unwilling to accept any help at the grill.

Most of all, Shaelyn felt awkward sharing her thoughts with him. In the days since she’d spilled her darkest secret, he’d been as tight-lipped as a clam. Relationships were a two-way street, and right now Brady was sharing the characteristics of an exclusive gated community without even a passcode.

“You’ll have some time to get used to the heat, I hope,” he told her, his fingers dropping to the column of her neck.

“Unless you’ve still kept your plans to move?”

The brim of the hat blocked out his face, and she tipped her head back to get a good look at him, fingers reaching up to hold the hat in place. His gaze found hers, searching. She desperately wanted to tell him that she had no plans on leaving anytime soon. Instead she blurted, “Where else might I find you wearing a booty-hugging red dress?”

For a second no one moved. Not Anna, not Julian, and definitely not Brady. Shaelyn wasn’t even certain if the birds were still chirping up in the trees.

Then, from Julian: “Why would you wear a red dress, Brady?”

Brady turned to Jules, then to Anna. “Does the kid know nothing of New Orleans culture?” His blue eyes snapped to Shaelyn, narrowing in on her face as he flicked the hat’s

brim back. “You saw me decked out for the Run and never said anything?”

“I saw you at Rite Aid.” As I stood there with a basketful of tampons. “You looked busy.”

“Not too busy to talk with you,” he corrected. She suspected that however flippant the remark sounded, he genuinely meant it. His arms crossed over his broad chest, and he added, “Even if I did look like part of a Vegas show.”

“Vegas might be a little too classy for you,” Shaelyn said.

“Bourbon seemed more your speed.”

Brady’s chin tipped back with a hearty laugh. “I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment.”

“I would,” Julian put in, as though he were twenty-three and a Bourbon Street vet, and not a thirteen-year-old who’d never even had a classic New Orleans cocktail like a Sazerac.

Anna leaned forward to softly whack her son on the back of the head. “I better not catch you anywhere near Bourbon, Jules.”

In answer, he drew his feet up onto the bench to rest his elbows on his knees. “You do realize that the boutique is only two streets away, right? I could just cross Royal Street and then I’d be right there.”

“Royal Street is the borderland between the innocent and the depraved, kid,” Brady said solemnly. “Never make the mistake of crossing over.”

Julian’s face scrunched with teenage annoyance and the three adults laughed in unison. That is, until a hot-pink cane announced Meme Elaine’s arrival with a pan of food.

“What are we talking about?” she demanded, plopping down the pan onto the table and grabbing her usual sweet tea-vodka concoction. She slurped the cocktail through a neon-yellow straw. “What’d I miss?”

“Brady in a red dress,” Shaelyn supplied helpfully. She ignored the hot glare sent her way from the man in question.

With a tilt of her head, Meme Elaine took her time perusing Brady from his messy dark hair to his bare feet.

“You tryin’ to tell us something?”

Brady smacked his hand on the picnic table. “It’s a Red Dress Run, people. For charity.”

“And cross-dressing,” Shaelyn added, laughing freely.

Blue eyes zeroed in on her face. Shaelyn wondered if she should be worried about the little vein visibly throbbing by his hairline.

“Everyone wears a red dress for it,” Brady tried again.

“No discrimination involved.”

Eyes practically glowing with mirth from behind her black-frame glasses, Meme Elaine sucked again on the neon-yellow straw. “That’s exactly what I said, Brady.”

Shaelyn felt an abrupt sense of foreboding when her grandmother spared her a quick, mischievous glance.

“Didn’t stop your girlfriend here from asking if you’d come out of the closet, though.”

Four pairs of eyes found Shaelyn.

The pair belonging to six feet plus of hot, incredulous male held her immobile. She o ered him a sweet, pardonme grin. “I think you’ve since proven that assumption wrong.”

In a voice pitched straight from the bedroom, he whispered, “Oh, I’ll make sure there’s no doubt in your mind.”

Shaelyn took that as a promise that she was going to thoroughly enjoy.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“

P lease . . . ”

Brady tossed back the covers and glanced up at the naked woman sprawled out on his bed, her hands fisting the sheets.

God, how had he gotten so lucky? He’d never even thought to hope for Shaelyn to come back into his life, not after those first few years when she’d left New Orleans. Somehow—by the grace of God or Cupid or whoever the fuck was shooting love arrows at the public these days—Lady Luck had shown him some pity by bringing back the love of his life.

Only, apparently she’d thought he batted for the same team in the bedroom.

He dropped his head to her pelvic bone and pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin there. “Please, what?”

One of her hands sank into his hair, which he desperately needed to cut. Her nails unintentionally scraped his scalp and he let out a sharp hiss.

“Oh no, I’m sorry—” Her apology cut o as his mouth drifted south to more erotic pastures, eliciting yet another one of her hot-as-hell moans.

“Brady, I can’t,” she pleaded. “No more.”

With one hand skimmed up the soft, satin skin of her rib cage, with the other he rolled her nipple between his index finger and thumb. “Any doubt left about my sexuality?” he teased, rejoicing when her hips kicked up with pleasure.

Her gaze sharpened on him with wry delight. “I think you satisfied any questions I might have had about three orgasms ago.”

“Damn right I did.”

Planting his hands down on either side of her hips, he shifted onto his knees and stared down at her. Her curly brown hair was completely disheveled, spread out on his bed like some sinfully orchestrated halo. The pillows—Brady glanced over the side of the bed to find four of his pillows scattered on the floor. He lifted the covers to find the fifth shoved to the foot of the bed, having been discarded after he’d used it to prop her hips up for a better angle.

“I need a shower,” Shaelyn said with what she must have intended to be a subtle sni to her armpit. “Standing outside in the heat mingled with sexy times means that I feel absolutely gross.”

Wiggling his brows, he asked, “Can I join?”

The look she gave him was one of pure horror. Brady would have felt insulted if she hadn’t tried to lift her arm to pat his face, only for it to fall limply back to her side. “I think you’ve proved your sexual prowess enough for one day.”

He tilted his head. “‘Sexual prowess.’ I like the sound of that.”

“You would.”

Brady slid o the bed and stood, straightening his arms into the air for a full stretch. He turned back to see that Shaelyn hadn’t budged an inch. “You sure you’re going to make it to the shower? I’ll bet you five bucks you never move from that spot.”

“I’m not taking you up on that,” she sni ed.

He grinned. “Because you know you’ll lose?”

Her silence was answer enough, and Brady gave a low laugh. He figured he’d kept her in bed long enough, and decided to o er a deal that she couldn’t refuse as motivation.

He drew the sheets down her body, exposing her skin to the cool air as the ceiling fan whirred above. “Go take your shower, and I’ll have popcorn and Charlie Hunnam waiting for you when you get out.”

Her eyes flashed with anticipation. “Sons of Anarchy marathon?”

“Would I raise your hopes just to dash them?” Brady rested his hand on her knee and squeezed gently. “Get clean and meet me so you can ogle Charlie’s ass while I pretend not to notice.”

The happy grin she gave him warmed him from the inside out, making him feel as though he’d been dunked in a hot tub with the temperature spiked to about a hundred degrees.

And that was before she said, “You’re a keeper, Brady Taylor.”

That’s the plan, sweetheart.

He bent down to give her a quick kiss, then tweaked her nipple once more before he moved to the door.

“Brady!”

He paused, one hand on the doorframe. “Yes?” “Just wait until you’re naked and at my disposal,” she warned. From the way her lips were quivering, he could tell that she was trying to maintain a stern expression.

“Name the date and time, sweetheart, and I’ll be there.”

He winked, just because he could, and stepped to the side as a shoe came sailing at his face. Laughing, he headed down the interior hallway of his traditional shotgun style house.

Legend had it that if you stood on the front porch and left

the doors to each room open, you could fire a single shot through the doorways and out the back of the house.

Brady wasn’t all too sure if there was any accuracy to the story, but the circa 1916 shotgun had caught his eye the minute he’d showed up at the open house. A little run-down, a little tired, the property had certainly seen better days. It was sandwiched amidst a row of similarly designed houses, though Brady’s had certainly been the one needing the most work.

In the span of four years, he’d refinished the original hardwood floors, revamped the entire kitchen, and brought life back to the delicate fireplaces that now could be lit in the winter months without fear of starting a massive four-alarm fire.

Opening the pantry door, he pulled out one of the popcorn bags before popping open the microwave door and setting the timer. He leaned against the counter, listening to the quiet whirring of the microwave as he watched the bag circle around on the little glass tray.

In the last year his poor house hadn’t seen much renovation, or tender love, or care. He’d started project after project, and yet never managed to complete any of them. A gallon of paint still sat on his front porch with the brush on top, and the stained glass window he’d purchased from a recently demolished church was still sitting in the kitchen pantry as opposed to replacing the window above the kitchen sink as he’d intended.

Brady wasn’t sure when he’d developed a knack or an interest in fixing properties, but he sure as hell knew when that particular hobby had taken a back seat. For a year now he’d spent every waking moment gearing up for the possibility of a promotion. He’d quit going out, he’d given up his season tickets to the Saints—and until Shaelyn had reappeared, he’d given up women too.

He should have been frustrated with himself for letting his need for a promotion take over the rest of his life. But, until he’d first seen Shae at his grandparents’ BBQ almost two months ago, he’d ignored the signs that his personal life was su ering. Nothing had mattered aside from climbing the ladder at the NOPD. But was that any way to live his life, especially now that his chances at actually making sergeant were pretty much nonexistent?

Over the sound of the microwave, he could hear Shaelyn singing in the shower. It was awful—the kind of tone deaf that made other tone-deaf people reel back in shock. For all of her skills, singing had never been one.

Thing was, he loved hearing her shitty singing. Even wanted to knock on the bathroom door, tell her that he was doing the world a public service, and then shut her up by putting her mouth to better, more pleasurable, uses. There wasn’t one part of him that didn’t want her in his house, in his shower, and in his life, even if that meant the sergeant position would never be his.

He was, strangely enough, at peace with that.

Not that it meant he wanted the job going to Summers, who was the equivalent of a teacher’s pet. Brady and Summers had worked together on a few cases before, and while he was nice, Brady found it hard to stomach being thrown over for a guy who had only been in the department for a year. Hell, Summers had even rolled out with Brady a time or two when he’d been in training.

The microwave beeped, the pop-pop-pops dwindling into silence. He made a grab for the corner of the bag to keep from scorching himself, and snagged a plastic bowl from the cabinet. As he poured the popcorn out of the steaming bag, Brady wondered if Shaelyn could ever see herself with him on a more permanent level.

Hanging out with Anna, Julian, and Miz Elaine that afternoon had been a highlight he hadn’t expected. He wanted that life with Shaelyn—a carefree life where they had each other’s backs.

You have to tell her about Mardeaux.

Fuck. Brady threw out the popcorn bag, and then headed into the living room with the plastic bowl. After setting it on the co ee table, he switched the TV on and made his way to Netflix.

Whichever way he looked at it, he was screwed. The issue with Anthony Mardeaux was now police business. They still hadn’t found him, which both ticked Brady o and made him nervous. As for Shae . . . there were only so many ways he could ask for more time as he evaded her questions.

Brady heard her feet padding across the hardwood floor, before he heard her say, “We stopped at Season Three. They just got to Ireland.”

He pulled up the correct episode and pressed play on the controller as she settled on to the other side of the couch, feet coming o the floor to sit cross-legged. He snuck a glance at her, grateful for the living room’s dim lighting so that she couldn’t make out the way he absorbed her presence like a starving dog after a bone.

The wetness in her hair weighed down her normally chaotic curls, making her hair as straight as he’d ever seen it. She’d clearly rifled through his dresser because she wore one of his old Loyola T-shirts, and she had also pulled on a pair of his drawstring shorts. She looked ridiculously cute.

“Come here,” he murmured as the Sons of Anarchy theme song played around them.

Leaning forward, she made a grab for the popcorn bowl and settled back into her position. “Can I put my feet on your lap?”

“You can put them wherever you want, sweetheart,” he told her.

They settled in like that for the next hour, at least, passing the bowl of popcorn back and forth until only the kernels were left. They indulged in Sons of Anarchy in the only way true fans could: by yelling at the characters when they did something outrageously illegal (him) and by audibly commenting on Charlie Hunnam’s abs that were chiseled by God himself (Shaelyn).

When the scenes lagged, they turned to each other and talked about everything and anything. How she felt being back in New Orleans—good, surprisingly, but sometimes a bit like a fish out of water. How his grandparents had taken his dropping out of Tulane—shitty, but they’d had no choice but to accept his decisions when he’d entered the police academy. How she liked working at the boutique—she loved it more than she had ever thought possible, and took pride in helping the men and women who came to the store look and feel their best. How he worried about Luke re-enlisting when he’d already given twelve years to the Army—they both agreed that only Luke could decide what was best for him, though perhaps another tour of duty wouldn’t do him any good.

As they spoke, Brady massaged her legs, working from the soles of her feet to the tight muscles in her thighs. He enjoyed the feel of her skin under his hands as he brought her a di erent sort of pleasure.

“Brady?” she asked when the episode ended and the room went black while the credits rolled. “Can I ask you a question?”

His hands stilled over her calves. “Sure.”

The next episode began, illuminating her face as motorcycles revved and something blew up on the TV. “Can you pause it?”

“Yeah.” He had a feeling that he wasn’t going to like the direction of the conversation. Brady paused the TV and set the controller back on the co ee table. Shadows danced on the wall behind her head, and the utter quietness of the room enhanced the sound of their breathing, as well as the rasp of her feet as she pulled them o his lap and wrapped her hands around her knees. “What’s up?”

“It’s silly.”

Brady sincerely doubted that anything that diverted her attention from Charlie Hunnam could be classified as “silly.”

“Hit me with it, Shae.”

She drew in a big breath, as though she were gearing herself up for a battle. Brady mentally girded himself.

“Why don’t you ever talk about your job?” she asked.

Brady breathed a sigh of relief. This, he could explain.

“Honestly? Doing what I do . . . I can’t say that it’s bedtime reading material. I see the worst of society every day.”

In the dim light he could make out her frown. Her chin settled into the dip where her knees touched. “I understand.

Actually, I probably don’t get it at all.”

He felt his lips shift into an involuntarily smile. “I wouldn’t want you to be in my position. Truthfully, I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, cliché as that is.”

“Why did you choose the homicide department?”

That was harder to answer. Brady lifted his feet to the co ee table and crossed his arms over his chest. Not a defensive maneuver, but a thoughtful one. Had there been one moment where he’d decided to move into homicide? He couldn’t pinpoint a specific event. Instead his transition had been more of an accumulation of respect for the homicide detectives covering crime scenes.

Respect for the detectives, sympathy for the victim’s families, even when the victim turned out to be the

perpetrator too. Homicide cases were black and white with every swath of the rainbow in between.

“I guess I want to help the families who lose a loved one,” Brady said finally. “I want to provide whatever comfort I can with the knowledge that their son or daughter, wife or husband, did not die in vain. I also want to do good by the city that raised me. Try and leave her a better, safer place for the next generation.”

Although he couldn’t make out the direction of her gaze, he had the gut feeling that she was watching him closely. “Is that why you’re getting promoted?”

He wanted to laugh at the irony. Through no fault of her own, Shaelyn had no idea that there wasn’t a promotion coming his way. He’d screwed up big time with his inability to find Julian’s father, the suspected accomplice of multiple first-degree murders. “I don’t think the promotion is happening.”

He heard her hip pop as she dropped her knees wide and planted her hands on her thighs. “What?” she demanded.

“Why not?”

Brady threaded his fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands. “It’s complicated.” Dropping his hands back to his chest, he stared hard at the paused image on the TV. “I’ve done what I could. If they don’t want me, I’ll know soon enough.”

“How soon?” came her immediate question, and he could hear the concern in her voice.

As soon as this Kemper-Mardeaux case is put to bed. Which, from the way things were going, could be anywhere from tomorrow to when pigs actually learned to fly.

“I don’t know. We’ve got some guys retiring, some guys transferring. The department has known for months that it would need to fill those empty slots. When they decide to do that, though, is anybody’s guess.”

The couch creaked as she shifted close to him. He sensed her reaching for him even before her hand went to his knee and she settled by his side. “Are you nervous?”

He shrugged. “I can’t make them want me.”

I can’t make you want me.

Brady swallowed the words. He needed to take it slow, earn her trust—he mentally spat out every four-letter expletive he could think of. How could he expect her to trust him when he’d been lying about Mardeaux for weeks now?

Sooner or later they’d find him, clap him in cu s, and book him. Brady could tell her now and risk angering her for having pretended that he hadn’t found anything. He could tell her later, when Mardeaux was in jail, and he’d face the same exact situation.

Either way she was going to realize that he’d known about Julian’s father for far longer than he’d let on, and either way there was a solid chance she’d never want anything to do with him again. Their relationship was fragile already without adding more deception to the mix.

He watched as her fingers played with the hem of his mesh shorts.

“I think you’d make an excellent sergeant,” she said softly.

Brady smiled at her encouragement. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

“And I know that”—she inhaled sharply, her fingers working the hem in that nervous, fiddling way of hers—“you might not feel comfortable doing so, but I just want you to know that you can talk to me. About anything. Even if you think it might be too gruesome or rough for me.” Another intake of breath, which she released almost in the same moment. “I want to be your rock, Brady.”

In any other moment he would have shouted with joy.

Fuck, he probably would have thrown her over his shoulder

and brought her to bed just to show that he wanted to be her rock, her everything, too. But on the heels of his already deepening guilt, her comment felt like a warrant for his arrest. This case with Anthony Mardeaux was going to execute him—professionally, emotionally.

An image of Julian popped up in his head from that afternoon, of them throwing the football. The kid had “hero worship” written all over him whenever he glanced at Brady.

The minute that Julian realized that Brady had withheld such pertinent information . . .

He rubbed his chest, surprised by how much the thought of Julian’s hatred bothered him. While Brady didn’t even know the kid well, Julian’s happiness mattered to Shaelyn, and Shaelyn’s happiness was . . . it was everything to him.

He needed to tell her. Right now with the TV on pause and the filtered light creating shadows all over the room. Right now when he still had the balls to man up and say that he’d lied big time, and that he would do everything in his power to right the situation.

“Shae, I—” “Yeah?”

The reality of the situation came crashing down.

His first mistake had been in not telling her about Mardeaux early on, but now that the NOPD was involved, Brady was sworn to silence. And if he were being honest, then yes, he was also scared shitless of losing Shaelyn before he even had her back, of disappointing Julian and Anna.

He’d had the perfect opportunity that afternoon to sit down with Julian and his mother, and explain as much of the situation as he possibly could. He’d squandered the chance, and now he had to deal with whatever consequences came his way.

“Brady?”

Her palm landed on his chest, right over his heart. His eyes slammed shut, and he wrapped his fingers around her slim wrist and brought her hand to his mouth. Brady pressed a soft kiss to her inner wrist where her pulse beat frantically.

“I’m really glad you’re here, Shaelyn.”

It was the truth. Just not all of it, and certainly not everything he wanted to say to her. He worried that the whole truth would destroy everything, especially the happy glint in her hazel eyes as she climbed onto his lap.

Brady had landed himself in this mess. He just didn’t know how to crawl himself back out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“I

think your ex-fiancé’s wife just walked through the door.”

Shaelyn’s gaze shot away from Anna to the front of the shop and, sure enough, there was Mrs. Ben Beveau strolling into the boutique. The last time Shaelyn had seen Josie, the woman had been talking about playing patient-OB-GYN with her hubby.

“Do you think she saw me?” Shaelyn asked pathetically, looking for an out. Okay, so the whole fiancé thing was still weird. “We need to restock in the back, don’t we?”

Anna shook her head. “Finished it last night, remember?”

No, not really. Then again, Shaelyn had been so exhausted when she’d fallen into bed that she’d skipped dinner in addition to missing Brady’s voicemail asking if she wanted to binge on Sons of Anarchy when he got o the clock.

Working a double could do that to a woman, especially when it also happened to be that time of the month.

As she watched Josie beeline toward her, Shaelyn whispered from the corner of her mouth, “Please. Give me something to do. Anything—” “Hi Shaelyn!” Without waiting for a greeting in return, Josie wrapped her arms around Shaelyn’s neck for a tight

hug. “It’s so good to see you.” She turned to Anna and did the same. Shaelyn was just evil enough that she found great joy in watching Anna’s cornflower-blue eyes widen.

Charlotte Lawrence would roll over in her grave if Shaelyn gave Josie the cold shoulder, so she smiled—wide, lots of teeth—and put on a Class-A performance. “It’s great to see you, too, Josie. How’s Ben?” “He’s great!” Josie leaned forward, somehow exuding lean-forward-with-me vibes without saying a single thing.

She lowered her voice from a Level Ten to a Nine, briefly glancing over her shoulder at the only other customer who was skimming the racks. “Wants to try some new stu , if you know what I mean, so I figured I’d come and see what y’all had in stock.”

Shaelyn winced, and she swore she saw Anna do the same.

“You know this isn’t the sex toy shop right? That bachelorette party was a joint e ort with The Dirty Crescent.”

Josie waved away Shaelyn’s explanation. “I stopped by there first. Did you know they sell this vibrating ring that goes around a guy’s—” “Yep! Yep, totally have heard of it.” Shaelyn could not un-see Josie’s sexual hand gesturing to where the ring might fit on a guy.

“Did you?” Josie asked Anna, one brow arched high.

Anna, bless her heart, nodded and smiled. Though saying that the thin-lipped movement of her mouth classified as a “smile” was a bit of a stretch.

Mrs. Beveau seemed to ponder the fact that she was the last thirty-plus-year-old woman in New Orleans to know that cock rings did, sometimes, come equipped with vibration. “Anyway,” she said buoyantly a moment after, “I need something to wear. The kids are with their grandparents, we’ve got new toys—we’re ready to go.”

Shaelyn and Anna exchanged a quick glance at the determined note in the other woman’s voice. Silently Shaelyn gestured for Josie to follow her to the new selection that had arrived the other day. Still, she couldn’t but wonder . . . “Are y’all trying for another baby?”

The sparkle in the woman’s eyes dimmed, just a little. She reached up to adjust the shoulder strap of her purse, and Shaelyn could have sworn Josie threw her shoulders back and tipped her chin up. “Oh, you know! Busy lives and all that.”

Her fingers skimmed the black hangers as they stopped by a mannequin wearing a navy silk dressing gown. “Sometimes it’s hard to find the time to spend together.”

“I’m sure,” Shaelyn murmured softly, wondering for the first time if Josie Beveau’s Level Ten happiness was all a front. Anna had moved o to help a new customer, leaving the two of them alone. “But y’all are in love. It’s just a matter of time before another child comes about.”

Those straightened shoulders drooped, and this time Shaelyn knew it wasn’t just her imagination. “I hope so,” whispered Josie. “I . . . we—” Josie raised a closed fist to her mouth. “We’ve been trying a really long time. I actually meant to reach out sooner, but I wanted to ask you to thank your grandmother for me.”

For auctioning your husband o to another woman?

Somehow Shaelyn knew that wasn’t what Josie meant, which left her to wonder . . . what in the world did she mean? “I’ll, uh, be sure to tell her.”

Josie o ered her a rare, genuine grin. Not a happy-golucky grin but one that spoke of a deeper gratitude. “We’ve got an upcoming appointment,” she said with a delicate shrug. “But I figured one last try on our own, well, it couldn’t hurt, you know?”

Everything clicked in that moment. The upcoming appointment, the sexy role-playing. Shaelyn didn’t know too

much about infertility—never having had a kid herself, and having had Lady Flow arrive promptly every month since she’d turned thirteen—but she could read between the lines.

Josie obviously thought Shaelyn knew what Meme Elaine had done. As for her and Meme Elaine? They were in desperate need of a heart-to-heart conversation.

Snagging a hanger o the rack, she turned to Ben’s wife and held up the burgundy-colored fabric to her skin. “What look were you going for? Racy? Sweet with a bit of sultry?”

Josie rubbed the soft material between her fingers, a thoughtful expression softening her features. “Like the best thing he’s ever seen.” Her gaze darted up to lock on Shaelyn’s. “I don’t want him to think about pregnancies or doctors—just me, sex, and that ridiculous cock ring he likes so much.”

It was a tough thing to stifle a snort.

“Sorry,” Shaelyn said, rubbing her chest even as her eyes watered with laughter. She’d never be able to look Ben Beveau in the face again. Seriously. “I think we can definitely make that happen. Come with me. I think I’ve got just the thing to knock your husband’s socks o .”

Or make the cock ring unnecessary.

Whichever.

AS LUCK WOULD HAVE IT, Brady wasn’t the one to find Anthony Mardeaux. No, he was too busy slugging down co ee when shit went down.

“Hold still, T,” Danvers said as Brady poured himself a cup of black co ee in the o ce’s kitchen. “I’ve got to take a picture.”

Brady lifted the mug to his mouth. At nine in the morning, he was already on his third dose of the New Orleans chicory blend. He hadn’t slept the night before and,

after giving up on any chance of it, had rolled out of bed and driven to Headquarters sometime around midnight. Brady had reviewed every scrap of evidence they’d come across tying Mardeaux to the Kemper case.

Every.

Single.

Piece.

Sometime around four in the morning, sleep had finally claimed him at his desk.

“What the hell do you mean, you’ve got to take a picture?”

“Don’t move.” Danvers framed his hands as if angling a camera to snap a photo. “You smiled just now, so I’m betting you finally got laid.”

Sometimes, Brady wondered how Danvers had made it into the homicide department, never mind having lasted years in the military.

“Do you want to die?” he asked the other detective as they moved down the hallway.

Danvers drank his own co ee, which, true to character, was the color of caramel with white artistic foam decorating the center like a leaf. The side of the cup had “Nathan” scrawled across the side in black, feminine handwriting.

“There’d be witnesses,” Danvers protested. “I’m not worth the risk of losing your promotion.”

Brady winced as they banged a right and entered the homicide department. The promotion thing didn’t look like it was happening, especially not now that Summers had taken to running around the o ce like a busy bee pollinating every flower. Nice or not, the man was a suck up.

Brady and Danvers sat at their respective desks.

“I heard Summers has entered the ring,” Danvers said as he booted up his desktop, balancing the Styrofoam co ee cup on one knee.

“Where are you receiving all this old news?” He trained his gaze on the computer screen as he roused the desktop from sleep mode. “But, yeah, he has.”

“I’m betting on Summers having burrowed his way up Cartwell’s ass.”

“Who’s found their way up my ass, Detective?”

Oh, Jesus.

Brady launched up from his chair, mug still clutched in one hand, as co ee spilled over the rim and splashed onto his white dress shirt. Fan-fucking-tastic. It was just going to be one of those days, wasn’t it?

“Taylor!”

Spine snapping straight, Brady concealed his grimace.

Cartwell was a mean son of a gun, and definitely not the sort of guy you shot the shit with over co ee. Didn’t help matters that he was already on the man’s ever-growing shit list.

“Yeah, L-T?” “While you’ve been baking cookies with the new missus, Summers has been busting his ass here.”

Did everybody know that he and Shaelyn were together?

And how had they known in the first place? Brady kept his personal life under wraps— He swung his gaze over to Danvers, who was very carefully staring at the computer screen—an online version of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition, by the looks of it—like it was his job.

Cops, seriously. They were worse than a group of retirees at Bingo, for fuck’s sake.

The next time Danvers bought a Sex on the Beach, Brady was going to use that stupid, frilly umbrella and stab him with the pick.

He dragged his attention back to Cartwell.

“I thought you wanted this sergeant position,” the lieutenant was saying, eyes narrowed like he was one half-

second away from grabbing Brady’s mug and smashing him over the head with it. Cartwell was old school like that.

“I do,” Brady answered, sounding unenthusiastic even to his own ears. For the first time in almost a year, he wasn’t sure that he wanted the promotion. Not when it might be at the expense of— He swallowed, because since Shaelyn’s return to New Orleans, he hadn’t been able to cut her out.

Niggling doubt reared its ugly horned head. The truth of the matter was that Brady had no idea where he stood with her. There wasn’t a ranking system in place like with the NOPD, and there was a very good chance that Brady was trekking down a road to nowhere when it came to Shaelyn Lawrence.

The doubt dug a little deeper.

His fingers tightened around the co ee mug, and he was slightly surprised that the delicate stem didn’t snap in his grip. He set it carefully on the desk. “I want it.”

Do you, really?

Brady squashed his conscience.

Cartwell gave him a once-over that would have terrified lesser men into pissing their pants. Brady only eyed the lieutenant warily, his bowels unmoved.

The man drummed his fingers on Danvers’ desk. “I’ve got Summers in interrogation right now.”

“For which case?”

Cartwell’s guilty gaze was his tell.

Oh, hell no.

He’d spent hours holed up in the o ce trying to piece everything together, trying to unveil what they’d missed— and all the while, someone else had grabbed Mardeaux. And it hadn’t been him.

He took a deep breath to stabilize his nerves. “Summers got him?”

From the way Cartwell looked at him askance, Brady had the innate sensation that the older man was debating lying or not to him. “Mercey, one of the street cops you put in place, found him.”

Relief silenced the thundering in his ears.

“When Summers patted him down, he got a pocket knife, as well as .9mm Glock tucked into his goddamn tube sock.

Whether he’s up to talkin’ though . . . ” The older man trailed o , clearly implying that this was where Summers and Brady came in. Especially Brady. Within the homicide department, it was a relatively well-known fact that if you wanted the perp to talk, you stuck Brady in there and gave him an hour.

Brady fell into step behind Cartwell and followed him toward the ten-by-ten, whitewashed box that functioned as the interrogation room. When it came to interrogations, Brady never felt anxious. He knew the name of the game; and the suspect, who usually turned out to be the perpetrator, knew the score as well. It was hardly ever their first rodeo.

As Brady entered the room, his body surprised him by sprouting unexpected nerves.

Summers looked his way, nodded, and then Brady’s gaze fell on Anthony Mardeaux, Julian’s father. While the kid had been planning father-and-son time at football games, Mardeaux had been out on the streets and involving himself in a high profile case.

It was all Brady could do not to leap forward, grab the collar of the man’s ratty shirt, and tell him that real men did not abandon their pregnant girlfriends.

Fists clenching around the yellow legal notepad he held in one hand, he nodded hello to the other detective, and then settled his big frame onto the empty chair. Turning his attention to Julian’s sperm donor, Brady propped his elbows up on the table. His suspenders dug into his shoulders, and

he felt naked without his Glock on his hip, but staring at Anthony Mardeaux e used him with a sense of calm.

Brady was a good cop, and an even better homicide detective. With one glance at Mardeaux, Brady knew they had their guy. It was written all over the other man, from his bloodshot, shifty eyes, to the tick leaping in his jaw, to the sweat soaking through his T-shirt.

Guilt that Julian would never meet his father settled in his stomach like soured milk.

This is your job.

He sat back in his chair, slumping slightly to impress the image that he was laid back. The nice cop to Summers’ uptight play-by-the-rules-I’ve-got-a-rod-shoved-up-myass.

“You warm?” Brady asked, flipping to a fresh page on his legal pad. He clicked open the ballpoint pen. He didn’t really need to take notes on a case like this. The little gray bulb behind his right shoulder captured everything on camera.

Plus, Brady had been overseeing this case for weeks now.

Habit was habit, however, and he kept the legal pad balanced against his knee.

“Y’all got the heat blasting in here or somethin’?”

Mardeaux was missing some teeth. Meth, if Brady had to guess. The pockmarks on the man’s face were a telltale sign of a drug user. Anna’s ex-boyfriend looked like he’d been through Hell and was still feeling the e ects of Hades’ bareknuckled wrath.

“Or somethin’,” Brady said evenly. “Now, tell me, how do you know Caleb Kemper?”

Anthony’s gaze shot to Summers before dropping listlessly to the table. “I already told y’all. He lives in the same neighborhood as me.”

“I was under the impression that he worked for you.”

Mardeaux shrugged. “Gave him a job. Shitty worker, though. Always stayed at his girlfriend’s instead.”

Brady nodded. “Your shop is just a block away from where Caleb’s girlfriend lives, right?”

“Yeah.” Mardeaux watched as Brady clicked his pen again. Click. Open. Click. Shut. Click. Open. Click. Shut. A tick started in the man’s jawline.

“So, he did some work for you in the shop. Was he a mechanic?” Summers piped up from the chair next to Brady’s. “One of your employees confirmed that you hired Kemper, but that he rarely came in to work.”

Mardeaux’s mouth flat-lined.

Brady took over. “Mr. Mardeaux, can you explain to us what exactly it was that Kemper did for you? If he wasn’t working on the cars and he wasn’t set up in the o ce, then we’re at a loss as to what he necessarily did—” “Y’all are gonna need some fucking good luck to try and pin those dead people on me.” The wooden chair carrying Mardeaux’s bulk creaked as he leaned forward. His hands darted through his hair, yanking the greasy strands up in the air. “Caleb was fucked up. Right here”—Mardeaux tapped his finger against his temple—“real messed up, you heard?

He had this sick thing about waiting over the dead bodies, listenin’ for that one moment when they stopped breathin’.

Bet he didn’t tell you that now.”

Brady felt the other detective’s eyes rest on him, but he refused to return the look. The thing about criminals like Anthony Mardeaux was that they liked to find weaknesses in others and exacerbate it. To say nothing of the fact that the man had just admitted to knowing Caleb Kemper had been on a killing bent—with regards to the law, he’d just pinned himself as an accessory to murder.

He knew what Mardeaux wanted. Knew what sort of game the man was playing in the hopes that he could get his ass

out of the situation unscathed. O er “insider” information and hope for a pardon. And, hell, it might have worked if not for the fact that they had Mardeaux’s fingerprints on the barrels of two guns.

Mardeaux’s case wasn’t helped by the fact that Caleb Kemper had boasted about not acting alone.

Brady leaned over the armrest to put the legal pad on the floor at his feet. “Let’s get back to Kemper working at your auto body shop. Can you tell us what exactly he did?”

“I hired him to help me with selling extra parts from the auto shop. Is that a crime? Hirin’ one of them neighborhood boys?”

Summers rested one arm on the edge of the table. “How long had he worked for you before you showed him your gun collection?”

Damn, that was a good one. Brady had planned to ask something similar, except that sliding it in now had been a good play on Summers’ behalf. Excellent timing. Didn’t mean that Brady thought the other detective was perfect for the sergeant position, though.

“I wouldn’t call two guns a collection now, Mister Detective Sir.” Mardeaux’s smile was slow-going, edging up at the corners of his lips like he wasn’t accustomed to finding pure joy in anything. His sharp little teeth looked like a graveyard of spikes in his mouth.

Brady mentally shuddered. He followed Summers’ question with one of his own. “From what I understand, you’ve got two now.” He paused, waiting for Mardeaux to meet his gaze straight on. Tell him he’s not worthy of meeting his son. Brady’s hand involuntarily tightened on the pen he still held. “But you had three, up until recently.”

“Three ain’t too much either.” Kicking the chair back onto its heels, Mardeaux balanced himself with one hand on the table. “It’s a dangerous world we live in. Theft, murder . .

. . I’m a smart man. Keep a gun in every part of my house.”

His free hand found the juncture of his legs. “I bet you’ve got more than me, Detective. What with you bein’ an enforcer of the law and what not.”

“Doesn’t matter what I have at home,” Brady said. “Let’s cut to the chase, Mr. Mardeaux.”

“Finally,” the man grunted sarcastically.

“Your gun was found at one of the murder scenes attributed to Kemper. As you did not report the Glock to police as having been stolen, we can only imagine that you knew Kemper had the pistol.”

Mardeaux’s eyes narrowed into slits. “What the fuck are you getting at, Detective?”

Here we go. “We’d like to know what your intention was in hiring Mr. Kemper. He admitted to not acting alone. Your gun was found at the crime scene. It was not reported stolen.

Then, you disappeared. All of the victims were tied to men who owed you money for one thing or another. You see where I’m going with this?”

“I’m on parole.”

Brady leaned forward. “Tell me why your P.O. didn’t know where you were then.”

Fury flashed on the man’s face, and his hand shot to the waistband of his pants.

Brady kicked his chair back and stood without preamble.

“All right, hands on the wall, Mr. Mardeaux.”

He felt the weight of Summers’ questioning gaze on his back. Brady had been on the job a whole lot longer than Summers, both with homicide and also on the force in general. Something wasn’t right with the way Mardeaux kept reaching for his junk.

The lifted legs of the chair clattered to the floor as Mardeaux jumped up. “Hold on now—I was already patted

down now by this guy over here.” His hands came up to form a time-out gesture. “Plus, you’re not my type.”

“No need to flatter me.” Brady gestured for the man to put his hands on the wall. “It’ll take a second.”

He cut Summers a quick glance, indicating with a subtle motion to have his back. The other detective dipped his chin in a short nod. Brady returned his focus to Julian’s father.

“Hands on the wall, Mr. Mardeaux.” Brady jerked his head toward the table. “Or there. Your choice.”

“This is against protocol,” Mardeaux snapped, even as he moved into position. Brady commenced with the pat down, all the while ignoring the man’s vulgar language. Mardeaux was nothing like the high-class boy who had knocked up Anna during her freshman year at college. Brady had found early photos of Anthony. He’d been reasonably attractive, the sort of guy women fake-tripped over nothing but air as they tried to catch his attention.

How the mighty had fallen.

Mardeaux’s first mug shot had been of a clean-cut young man who’d donned an innocent wide-eyed expression like a second skin. His latest yearbook picture at lockup showcased the same aura of innocence, even though his ragged face told a di erent story.

As Brady worked his way down the man’s sides, he couldn’t help but wonder if Mardeaux and Julian shared any similarities. Hopefully not. He twisted his hand toward the front of the suspect’s body, felt for any bumps under the clothing that stood out.

He stopped cold.

The butt of a small revolver under his palm was unmistakable.

He felt the hitch of Mardeaux’s breath. They both lunged for it.

Mardeaux snapped his head back, catching Brady right in the chin as he cocked his elbow into Brady’s lower abdomen.

Over the bursting lights in his head, Brady heard Summers shout for backup, but he barely paid the other detective any attention.

He needed to get the revolver o Mardeaux ASAP. Before either he or Summers ended up another casualty in this fucking case from hell.

Snatching a fistful of sweaty T-shirt in his hand, Brady used brute strength to reel Anthony Mardeaux in. He hollowed his chest to avoid a wild, desperate swing at his torso.

Brady unfortunately didn’t miss the wad of spit on his white dress shirt, courtesy of Tony Mardeaux. Or, more unfortunately, the fist that snaked up unexpectedly and clocked him in the chin.

Jesus.

Stars burst around him as he grappled for control. It wasn’t that Mardeaux was stronger or faster—no. The man was a two-time felon, verging on a third; he was desperate.

Desperation was one hell of a fighting incentive.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mardeaux rear back for another whammy of a right hook, even as Summers lunged forward to join the fray. Not necessary. In one swift move, Brady kicked out his foot and hooked his leg around Mardeaux’s shin.

Just as he managed to drag Mardeaux belly-down to the ground and restrain him, Cartwell burst through the doorway. He was at the helm of a trio of other detectives, including Danvers, who stepped out from behind the lieutenant to approach with a pair of handcu s.

“Nice work, Taylor,” Danvers said, a big grin on his face.

“Extra points for knowing the di erence between—”

“You,” Cartwell growled from the doorway, “Would you please shut up?”

Danvers wiggled his eyebrows before standing to his full height. “You got it, L-T.” “Who hired you?”

“You did, sir.”

“I must have been drunk.”

Danvers hooked his fingers around his leather suspenders like the innocent boy he wasn’t. “Drinking on the job, Lieutenant? I don’t think Mo—” Cartwell’s expression turned stormy, stormier than Brady had ever seen it, and he pointed his finger toward Danvers.

“Desk,” he snapped, “Now.” O ering a sarcastic two-fingered salute, Danvers stepped around their boss and exited the interrogation room.

Which reminded Brady . . . . He glanced down to the squirming Mardeaux, who was spewing all sorts of curses into the carpet. Shifting him onto his side, Brady reached for the weapon that had somehow remained concealed during the earlier pat down. He had a feeling that Summers was going to be on the receiving end of Cartwell’s pissed-o commentary for missing it.

The minute Brady’s hand wrapped around the butt of the Smith & Wesson, satisfaction flared inside his gut. Without even having to wait for fingerprints, he knew it. They had their guy.

Leaning down, Brady spoke directly into Mardeaux’s ear.

“Does your boy Caleb know that you stole one of his daddy’s guns? Unlike you, the man reported his missing weapons.”

“Fuck you,” was the only response he got.

“No disrespect, Mardeaux, but you’re not my type.”

It wasn’t until later, after he’d booked Anthony Mardeaux into central lockup and had given his statement to the media, and after Cartwell had stopped by his desk to tell him,

“good job, son,” and that maybe they’d “reconsider his application for sergeant,” that the events of the day finally caught up with him.

It was only then, as he filled out tedious paperwork, that he realized the ramifications of what he’d done.

He’d done his job, putting two criminals behind bars to meet their fate with the jury. But he’d also stripped away a young boy’s chance to ever meet his father.

Brady’s hands stilled over the computer keyboard as he heard the sound of his voice on the 5 p.m. news on the other side of the o ce. It was from that afternoon while he’d given his statement.

A statement Shaelyn would inevitably see if she turned on the TV. With shaking fingers, he reached for his phone to call her.

He didn’t know what he was going to say—hadn’t gotten that far, to be honest—but he had to say something. He wouldn’t defend his actions. There was no use for that at this point. Still, he had to say something.

He thumb was sliding across the screen when a text message popped up. Shaelyn. His eyes briefly fell shut before he opened her message and felt the pit in his stomach nosedive.

We need to talk.

Brady dropped his phone to the desk, hating that he could still hear himself speaking to the broadcast journalist on the TV: “We’re thankful to be able to put this case to rest. It’s been a long ordeal, and we’re incredibly grateful that the neighborhood can return to a semblance of peace. For the victim’s families, too, there will be relief to see their loved ones’ murderers placed behind bars.”

He glanced at his phone again. That growing fear of losing Shae over this sank its greedy fingers into his heart,

mind, and soul. There was no “possibly” any longer. He’d lost her and he had only himself to blame.

Fuck.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

H e knew.

It was the only thought running through Shaelyn’s mind as she stared blankly at her not-exactly-boyfriend on the Channel 5 at 5 news. Beside her, she heard Anna’s gasp as well as the choking sound that couldn’t seem to make its way past Julian’s throat.

All Shaelyn could think was: he knew.

Blindly she reached for her phone on the couch armrest. A night of popcorn and a Marvel Comics movie was not in the cards. Not for her, anyway.

“Mom?” Shaelyn hated hearing the accusing tone in Julian’s voice, as much as she hated hearing her cousin gulp back her tears.

Worse was the way Anna reached for her son, only for him to recoil in distrust. The sight stabbed Shaelyn right in the heart.

With fingers that she swore should have been trembling but were instead eerily steady, Shaelyn pulled up her recent text messages and clicked her most recent contact. He’d known. This whole time, he’d known.

We need to talk.

She sent it o with a silent curse, because how could he?

“Honey,” Anna tried again, her voice breathless with obvious pain. “I didn’t know. I swear to you that I didn’t know.”

Julian’s head snapped toward Shaelyn, and she felt the full force of the hurt and anger mingling in his suspicious blue eyes. “Did you know?” he demanded, jumping o the couch to stand. “You’re dating him.”

Not anymore.

Shaelyn wasn’t certain she’d ever felt so much pain.

Betrayal from Brady racked her body while Julian’s blatant accusation and wariness drove the knife deeper into her chest. “No,” she whispered, “I had no idea.”

This time both Anna and Julian turned to her, their similar blue eyes speaking volumes. They didn’t believe her.

They thought that she’d been lying to them all this time— she could read the assumption on their faces. The way Julian now stood on the other side of the co ee table, as far away from her as possible, and in the way Anna sat with her fists clenched at her sides and her gaze hard and unforgiving.

Could she blame them? No, she couldn’t.

“Anna. Julian.” She swallowed the apple-sized lump growing in her throat. Couldn’t do much about her stinging eyes when she felt a tear carve its way down her cheek. “I didn’t know. I swear to you that I didn’t know.”

If her voice trailed o in a high-pitched sob at the end, no one acknowledged it. Why would they? Anthony Mardeaux was nothing to her—but he’d once been a boyfriend to Anna, and for thirteen years he had been an absentee dad to a son who wanted nothing more than to meet his father. And now he never would because that so-called father was going to prison.

Over the pounding in her head, she could hear the news anchor on TV thanking Brady for his time.

And then there was Brady’s familiar gravelly voice responding, “We’re thankful to be able to put this case to rest. It’s been a long ordeal, and we’re incredibly grateful that the neighborhood can return to a semblance of peace.

For the victim’s families, too, there will be relief to see their loved ones’ murderers placed behind bars.”

But what about the murderer’s family? The mother and son who hadn’t even known that Tony Mardeaux was not a man fit to be a father, never mind a member of society?

Anna stood. She went to Julian and wrapped an arm around his trembling shoulders. He was only thirteen. Not old enough to accept what life threw at him with a careless shrug or the middle finger, not old enough to understand why he didn’t have a father who loved him unconditionally.

His wiry body turned into Anna’s body with a great, heaving sob that Shaelyn feared she’d never forget.

This was her fault for trying to help. For trying to reunite a son with the father he so desperately wanted to meet.

No. It was Brady’s fault. He should have said something.

Once more anger swamped her.

Anna combed her fingers through her son’s messy blond hair. Her expression was guarded, her lips pursed, and Shaelyn should have expected what came next but found that she hadn’t at all.

“Whether you knew about this or not, I think it’s best if you go right now, Shaelyn.”

Another stab to the heart. Brokenly, she whispered, “Okay. I, uh . . . I . . . okay.”

Silently, she gathered her phone, purse, and the cardigan thrown over the back of the couch. She glanced at the two people who, in the short span of two months, had come to mean the world to her. She pushed away the thought of Brady, and that he, too, had become her everything. Clearly he did not feel the same way about her. And now she wasn’t

so sure that her own emotions weren’t just remnants from that long-ago high school puppy love.

No one said anything as she slipped on her tennis shoes by the front door, or when she said, “I’m sorry. Please tell me if you need me.”

From the way Anna’s gaze flickered with agony, Shaelyn didn’t suspect they’d be calling her anytime soon. Without another word, she let herself out of their house and took the patio steps two at a time. She didn’t glance back as she hurried to her car, mainly because tears blurred her vision and also because she didn’t think she could handle turning to look back and not seeing Julian on the front step waving like a manic, the way he usually did.

Her phone vibrated with an incoming text. She didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was. Shaelyn climbed into her car, slammed the door shut, and briefly thought about driving over to NOPD Headquarters to give Brady a piece of her mind.

No, that wouldn’t do. She’d wait for him at his house.

What she had to say had no place being said out in public.

Without checking her phone, Shaelyn threw the gear into drive.

The fifteen minute drive from Anna’s to Brady’s house passed all too quickly, and the next thing she knew she was parking in what had become her usual spot, avoiding the Crater of Doom and marching up his front steps.

“He’s not home!” came the warbled shout from next door. “Hasn’t been there since last night.”

Shaelyn’s nails dug into her palms as she turned to Crazy Shirley. “That’s fine,” she clipped out. “I’ll wait.”

Shirley nodded, then leaned on the railing of her porch so that she could get a better look at Shaelyn. She leaned so far out that she threw up a hand to block the glare of the sun.

“You here for more nookie?”

He isn’t getting any even if he begs and brings me to Disney World. The thought that she’d jumped into bed with Brady, that she’d trusted him when she’d trusted no other man with her body, made her feel queasy.

Crazy Shirley rolled her eyes at Shaelyn’s silence. “You young folk—so uppity about sex, like we all haven’t been there and done it before.” She gestured with a sharp flick of her hand, moving toward her front door. “Secrets will do you no good, dear.”

Ha. That Shaelyn knew well enough already.

Crazy Shirley disappeared into her house, and the urge to check Brady’s text message was too strong to ignore now.

Had he tried to defend himself? Or maybe—her heart clenched at the thought—the only reason he’d agreed to help Julian was because he’d already been on the search for Anthony Mardeaux and it had worked out to his benefit.

Hadn’t he said that his chance for a promotion rested on this case? Oh God. Had their entire relationship been a lie?

The errant thought that perhaps he’d strung Shaelyn along in order to use her for information nearly sent her to her knees. Logically, she realized that she had always been the one to bring up Tony. But her heart was hammering so fast, and her head was pounding, and all of the what-ifs were crowding in and making it hard to breathe.

To think straight.

She heard his heavy footsteps crunching on the gravel before she saw him. Heard the way he whispered her name as though he’d expected this all along.

He’d expected the end, when all she’d been thinking about was how they were just beginning.

WHEN SHE HADN’T TEXTED him back, Brady knew she’d come here. To his house, which had rapidly begun to feel like their

house. He’d left Headquarters with coworkers pounding his back for a job well done. Even Cartwell stopping by his desk to talk “shop” about the promotion was not enough to keep Brady at his desk, in that o ce.

Not when there was a solid chance that he might never see Shaelyn again.

Last time she’d fled across the country when it had just been a miscommunication. This was no miscommunication.

He’d fucked up so badly that he wasn’t all too sure he could bounce back from it.

Didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try to make up for what he’d done.

He’d try forever if she let him.

Taking the steps two at a time, he made sure to keep his distance when he caught sight of her expression. She looked ready to bolt. With an internal shout of despair, he noted the dried tears on her cheeks and her bloodshot eyes.

He’d done this.

He took one step toward her. “Shaelyn—” In response, she fell back a step. A shuddering breath made its way through him and he shoved his hands through his hair. “Let’s go inside and talk,” he tried again. “I’m sure Crazy Shirley is listening to everything we’re saying right now.”

“Let her.” Her gaze narrowed on him. “After all, the entire city knows about Tony Mardeaux getting incarcerated for aiding and abetting in murder. Except for the people who mattered.”

Jesus. Brady ran his hand over his face. What could he possibly say? Nothing beyond the obvious, which just so happened to be truth.

“I wanted to tell you,” he said, wishing that she would let him hold her. Each tear she shed tore through him. “There were so many times that I wanted to, but I—”

“Don’t lie to me,” she said coolly. “How long did you know?”

His hesitation was the only answer she needed. She laughed caustically, a sound that dropped the burden of guilt more heavily on his shoulders. “That long, huh?”

“Sweetheart, I—” “Don’t you dare,” she bit out fiercely. “Don’t you dare ‘sweetheart’ me.” If it were possible to shoot daggers out of one’s eyes, then the force of her fury would have already flayed him. “How long? It’s an easy enough question to answer. How long did you know?”

Too long. He’d known for way too long to hope that this argument might be washed away with a new morning.

“Since that first day that you came to my house,” he admitted somberly.

Her shoulders physically wilted, and she released an almost inaudible whimper that wrenched his heart and yanked at his soul. Without even her saying so, he knew what she was thinking: that he’d known when she had allowed him to almost take her on his kitchen table. When she’d first started to let down her carefully erected defenses.

And he’d known about Mardeaux ever since.

“Please hear me out”—he tried to stave o disappointment when he held out his hands and she looked at him like he’d o ered poison instead—“I wanted to tell you from the very beginning. Except that when you asked me to search for Mardeaux, I figured he was working a nine-tofive and partying on the weekends. I had no idea that he was a two-time felon. He was out on parole.”

With a shaky hand, she pushed her ever-curly hair back from her face. “What were those charges for?”

They’d been mentioned on the news today, but it was possible she hadn’t caught that part of the segment. Brady opened his mouth, instinctively knowing that he damned

himself with every word he said. His present admission couldn’t make up for what he hadn’t said before. His hands curled at his sides. “Stealing cars.” His gaze uncomfortably slid away. “Aggravated battery, among a few others.”

No, he thought sadly as he watched her hand leap to her mouth, Anthony “Tony” Mardeaux was no angel.

“Did the murder case come after you and I . . .?”

And so his grave digging began. “Before,” he told her bluntly, hating the way she flinched at his answer. “Though we didn’t know it then. The night you came over, I’d come o a long bender at work. We’d caught the main perp. He admitted to his involvement with the murders and that he hadn’t acted alone.”

“Mardeaux.” Her hand went to her throat, fingers splaying on the underside of her chin as though she were trying to hold herself together. “He was talking about Mardeaux.”

Brady dipped his head in acknowledgement. “We didn’t know it then. Not until his fingerprints came back. It was a screwy match, but there was enough circumstantial evidence, as well as the less than ideal fingerprints batch in the system, to link Mardeaux to the crimes. Except that we couldn’t find him.”

He saw the minute that understanding dawned for her, making him genuinely wish that he was anyone else than what he was. Who he was. Ambitious to a fault, single-track minded. A man obsessed with a title that he no longer gave a rat’s ass about because of the woman standing in front of him.

Except that the woman no longer wanted him.

He felt compelled to mention that the nature of his job meant that some things were classified. Like the fact that Julian’s father was the lead suspect and accomplice to a

bloody killing spree. Only when she inhaled sharply through her nose did he realize he’d spoken out loud.

She came at him in a flurry of pointing fingers and flushed cheeks, and God help him, but he couldn’t help but notice how beautiful she was. How she’d always been to him.

His hands found her upper biceps. “That was a shitty thing for me to say,” he grunted. “Forgive me.”

“Forgive you?” Shaelyn jerked out of his hold and spun away. “Brady, I can understand that your job is not exactly an open book. There’s a reason why o cers have to take oaths and swear to secrecy or whatever they do. I’m not naïve or a fifteen-year-old girl pissed at her boyfriend.” His heart briefly soared at the thought that she might think of him as her boyfriend, before it crashed back to reality at her words. “My problem is that you knew about Mardeaux’s past before he was even involved in the case, and yet you didn’t say a single word. Would you have ever told me, or more specifically, Julian? Would you have lied for the rest of our lives?”

He wanted to reach for her so badly, but knew that she would once again reject his touch. His arms hung listlessly at his sides. “I would have said something. At some point.”

Her mouth thinned. “At some point,” she reiterated brokenly.

“Yes.” She made a move to sweep past him. Brady was quicker, and with one step to the right he e ectively blocked her path to the front porch steps. “Let’s go inside and talk this over,” he pleaded, and for a brief second he thought she might waver from leaving. From leaving him. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

“I think I’ve heard everything I care to learn, Brady. If there’s anything I’m missing, I’m sure a quick Google search will do the trick.”

The harsh words made him flinch, and he reacted on instinct alone, as well as on the gut feeling that the reason behind her anger wasn’t solely because of Mardeaux. “You’re scared, Shae. If you think about it for a minute, you’d see what I’m saying makes sense, though it doesn’t make up for me keeping quiet. I couldn’t say anything to you.”

Her hazel eyes swung toward him, a little wide, a little unfocused. “I’m not scared of anything, Brady.”

Surprise hit him that of all the things that he’d said, that was the one she reacted to. There was more at work here, so much more than just being mad about Mardeaux.

He took a step toward her. Awareness dawned, and the words flew from his mouth, sounding as shocked as he felt down in his core. “You’re scared. After everything between us in the last few weeks, you’re still scared of this. Us.” God, all the puzzle pieces fit together so neatly now. It didn’t lessen the pain, though, of hurting her . . . and of her words hurting him. “You’re using my deception as a way out.”

Those hazel eyes of her flicked to the ground, and he watched her shoulders lift in a shuddery breath like she was desperately trying to regain the threads of her composure.

He took another step toward her, but she was so wrapped up in the thoughts in her head, that she didn’t seem to even notice. In a low voice, he said, “I make the perfect scapegoat, don’t I? Yes, I didn’t tell you about Mardeaux. That’s on me.

But you run, Shae, that’s your M.O. You run whenever things get tough. And you’re on the verge of running again right now . . . aren’t you?”

Don’t run from me. The words beat at his skull, hammering so profusely that he almost shouted them.

“I—” She cut o abruptly, taking the heel of her palm to swipe across her eye. She did the same to her other eye, but a

tear escaped her rough touch and slid over her cheek. “You lied, Brady.”

“I did,” he said, unwilling to throw out another falsehood.

“I can’t do this.” Her feet propelled her backward. “I can’t—I wanted so badly to make a di erence for Julian. I wanted to prove to my family that they could trust me. I wanted to mean something.”

“You do mean something to them.” To me. “Don’t let yourself think otherwise.”

“I might have, before.” Her brittle laugh was raw. “Julian and Anna learned about Mardeaux at the same time that I did. We all heard you on the Channel 5 News when you said that ‘this will be a relief to see their loved ones’ murderers placed behind bars.’”

His mouth opened. Then he lifted his hand to his chest because, hell, he had to wonder how much pain a heart could endure before it straight-up just gave out and called it quits.

Julian knew.

Spinning away from Shaelyn, he curled his hand into a fist and punched the closest object to him: the porch column that he had so carefully repaired two years ago. The wood cracked under the force of his swing, but he had a good feeling that his knuckles hurt more.

Neither the wooden column nor his knuckles hurt as badly as the thirteen year old boy who’d wanted nothing more than to have a father figure in his life.

“Fuck,” he ground out as the throbbing in his knuckles spread to the rest of his hand.

“My thoughts exactly,” Shaelyn whispered from behind him. He didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. What was there to say?

His every argument had a counterargument. More importantly, he didn’t want to argue.

Silently he stood, waiting for her to deliver another bomb that would send him reeling. The bomb she delivered next was expected.

“I think it’s best if we don’t see each other anymore.”

“You’re running,” he said bluntly. “Instead of taking the time to work this out, you’re going to run away again, just like when we were eighteen.”

“I’m not running,” she told him except that she no longer sounded so sure of herself. If anything, she sounded . . . broken. “I’m not.”

A humorless laugh worked its way out of Brady. “You are, and I shouldn’t even be surprised. That’s what you do when things get tough, Shae. You take o and pretend it never happened.”

He heard her quiet sob, and he itched to go to her, to soothe her hurts and her worries. But he couldn’t, not right now, when he was the only one willing to fight for their relationship. His heart was bleeding, too.

He dragged a hand over his face, wishing that his chest didn’t feel like it might cave in. “If you’re going to leave me, Shaelyn, just do it.”

“I’m sorry, Brady, I can’t . . . ” He didn’t want her tears. He wanted her to fight for them.

“Go, Shae.”

For a moment, there was no movement, no noise. The quiet right after the bustling storm.

Then, he heard her quiet “good-bye,” before her tennis shoes softly padded down the front steps.

After everything, their relationship had combusted into nothing but silence.

Over his shoulder, he heard the cranky holler of his neighbor. “Woo-wee, Detective! You young’uns sure know how to put on a performance!”

The only performance right now was Brady maintaining a straight composure when, on the inside, he felt dead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I n the two weeks that had passed since her and Brady’s

major fallout on his front porch, Shaelyn had learned a few things:

1. Anger faded pretty quickly and when it did, all that was left was comfort in the form of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream and Jose Cuervo.

2. Showing up sloshed to work only to beg for forgiveness from your boss (who just so happened to be your cousin, who may or may not hate you) resulted in being sent home. Good news: she wasn’t fired. Even better news: she’d had the opportunity to speak with Anna and Julian, and they’d hugged it out.

There were tears and a few awkward moments, but the hugs had been genuine. Bad news: Anna now had shadows under her eyes that hadn’t been there before the Mardeaux Meltdown, and Julian’s attitude had shifted from sarcastic teenager into teenage belligerence.

3. Avoiding Brady came easier than expected. In the fourteen days which had passed, he had not made a

single e ort to reach out to her. Which left her with, 4. She did not care about Brady. Not one bit. Except that she did, and her heart felt close to breaking, she hurt so badly.

“ARE you sure you need another drink, cher? I think maybe three ought to be enough.”

Shaelyn peered blearily up at her grandmother. “It’s a Friday night and I feel miserable. A fourth sweet tea and vodka isn’t going to kill me.”

Meme Elaine harrumphed, shoved the bridge of her glasses up the slope of her nose, and snagged Shaelyn’s empty tumbler. “I never took you for a wallower, Shaelyn Magnolia.”

“I don’t think ‘wallower’ is a word.”

“At my age I think I’ve earned the right to make whatever I want to be a word.” Despite her tipsiness, Shaelyn didn’t fail to notice the way that her grandmother’s cocktail mixture was more sweet tea this round and less vodka. Fun killer. “My point still stands: wallowing doesn’t suit you.”

Sliding the glass tumbler across the table, Meme Elaine kicked out her chair with the tip of her hot-pink cane and sat down. “Call him, Shaelyn.”

She took a swallow of the amber liquid.

After The Argument, as she’d taken to calling it, Shaelyn had turned to her grandmother for support. She’d explained everything—minus the sexy times—in full detail, including her past working for Carla Ritter. Surprisingly, Charlotte had never confessed Shaelyn’s darkest secret to her mother-inlaw. And if Elaine Lawrence had felt an inkling of disgust or disappointment in her only granddaughter, she hadn’t given any indication. Instead she’d mixed Shaelyn a drink and patted the spot on the couch beside her.

Shaelyn had let the floods spill forth. After all of it, Meme Elaine had done nothing but wrap a comforting arm around

her granddaughter.

On the other hand, it was clear that Meme Elaine had had about as much as she could handle of Shaelyn’s “wallowing.” Shaelyn didn’t blame her grandmother. She was rather sick of herself.

“I can’t call him,” she muttered glumly. “I shouldn’t call him. Right?”

He’d told her that she was running, but she wasn’t . . . was she? The situation felt di erent—he’d lied to her—but also not so di erent than when they were young. She didn’t know what to do.

Meme Elaine looked up to the ceiling, and Shaelyn had the distinct feeling that her grandmother was praying for strength. “Shae, my girl, either call him or don’t call him. It doesn’t bother me one way or another, but you have got to get out of this house.”

Shaelyn felt compelled to throw some humor into the otherwise depressing conversation. “The house is mine, isn’t it?”

“Well, it would be if you had any ounce of sense in that stubborn head of yours,” Meme grumbled. “But I’ve got my own secret to share, you know.”

“Oh yeah?” Lifting one brow in question, Shaelyn waited.

She wasn’t sure she could take any more secrets. Her lifetime quota had been maxed out already.

She waited, and then waited some more, until her grandmother muttered, “Oh, hang it,” and then reached for Shaelyn’s cocktail. The rest of the amber liquid disappeared in three gulps. Shaelyn was impressed, despite the fact that she was now liquor-less. Just as well. Her head was pounding like the devil.

“What’s this super big secret of yours?” she pressed.

“Don’t tell me you’ve followed in my footsteps and have decided to help expose the world’s cheaters.”

Two months ago Shaelyn would never have been able to make a joke out of her old career. Two months ago, she also wouldn’t have voluntarily called Carla to apologize for the rude way she’d finished their call, and to reestablish the fact that she was never coming back. Carla had wished her well.

Shaelyn had done the same. The whole situation felt a bit like an alternate universe, to be honest.

“Meme?”

“I was never going to give you the house.”

The words sank in through the haze of the alcohol. “What do you mean, you never planned to give me the house?”

“Just like I said. You wouldn’t come home otherwise, and I needed a way to lure you in.”

“So you decided to claim that I was inheriting this monstrosity?” Shaelyn paused as a wild thought hit her.

“Are you even sick?”

Suddenly Meme Elaine seemed way too concerned with staring at the empty tumbler. She switched her attention to her nails, which were painted a taxicab yellow. “Common colds can often kill folks my age. I could have been on my deathbed.”

“But you weren’t.”

Meme shook her head slowly, allowing time for that truth bomb to settle over Shaelyn. “No. I wasn’t.”

She glanced askance at her father’s mother, who was living up to her nickname of “Batty ol’ Laine.” “You aren’t sick now?”

“Hearty as a horse.”

Shaelyn had no words. Had her grandmother been so desperate for her return that she’d willingly made up whatever tall tale she needed in order to reel her back to New Orleans? And what did that mean for Shaelyn . . . had she neglected her grandmother so much that the woman felt it was necessary to start scheming?

Her head pounded furiously. It was too much, all of it. “Is there anything else I need to know? Any other transgressions you want forgiveness for which are just eating you up on the inside?”

Her grandmother glanced up at the ceiling again, and this time Shaelyn didn’t bother letting her frustration show.

“Seeking penance for your sins?”

“I’ve got Father Andres for that at church, Shaelyn. But thank you for worrying about my possible delivery to Hades.”

Shaelyn wasn’t worrying about anything and they both knew it. “Spill it, Meme.”

The older woman threw her hands up in the air. “Oh, all right. I purposely set you up with Ben and Josie Beveau.”

“I know. If you recall, Ben and I were engaged for all of two weeks.”

Meme Elaine winced. “I mean, I chose them for a reason.

Make that two reasons.”

The doctor’s appointment. Josie and Ben trying one last time for a natural conception. The five thousand dollars her grandmother had paid him. Shaelyn narrowed her eyes. Was there any level that her grandmother wasn’t willing to drop to, to get what she wanted?

“You knew they were trying for a kid,” Shaelyn said pointedly.

A thin-lipped smile flashed her way. “Guilty. Mary knows them from church. She’d overheard them talking to friends about trying for another baby and we needed a . . . ” The older woman shifted on the chair, for once avoiding conversation as she also avoided eye contact.

Something was not adding up.

“Meme,” she said slowly, “What did you and Mary Taylor do?”

Blue eyes flicked to her. The cane snapped in a thumpthump-thump staccato against the wooden table leg. Her grandmother was nervous. The woman who wore lacy Victoria’s Secret bras at the prime age of seventy-something was nervous. If Shaelyn weren’t witnessing the momentous occasion for herself she never would have believed it.

“I think I need another drink.”

Shaelyn lifted an eyebrow to really-didn’t-you-justlecture-me heights. “Don’t change the subject.”

“Oh, all right!” Meme Elaine’s hands flew up into the air.

“We wanted you and Brady together again. Except that you’re both so stubborn, so we knew we had to come up with a game plan.”

Something twisted in Shaelyn’s stomach. Anger.

Annoyance. Misplaced humor. She wasn’t sure what, but it was there, and she felt the strangest urge to laugh because this sort of scheming was just so Elaine Lawrence. If she didn’t laugh, there was a good possibility she might strangle her grandmother, and she had no wish to end up in jail. “So you set me up with a married man?”

Meme Elaine tapped her nose with her finger. “But Brady didn’t know that you weren’t engaged. We felt tremendously bad about Josie and Ben not being able to have children, though, so we o ered to help them with some of the fertility costs in return for helping us.”

A pressure started pounding in Shaelyn’s head. “Y’all blackmailed them.”

“No,” her grandmother retorted, “we o ered them a trade that they desperately wanted.”

“I’m sorry, but that sounds like a good case of oldfashioned manipulation. And you manipulate Brady and me, too.” She didn’t know whether to be impressed or disgusted by her grandmother’s and Mary Taylor’s antics. Mixed in with everything that had gone down with Brady, all Shaelyn

felt was confusion. “I thought you and Miss Mary were frenemies.”

“What’s a frenemy?”

“A friend that’s . . . ” Shaelyn shook her head. No point in explaining lingo that her grandmother wouldn’t understand.

“What I’m trying to say is that I was under the impression that you and Miss Mary no longer got along. You’re always snipping at each other.”

Meme Elaine shrugged. “We’re old, cher. That’s what we do.”

“So she didn’t steal Mr. Arthur from you?”

“No, she certainly did that.”

Shaelyn threw up her hands. “I don’t get it. You aren’t friends but you are friends. You loved Mr. Arthur and now you don’t love Mr. Arthur.”

“We’ve been in each other’s lives since I had my first period. Yes, she snatched Arthur away—but, look here, she’s still putting up with the dratted man this many years later. I suspect she’s actually jealous of me. I can do whatever I want!”

Shaelyn stared at her grandmother, not so willing to let her o the hook so quickly. “Does ‘whatever you want’ include throwing Brady and I together, no matter the costs?”

Meme Elaine had the good grace to blush. The wrinkled skin of her cheeks bloomed a rosy pink and her lids dropped as she looked down at the table. “Cher, we just wanted to see our grandkids happy. Y’all were inseparable once before. We thought you might need a push to help get you back there.”

The pressure had increased to an incessant throbbing, and Shaelyn brought the heel of her palms to her forehead.

Although a part of her was totally considering granmatricide —is that what one called the act of killing a grandmother?

Shaelyn didn’t know—there was the other part of her, the part that still wished for a close-knit family, which heaved a

sigh of contentment. Not because she supported her grandmother’s manipulation of the Beveaus, or even the manipulation of her and Brady, but because her grandmother’s actions demonstrated—in a weird, convoluted way—that she cared.

She cared about Shaelyn’s happiness and, for an individual who’d felt that her happiness was inconsequential, that was everything.

Shaelyn drew her fingers down her face, surprised to find streaks of tears had entered the world without her even noticing. Quickly she wiped them away, rubbing the wetness o on her jeans.

Hesitantly, as though she feared the worst, her grandmother asked, “Are you mad, cher? We only wanted to help.”

Thing was, Shaelyn did see. The threat of inheriting the Coliseum Street mansion, and even the ridiculous fake engagement to Ben Beveau, had all been done because she hadn’t given her grandmother a reason to believe that Shaelyn was anything but a shell of a person. She’d existed for years but hadn’t started living until she’d returned to New Orleans with the plan to get the hell out . . . and found herself enjoying life instead.

If that sounded stupid or cheesy, Shaelyn just didn’t care.

She reached for her grandmother’s hands, taking them within hers. “Can’t say that I support your matchmaking ways, but”—she drew in a deep breath—“I’m not mad.

Okay, I am, just a little, but I’ll get over it.”

Her grandmother’s smile was just a little bit wobbly, just a little bit grateful. “We’ll figure out a way to get you and Brady back together. I promise. Mary and I, we’ve come up with some more plans—” Shaelyn took her right hand back and held it up, palm faced out. “No. No more plans.”

“But you and Brady are meant for each other!”

The headache was back and this time Shaelyn knew the exact reason for it. The “reason” was a man with hot-blue eyes, an even hotter body, and a slow smile that could melt her bones with single touch. She shoved Brady’s image away.

No more thinking of Brady Taylor. No more dreaming of him holding her as she slept. No more feeling lonely when she went to bed at night, watching stupid Sons of Anarchy episodes by herself on her laptop.

“That ship has sailed, Meme. Brady and I are over.”

“Cher,” Meme Elaine said in her I’m-still-your-elderlisten-to-me voice, “don’t be silly. You just have to learn to trust him, that’s all.”

The irony wasn’t lost on her. It was because Shaelyn had placed her complete trust in him that she was heartbroken and shoving her face with ice cream and Jose Cuervo on a nightly basis. But there was more—because he had pretty come straight out and asked her to trust him, to fight for him, and she had run away.

Like always.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“Y ou look like shit.”

“Danvers, that might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Brady fell into step with the other detective as they left Headquarters for the night.

Truth be told, Brady didn’t only look like shit, he also felt like it too. The past two weeks since that fateful argument with Shaelyn had done something to him. Numbed him. Torn him apart.

“Not true,” Danvers replied as he spun his car keys around one finger. “I told you that you looked like death the other day. Actually, I’m pretty sure I mentioned something along the lines of the plague and returning from the—” “Shut up.” He knew that Danvers was only trying to help.

And it helped, sort of, in the sense that Brady cracked a weak smile.

“I know shit hit the fan with your girl, but you need to get out. Live a little.”

Your girl. Ha. Brady wasn’t all too sure that Shaelyn had been his at all.

For all her talk about her being his rock, she hadn’t trusted him when it mattered most. And now that he’d successfully

screwed things up beyond repair, he highly doubted she ever would be his. “I’m living,” he muttered, even though he was pretty sure that if Merriam-Webster had a slot for his definition of “living,” there’d just be a blank space. “I went out for a drink yesterday with my buddy.”

As they neared their cars, Danvers rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure you did. Only Luke told me that you drank too much and he had to take you home.”

Danvers had spoken to Luke? Brady shot the other detective a suspicious glance. “You talk to Luke?”

Brady heard the beep-beep of a nearby car locking, followed by the hushed rasp of shoes moving over gravel, just before a muscular arm wrapped around his stomach from behind.

It happened fast.

One minute Brady was reaching for his gun, and in the next he’d been bodily shoved into Danvers’ truck, sprawled on his side as the truck rumbled along.

“Jesus!” He latched onto the back of the driver’s side seat and hauled himself up into a seated position. “What the fuck is wrong with you two? And you, Luke—seriously?”

His best friend turned around, his eyes shrewd but twinkling with sadistic humor. “Untwist those lace panties of yours, Taylor.”

“I’m not—” Brady pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to count to ten. He didn’t even make it to five. “Y’all kidnapped me in the middle of the NOPD Headquarters parking lot.”

Danvers—the dick—held up one finger in the air.

“Technically we borrowed you.”

“Technically I could have shot Luke because y’all can’t even invite me to dinner like civilized people,” he snapped.

“Technically your head is too far up your ass for less extreme measures.”

For a moment, no one said anything. Heavy metal music drowned out the silence. Then, Danvers continued, “Are y’all feeling more Italian or Thai? I could really go for some drunken noodles right now.”

Luke thunked his head against the headrest. “Dude, you don’t ask your kidnapped-ee what they want for dinner. You just take them there.”

Bracing his hands on each headrest, Brady leaned forward to shut o the music. “How about you two stop squabbling like an old married couple and explain why you ‘borrowed’ me.”

“You need an intervention.” This from Danvers. Luke only nodded, even as he caught Brady’s glance in the rearview mirror. Brady hated what he saw there: worry and pity. It was an awful combo, made worse by the fact that Luke’s usual mask of detachment was missing.

All because of him.

He scrubbed his face with his hand. He and Luke had been best friends since the age of eight. Luke had taken on the daredevil persona while Brady, though technically not that much better, wore the title of “the careful one”—the friend who worried more, the one who never stepped outside of the established boundaries.

Except for one other time: when Shaelyn had skipped town and left Brady half the person he’d been before. Then Luke had stepped up—drawing Brady back to the land of the living.

He was doing the same thing all over again now.

Softly, he murmured, “I’m good, guys. Promise.”

“You’re not,” Danvers said as he banged a sudden right and nearly threw Brady into door. “When my”—he coughed —“when Cartwell asked you to sit down and talk about the sergeant position, you turned him down.”

Brady looked out the window. Apparently Danvers had decided on Thai. Or Italian. It was tough to tell because the two restaurants sat next to each other.

“Hey, hey, hold up now.” Luke threw up his hands in the shape of a T. “You said no to the job?”

Danvers muttered out of the corner of his mouth, “Technically it’s not his yet. But L-T was all but o ering it to him after the whole Kemper-Mardeaux stint.”

“Whatever,” Luke said. “Point is, you said no, Taylor?”

“I don’t want it.”

“What?”

Brady spared them both a glare. “I said that I don’t want it.”

Danvers slammed his forehead into the steering wheel— thank God they’d parked already—and Luke was very unLuke-like when he threw his hands up in the air and showed emotion. He twisted in his seat and pointed at Brady. “See,” he snapped, “this is why you needed an intervention.”

How could he explain to them that the craving he’d had for the promotion had left around the same time Shaelyn had come back into his life? It wasn’t as though he’d necessarily been forced to choose—Shae or the job—but he’d be lying if he said he felt as passionate about the promotion now as he had two months ago.

Hoping to change the topic back to Danvers’ endless stomach, Brady muttered, “Food, guys?” and went for the door.

The locks clicked into place.

Brady met Danvers’ gaze in the rearview mirror, just as he had Luke’s only minutes earlier. Whereas Luke had seemed worried, Danvers’s expression appeared only exasperated.

“Discussion now,” Danvers said, “food later.”

“Et tu, Danvers?” Brady crossed his arms over his chest and slumped back against the middle seat. Frustrated, he ran a hand through his hair. “All right, let’s get this over with.”

He didn’t want to “get it over with.” Hell, he didn’t even want to talk about Shae or Julian or Mardeaux. His thoughts went there often enough, keeping him up all night and plaguing him throughout the day. If anything, he couldn’t stop thinking about the mess he’d created.

“You miss her.”

Brady flicked his gaze toward Luke. “What do you know of it? You didn’t even want me to start talking to her again.”

For a second, Brady thought Luke might reach out and strangle him. But alas, he only looked heavenward. “Because I was scared that this might happen again.”

“I’m fine.”

Luke’s eyes narrowed to a steely glare. “Don’t be a chick, Taylor. We both know you’re not ‘fine.’ We both know that you’re dying on the inside.”

Swallowing the sudden baseball-sized lump in his throat, Brady looked out to where a group of college-aged kids were shoving each other around as they entered the Thai place.

Luke took Brady’s silence for avoidance and he slapped his hand on the dashboard. “Seriously, dude? I get you’re upset because of what went down, and trust me when I say that it’s a shitty situation. But do something about it. You not saying anything is almost identical to what she did twelve years ago. Don’t run away.”

“Don’t run away?” Brady shoved himself forward and got himself up in Luke’s face. “Who the hell has been running away for twelve years, Luke? It sure as hell hasn’t been me.”

“Don’t go there, Taylor.” Luke’s voice was hard as a nail, probably the same tone he used on new army recruits.

Brady hadn’t been a recruit of any kind in almost a decade.

“Sure, I won’t,” he snapped. “I also won’t talk about how you’re going to re-up again, even when your mother is begging you not to. I also won’t mention how you’ve been running from New Orleans by throwing yourself into the military all in the name of the good ol’ US of A.” They were both breathing hard and Brady couldn’t help but wonder if this hadn’t been a long time coming for them both. It was tough to tell your best friend that you thought they were full of shit when they lived in the same state as you. But when they spent half their time in the sandbox on the other side of the world? Nearly impossible.

Luke flicked his finger back and forth between them. “We are not talking about this.”

Brady lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. “It’s what you do best.”

A hand flew up between them, reminding Brady that they’d just aired their personal business in front of an outsider. Not, however, that Brady didn’t consider Nathan Danvers one of his close friends. Even so . . .

“Sorry,” he grumbled, though he wasn’t all too sure to whom.

With a visible tick beating in his temple, Luke stared hard at the console. Like it had all the answers in the world. Or maybe like he wished he could smash Brady’s head into it.

It was tough to tell.

“Me too,” Luke said after a minute where the only sound in the truck was the obnoxious chewing of gum, courtesy of Danvers.

The other detective clapped his hands together. “All right!

Now that that is over and done with, I’ve decided we’re getting Thai for dinner. I need some goddamn Saki to empty my mind of y’alls ridiculous pissing contest.”

“What if I want Italian?” Luke asked, and Brady knew that he’d been forgiven for his outburst. While Luke’s

shotgun temper was well known, he wasn’t one to hold grudges.

Danvers threw a disdainful look in their direction. “You two lost your chance for a democracy the minute you started fighting.”

Brady and Luke exchanged a glance through the rearview mirror. Sure, Danvers was a giant among men, but they could take him.

Italian it was.

When Danvers finally released them from the car, moving jauntily toward the Thai restaurant’s entrance, Luke and Brady snagged the bigger man by each arm and corralled him next door, spluttering and cursing the whole way.

As they were seated, and as Luke told Danvers to shut up about the Saki and just drink red wine, Brady couldn’t help think that maybe Luke was right. Maybe he had been running.

He’d been running on account of fear. On account of the fact that it was easier to swallow Shaelyn’s harsh words than it was to throw himself into risking his heart again. On account of the fact that Brady had always taken “the easy route,” even when they’d been kids. Sure, Shaelyn had sped out of town—but Brady hadn’t done much in the way of chasing after her.

He’d stuck around in New Orleans and relied on hope— hope that she might return, hope that she might give him another chance.

He was done with hoping. If he wanted her, then he had to go full-steam ahead. No more plans, no more stages.

Brady knew what he had to do first, and though the thought of approaching Anna and Julian after what he’d done made him want to vomit, there was no other way.

They deserved to hear the truth, and they deserved to hear it from him.

CHAPTER THIRTY

A week

after her heart-to-heart with Meme Elaine, Shaelyn had half a mind to tell her cousin “no” when Anna texted her, asking for Shaelyn to come back to the boutique, when she’d already worked since seven that morning.

Anna had missed her chance. Shaelyn had already kicked o her stilletos and had changed into a comfy pair of sweatpants. Everyone knew what that meant. Once the sweats came on and the bra came o , the rest of your night was sealed.

She told her cousin just that.

Less than a minute later, her phone buzzed: I need your help. Be here by 5 p.m.

It was 4:40 p.m. exactly. What do you need my help with so badly?

Anna had to be hovering over her phone because, again, thirty seconds hadn’t passed before there was another message. Come in your sweatpants. Don’t be late.

Don’t be late? New Orleans tra c was hell on earth, and it took Shaelyn twenty minutes on a good day to get from her house to the boutique in the French Quarter. She’d never get there on time.

I’m not wearing a bra either, she texted.

She should have expected Anna’s tenaciousness because her following text only read: Good thing you work at a lingerie boutique. Get down here, Shae.

Which was how Shaelyn found herself in her car at 4:43 p.m. driving down to the Quarter at breakneck speed and hoping that she didn’t get pulled over by the NOPD for going fifteen over the speed limit.

She’d thought she had hit rock bottom with the countless pints of Ben & Jerry’s, or even the few rounds of Jose Cuervo, intermixed with Meme Elaine’s specialty cocktail of sweet tea and vodka.

But no.

Shaelyn’s actual rock bottom came in the form of hotpink pajama bottoms with Tweety Bird plastered everywhere, including on her crotch, as well as a thin tank top that didn’t conceal the dark hue of her nipples.

If one of the delivery guys had a problem with her attire, then he could shove it.

Her arrival time turned out to be 5:05 p.m.

Grumbling over the injustice of o -street parking, she shoved her credit card into a parking meter, and waited for the white slip of paper that confirmed her payment for the next two hours. She slid it onto her dashboard, slammed the car door shut, and stalked the block down Chartres Street toward the boutique.

There were a few people—tourists, probably—who gave her the side-eye, but Shaelyn ignored them all. Tweety was a classic; they were just jealous.

Across the street was an early ghost tour camped out, even though the sun had yet to set. She heard the blaring sirens of a fire truck, just before she saw the truck itself whip around the corner of the next intersection. Tourists hung o the side, alcoholic beverages clutched in hand, as they shouted for pedestrians to join the party.

Only in New Orleans. Shaelyn hadn’t realized that she had missed the craziness that was her hometown until she’d returned.

She drew to a small pause when she realized that the window blinds of the boutique were drawn shut, even though Anna always preferred to leave them open until later in the evening.

Her hand wrapped around the chrome door handle and pulled.

It was locked.

The first thought that something was wrong hit her as she tried the handle again. No go. She yanked her phone out of her purse, pulling up Anna’s contact info.

Her cousin answered on the first ring. “You’re late.”

Shaelyn pulled the phone away from her ear to stare it, and then said, “There is a thing called tra c, Anna. I’m outside. Why is the door locked?”

Anna didn’t answer. Not on the phone, anyway. Instead the door flung open and Shaelyn was yanked inside.

And that feeling that something was wrong? Confirmed when she heard Brady’s voice say, “Aw, shit,” and then . . . and then, Shaelyn took note of the boutique.

Of the video camera on a tripod swinging her away, with the words “Channel 5” emblazoned across the side. Of the cameramen and the news anchor all looking in her direction with their hands inching up toward their open mouths. Of Julian standing o in the background with his cellphone pointed directly at her and Sir Mix-A-Lot playing in the background.

Of the fact that she was wearing Tweety Bird pajamas, ancient Old Navy flip-flops, and a thin tank top that did nothing to conceal her braless chest.

She. Was. Going. To. Kill. Him.

ONE LOOK at Shaelyn’s deer-in-the-headlights expression, and Brady wondered if he’d gone way o track with his plan to convince Shaelyn to be with him.

Anna had encouraged his idea. Hell, she’d told him that Shaelyn would eat it up. All of New Orleans would hear his apology, as well as hear him beg her to give them a chance at having a relationship.

Except that . . .

He tried to hide his wince when her hazel eyes turned on him with fury. He’d thought she would have shown back up in her work attire. He hadn’t—Brady swallowed.

Well, he hadn’t expected her to throw hell to high water and stroll through the very-busy French Quarter in Tweety Bird PJ’s and a top that left nothing to the imagination.

Who was he kidding? The sight of her, starved as he was of her presence, made his mouth water and his cock rise to attention.

“What’s going on here, Brady?” she demanded, the tension in her voice barely leashed.

Brady glanced at the news crew. Did he tell them to stop rolling? He’d been stalling on live TV for ten minutes now like an idiot.

Palms sweating, he ran them over his jeans. “I, uh, came to apologize. For what happened with Mardeaux. For not talking to you like I should have. For withholding information that you had every right to know. And with the hope that you’ll see how much I . . . care for you, and that you’ll take a chance on me, too.”

He was screwing all of this up. He’d spent the weekend planning everything, including sketching out his Take-MeBack speech. Looking at her now, at her wide-eyed expression and the way she was edging back toward the door to escape, erased everything. The speech went out the

window and desperation set in, especially when he saw her hand reach for the door handle.

“Shae!” he shouted, storming forward. The camera guy had told him to stand on the red X they’d taped on the ground, but no way was he risking her leaving him. Not again. “Hear me out.”

“Brady,” she hissed, her gaze darting behind him to the Channel 5 crew, “you could have come over at any time in the last few weeks to talk to me. Airing our personal business on TV is extreme.”

He angled his body to shield her from the cameras. “I thought you’d appreciate the irony. Considering that you found out that I’d been lying about Mardeaux on TV, I thought . . . ” Brady raked his fingers through his hair, only to belatedly remember that he’d gotten it trimmed for the occasion and there wasn’t much to tug on. “I wanted you to see that I was—that I am—serious about fixing this. Us.” “There isn’t an us.” Shaelyn’s voice dropped, adding, “There can’t be an ‘us’ when you won’t ever tell me anything that isn’t roses and unicorns.”

Get your shit together, Taylor. “Trust me, I plan to break that habit.”

“It’s more than just a habit,” she said forcefully, as though her entire being was strung tight. “Brady, you lied.

Not just once, but multiple times. Each time you’ve pulled me back. When we were seventeen and I found you with what’s-her-name, and then again with Tony. I can’t—” Her voice cracked, her fingers finding the fabric over her stomach. Her hand curled into a fist.

She was hiding again. He could see the skittish glint in her hazel eyes, as she used every excuse at her disposal to hold him at length. She wanted to run.

“You can’t what, Shae?”

When her gaze shot to his, he nearly stepped back at the fear swirling in the hazel depths.

“I can’t let myself fall for you!” she burst out. “I can’t let myself fall for you, knowing that you might keep something from me again. I don’t want to feel broken.”

“Shaelyn, sweetheart, it will be di erent. I promise.”

If he’d thought seeing the emotion in her gaze had hurt before, the look of betrayal she gave him now threatened to cut him at the knees. When she opened her mouth to speak, her voice trembled on the verge of tears. “You did promise, don’t you remember?” she asked softly. “That night we watched TV for hours and we talked . . . . You said that you wouldn’t keep things from me again. That we’d be each other’s rocks.”

His lids fell shut. He did remember saying that.

Remembered, also, the way he’d wanted to admit everything to her then.

In a gutted tone he barely recognized as his own, he said, “I remember, Shae. All I can tell you is that I won’t do it again. You have to believe me.”

She shook her head, pressing back against the door as if she could disappear into it. “I don’t think I can. I forgive you for not telling me about the murder case. I understand why you couldn’t say anything then. I know you didn’t mean any harm.”

“But?” he interjected, knowing that he was o ering her the metaphorical knife to stab him right in the heart.

Shaelyn’s gaze locked with his. “I forgive you, Brady, but I can’t risk loving you.”

Air. Even though he knew it was her fear driving her actions right now, he couldn’t seem to pull enough air into his lungs to breathe.

From behind him he heard Anna say, “What he’s epically failing at telling you, Shae, is that he personally came to talk

to Julian and I about what happened.”

Thank you, Anna.

Shaelyn’s gaze tipped up to meet his. “You did?”

Brady swallowed. “I didn’t do it for you—I mean.” Get it together, man. He sucked in another breath that didn’t seem to do much in the way of easing his anxiety. “They needed to know from me—the closest source. Every day at work I tell families things they don’t want to know and certainly don’t want to hear. But when it came to you and the family you care tremendously about . . . I not only failed as a friend”—as your boyfriend, he wanted to say—“but I failed as a detective.

As an enforcer of the law. That’s a burden I have to deal with.

I shouldn’t have ever let my emotions impede on that.”

Silence swallowed the room. Almost absently he remembered that the camera crew was still there. Were they recording? Brady didn’t know and he honestly didn’t care.

He cared only about the woman in front of him.

And he saw that this woman, this woman who had been It for him from the time they’d first kissed fifteen years ago, was letting him go. For good.

“I understand, Brady,” she said quietly, “I just need to think.”

And then she opened the door and slipped out of the boutique and out of his life.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

S haelyn was running, again.

She was running from her thoughts, her chaotic emotions, and . . . Brady. She was running from him, and this time she knew why. She was scared to trust him, even though he’d proved he more than deserved that trust.

Which meant that the underlying problem was her. Again.

She needed to think. To take the time to get out of her head, to study her thoughts, which were filled with what-ifs and all kinds of doubt.

Do not cry, do not cry, do not cry.

“Watch out, lady,” a pedestrian in a fedora snapped when they nearly collided.

Shaelyn jumped out of the way, purse drawn to her chest, as the guy mean-mugged her and then kept going, muttering something about “trash” and “chicks.”

At another time, when she wasn’t five seconds away from bursting into tears, she might have given the guy a piece of her mind. For one, a fedora? Seriously, who did he think he was? Justin Timberlake?

But, honestly, Shaelyn hadn’t seen Mr. Fedora at all because Brady’s heartbroken expression was all that she saw.

Had she made the right choice in leaving?

No. She clung tighter to her purse, not even caring that a kid around the age of seven was pointing at her and telling his mom that he could see her “boobies.”

Okay, so maybe she did care. Shaelyn shifted her purse to better hide her “boobies” before she was arrested for public indecency. Although it was probably a bit too late for that, considering Brady had called in Channel 5 news to record their reunion.

Except that there had been no reunion.

Tears threatened to surface again, and Shaelyn took a much-needed gulp of air as she navigated the busy sidewalk.

The temptation to lean into Brady’s hard chest had nearly sent her to her knees.

“You’re a coward, Shaelyn Magnolia.”

Brady.

Shaelyn swung around, shocked to find him so close when she hadn’t even heard him following her. The frustration in his blue eyes was scalding. She instinctively stepped back, only to be elbowed in the side by a passerby.

Brady stalked closer. “Did you hear me?” he demanded.

What was he doing? “I heard you.”

“You can’t just run away because you’re scared.”

“Brady, please—” He cut her o . “You had your turn to speak; it’s mine now.” Then he paused, as though waiting to see if she’d gotten the memo, so Shaelyn nodded. “Good,” he said simply, awkwardly, like he’d expected a fight.

Shaelyn was done fighting.

“The thing is, Shaelyn, you’ve been scared for years.

Before we dated, even.”

“If you’re just going to point out my faults, I’d rather we not do this,” she said, sliding to the side as a man in a fullbody dinosaur costume strolled by. Perhaps she’d been back

in New Orleans long enough because she didn’t even bat an eye.

His hand latched onto her wrist, immobilizing her when all she wanted to do was run. Because yes, dammit, she was scared. Scared that he could tear her to pieces without even blinking, scared that if he did, she would never be able to pull herself together again.

His touch turned soothing as his thumb caressed the pulse of her wrist. Her heart lurched and she stole a look at his face, surprised to find that his expression had shifted from anger to tenderness.

She couldn’t help but whisper his name, seeking, questioning.

“Sweetheart,” he said with a quick shake of his head, “let me speak.” Drawing in a large breath, he continued. “You’ve always been scared, Shae. I’m not gonna pretend to be a psychologist, but that fear never really left you. I’m sure it has to do with a more deep-rooted problem like not meeting parental expectations, etcetera, but the thing is: that fear carried over to your relationship with me.”

Still swiping his thumb against the sensitive skin of her inner wrist, he brought her hand to his chest. Beneath her palm, she felt the quick tattoo of his heartbeat. Her breath caught, her eyes seeking his face.

“I’m scared, too, sweetheart,” he told her. “I’m scared that I love you too much and that you don’t love me at all.

I’m scared that one day my job will again put me in a position where there’s an ‘either or’ and not a ‘both’—which is probably why I turned the job o er to make sergeant.”

Her hand jolted in his. “You did what?” She pulled at her hand again, but he refused to release her. “You’ve been waiting for that promotion for a year!”

Brady nodded, as though everything she said was undeniably true. Only, then he opened his mouth to say the

words that made her heart soar. “But I’ve been waiting for you for much longer than that. See, I’ve been waiting since that day you skipped out of town and I went to your house to apologize and to beg for your forgiveness. I’ve been waiting since you didn’t come back, and I spent the first three years paralyzed with fear that I had finished us for good. I’ve been waiting since I went on that first date with a girl who wasn’t you—and how I went home that night sick to my stomach that I would never experience that feeling of rightness again.”

She whimpered, simultaneously tugging at her hand and also positioning her purse in front of her chest because his words were stripping her raw, naked, and she feared that he really could see into the depths of her soul.

“So,” he went on in that gravelly voice of his, “I’ve been living in fear for just as long. And I let that fear guide our relationship when you came back. I made plans—stages, really—of how to win back your love and how long it might take. But I’m done with stages, Shae. I’m done with planning.”

His other hand lifted, sinking into her curly hair, before shifting down to cradle the base of her head in his big palm.

“I’m going all out here. I love you, sweetheart, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. The only fear that I want either of us to have is whether we’re missing Sons of Anarchy because we decided to have sex on every piece of furniture in the house, or whether we’re stuck between painting our house a buttery yellow or a bright pink to match the color of your sweats right now.”

Shaelyn’s mind halted on the “our house” part of his speech. “Are you asking me to move in?”

Brady tipped his head back and laughed. It was joyous and surprised all at once, and Shaelyn felt her own lips quirking

when he met her gaze and then stamped a quick kiss on her mouth.

“Don’t you get it?” His blue eyes were bright. “I want everything with you. You are my best friend, Shaelyn Magnolia, but you’re more than that. You’re my lover, my confidante, my other half, and yes, my rock. I love you.”

The people passing by on the street seemed to get the idea that something momentous was happening because as opposed to yelling at them for causing tra c, a small circle had formed around them. And if she wasn’t mistaken, a tour group across the street had their cameras out . . . and they were focused on her. Brady.

Her eyes widened as she realized that behind him, Channel 5 News was still there, the camera rolling, the news anchor reaching up to wipe tears from her eyes.

One of her own tears fell, and she swiped at it.

“Shaelyn?” Brady murmured, his hesitancy drawing out the vowels in her name in his New Orleanian accent that was once again so familiar.

“You’re right,” she whispered. “You’re right. I have been living in fear. Or, maybe, I just haven’t been living at all. I ran away years ago, and I’ve been running ever since. When things in one city got to be too much, I took o and looked for something new, something that I had no name for.

And”—she drew in a shaky breath—“maybe that’s why I stayed at Carla’s for so long. Because I had the chance to play other characters, and never had to worry about exposing myself. What I wanted, what I feared.”

His thumbs brushed away the tears slipping down her cheeks, and Shaelyn pushed forward. She had to get it all out now, or she never would. “I kept running,” she murmured.

“I kept running until I ran into you at your grandparents’ BBQ. I’ve let fear guide me for so long, fear of disappointing people, of not ever being enough.”

“You’re enough, Shae,” he said, his voice low with encouragement. “You’ve always been enough.”

A hesitant smile tipped her lips. “I think . . . I think I’m beginning to realize that. I don’t want to run anymore. I want to be yours.”

“Oh my God!” someone in the crowd shouted. “Tell the poor guy you love him already!”

“No, not yet!” came a di erent cry. “Hold on! Okay, okay, go now—I’m totally adding this to my Snapchat storyboard.

Guys, I love New Orleans.”

Beneath her hand, she felt the heavy pounding of Brady’s heart. Shaelyn let her purse fall to the ground between their feet. Gripping his hand that he held her head with, she led it to her chest and splayed his open palm to her own heart.

She saw his Adam’s apple dip as he swallowed. “Do you— I mean, could you love me back?”

Shaelyn flashed him a smile, knowing that she would remember this moment for the rest of her life. “I don’t think I could love you, Brady,” she told him, “I know that I do love you.”

The tense lines in his face eased as he grabbed her by the waist and yanked her close. “Thank God,” he muttered, raining kisses on her brows, her cheeks, her chin. “Thank God.” “I love you,” she repeated, cupping either side of his face.

“I’m so sorry that I—” This time he cut her o with a hot, panty-dropping kiss that made the crowd go wild. “No more ‘I’m sorry’s’,” he told her. “It’s a rule.”

She arched a brow. “Since when?”

“Since right now,” he said against her mouth.

Shaelyn pulled back to look up at him, feeling that mischievous pull that always popped up whenever they were together. “And if I don’t follow the rules?”

That brilliant light in his blue eyes turned sultry, heavylidded, and his grip on her waist tightened. “You sure you want me telling you on TV?” To be fair, Shaelyn was pretty sure that their little exhibition was going to be making it past the 5 on Channel 5 News today. She o ered the man of her dreams—her other half, her rock—a secretive smile and yanked his head down to whisper in his ear: “You can tell me later. In full detail.”

His answer was a deep, throaty rumble. “I love you, Shaelyn Magnolia.”

For once, the use of her middle name didn’t make her shudder in revulsion. “I love you, too, Brady Taylor.”

And then, o in the distance, Shaelyn heard the ridiculous sounds of Sir Mix-A-Lot singing about big butts and anacondas, and she knew that Julian and Anna had forgiven them—and, more importantly, that they loved Shaelyn and Brady, too.

EPILOGUE

T

hree months later . . .

“AREN’T they sick of us yet?” Shaelyn demanded, shoving the paintbrush into the gallon of turquoise paint before attacking the wooden planks with it. Turquoise because it matched the color of Brady’s Destin-blue gaze, and Shaelyn was a sucker for it—and also because when you lived in New Orleans, you might as well immerse yourself in the EuroCaribbean culture.

Or so she’d told Brady when he’d looked at her in horror, turquoise paint chip in hand. But then she’d informed him that he’d lost the chance to paint their house when he’d invited her to move in. Well, her and Freckles, because although her cat hated her, they were still a team.

Brady gently nudged his phone close to her with his foot, then pointed at the black text on the screen. “According to The Hu ngton Post’s version of our reunion, I’m about to tell you that I can make all of your naughty dreams come true.”

Shaelyn paused, glancing at her boyfriend. “You never said that. I would remember.”

The right side of his mouth kicked up in a grin. “You sound so sure. But if I remember that day correctly, you were too busy crying and also trying to not let anyone see that you were braless. Let’s not talk about the Tweety Bird pajamas.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Shaelyn went back to painting the side of their house. She liked the sound of it.

Their house. So o cial. “Danvers.”

That stopped Brady. He paused mid-paint-stroke. “What do you mean, ‘Danvers’?”

“I mean that your bestie has taken to sending me di erent clips of our French Quarter reunion on an almost daily basis to, and I quote, ‘make sure I never lose sight of what I have.’”

Brady let go a loud groan. “That is so cheesy.”

Shaelyn nodded happily. She liked Danvers, especially because he never let Brady get too serious now that he’d made sergeant. Lieutenant Cartwell had finally worn Brady down about taking the job. Brady had walked around their house for a total of week, all the while pretending he didn’t want to take the o er, until Shaelyn had reminded him that he’d lived for having that job for months. There wasn’t a single good reason that he should turn it down. And when she’d brought up the possibility of Summers getting the job . . .well, Brady hadn’t needed any further convincing.

The new position was an adjustment for them both. Anna had o ered Shaelyn the title of Design Consultant at La Parisienne, which Shaelyn figured her cousin had made up but actually fit her to perfection. In her new role, she dealt almost exclusively with their providers by custom designing the boutique’s lingerie down to the smallest bow and tie.

After all, Shaelyn had spent a few years wearing lingerie almost exclusively while working for Carla Ritter—she knew what was comfortable, what wasn’t, and how to make the body look its best.

“Danvers told me about the kidnapping yesterday when you were outside grilling,” she said o handedly.

“Really.” Although she didn’t look Brady’s way, she knew that he was brooding in that classic Brady way of his. Blue eyes hooded, fingers dug into his pockets, mouth in a tight line. “Did he also tell you how I almost shot Luke?”

“No.” This time Shaelyn did glance his way. “How is Luke, by the way?”

One of Brady’s muscular shoulders inched up and then fell. “I don’t know. He’s back on base. Probably getting deployed again soon.” There was a minute pause where they both stewed in their own thoughts. Although Luke had always been Brady’s friend and not hers, she’d known Luke since they were kids. The thought of him getting hurt worried her.

Sensing that Brady’s mood was dipping due to the conversation, she cleared her throat. “I’ve got something to tell you. A secret.”

“Yeah?” he murmured, voice dipping low. “I thought we agreed on no more secrets?”

“Mhmm.” Shaelyn put down the paintbrush and he did the same with his. Reaching up, she brushed his hair back from his face. He was always forgetting to get it cut, but that was another thing she loved about him.

“What’s your secret?” he asked, his hand following the curve of her waist.

She leaned into him, loving the way he always touched her as though it might be his last time. Or as though it was always his first time doing so. “Technically, it’s two secrets.”

Wariness filtered through his blue gaze. “Yeah?” he repeated.

“Mhmm,” she said, trailing her fingers up and over his bare chest to the abstract tattoo that still turned her on.

“One or two?”

“I don’t think I’m going to like this.”

Laughing, she pinched his side. “C’mon, baby, choose one.”

He dropped a kiss to her mouth. “All right, all right, give me number two first.”

“I think Ellen is picking up our story.”

His brows furrowed in confusion. “Ellen, who?”

Good Lord, the man lived under a rock. “Ellen DeGeneres, Brady. You know, the talk show host who just happens to be from Metairie, fifteen minutes away from here?”

To her delight, his mouth dropped open. Then he uttered about three di erent four-letter expletives that would have made Mary Taylor turn fire-engine red. “I’m never going to live this down,” he said. “I’m going to forever be known as Sergeant Love Me Dirty.”

Shaelyn couldn’t help it. Her hand shot to her mouth as she let out a peel of laughter. “I still can’t believe Danvers got that name to spread around the NOPD.” With a glower that would scare lesser people, Brady grumbled, “He’s a dead man.”

“You say that every day.”

“I mean it this time.”

“You say that, too.”

They shared a grin, his hands coming up to her biceps to hold her still as he claimed her lips in a deep kiss. “What’s number one? Tell me we’re about to shock Crazy Shirley right now and have sex on our front porch.”

“Are you going to arrest us for public nudity?”

Brady nudged her with his hips, and she wasn’t surprised to feel that he was fully erect and ready to go. “How ‘bout I arrest you and then use those pink furry handcu s Josie Beveau bought us a few weeks ago when they found out she and Ben were pregnant?”

Somehow, the four of them had become friends. Despite the fake engagement and the fact that Josie loved to overshare about her marital festivities. When she’d discovered that Shaelyn and Brady had never done it with cu s—Brady being a cop and all—Josie had taken it upon herself to purchase them a pair. Her nose crinkled. “Only if I handcu you first,” she said.

“Done. Now tell me number one.”

“I overheard Meme Elaine and your grandmother planning your proposal.”

Brady didn’t say anything. Instead his expression momentarily froze as he stared at her. “You have got to be kidding me,” he exclaimed. “They already got you a fake fiancé to get us back together. They don’t need to help plan my proposal when I already know what I’m—” He cut o abruptly, glaring down at her as though it were all her fault. “You did this on purpose.”

Grinning widely, Shaelyn assured him, “No, I can promise you that I didn’t.”

“Uh-huh,” he muttered, a devilish glint gleaming in his blue eyes. “I think you did.” He backed her up toward the front door, and just the hot look in his gaze was enough to turn her on. “You know what happens to naughty girls, sweetheart.”

She glanced up at him, running her tongue over her dry lips. Wrong move. His gaze zeroed in on the flick of her tongue, and his hands snuck out to wrap around her thighs and lift her up, silently urging her to wrap her legs around his lean hips.

Next to her ear, he murmured, “They get cu ed to the bed with pink, furry handcu s.”

A startled laugh escaped her. “No, not that,” she mockbegged. “Please.”

His fingers tightened on her butt. “Begging won’t get you anywhere, Shaelyn.”

“Not even if I do this?” she asked silkily, and then tilted her hips to brush where his hard erection pressed against her.

“No, not even if you do that,” came his throaty reply, just before they heard a shout from next door. “I’m sending this to Ellen!”

Shaelyn and Brady’s heads whipped around to see Crazy Shirley standing on her front porch, cell phone in hand.

“Shirley, I’ll confiscate your phone,” Brady said sternly.

Shirley sni ed and sashayed backward to her front door.

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law, Sergeant Love Me Dirty.”

“Good Jesus,” grunted Brady.

“I’ll be posting this on the YouTube,” she yelled just before her screen door flapped shut.

“No one is going to ever take me seriously.”

“Sure they will.”

Shaelyn patted his cheek sympathetically. “Now, about that handcu thing . . . ” Brady swooped down to capture her lips in a kiss that foreshadowed all the naughty things he planned to do to her in their bed, in their house. “I love you, Shae.”

She tugged his head down for another kiss that she suspected would make her wild until they were both old and grey. “I love you, too, Brady.”

THE MONTHLY NEWSLETTER

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Ready to sign-up? Heck ya! Let’s do this!

DEAR FABULOUS READER

Hello there!

Thank you for joining me on this journey with Brady & Shaelyn. I have to tell you, their story has been with me for years, ever since I watched a TV show on Reelz. It followed this family (a mother and her three daughters) who ran an Infidelity Business much like Carla Ritter. It’s been long o the air, but for the months that it was on, I became addicted.

Why did they choose to expose cheaters in such a way?

How in the world did they tell their family and friends that, “hello, I was sitting on a married man’s lap while his wife watched from the bar’s second floor last night.” I don’t have answers, and it’s quite likely that the entire show was a hoax created for rankings, but it stuck with me anyway.

Shaelyn was born from these questions that I had, though her and Brady’s love story became so much more entwined and more complicated that I envisioned it being when I first sat down at my laptop.

The writer’s muse is a weird thing, y’all.

As for the story’s placement in New Orleans - well, it is a bit of a homage to my second home. Since 2008, I’ve been living on and o (mostly on) in the Crescent City. It is just as vibrant, just as unique, as in Say You’ll Be Mine.

The Red Dress Run is a real thing, which shouldn’t be confused with the Naked Bike Ride. Yes, all participants are naked as the day they were born, and, yes, it is possibly the weirdest thing you will ever see.

In the French Quarter, ghost tours crowd the streets (I know this, as I was a guide myself), and tourists stumble their way along—usually after nightfall. Crawfish is King, only to be superseded by the city’s love for its NFL football team, the Saints.

It is a city that I adore, and because of this, I have a series of live streams on my Facebook page, as I take readers to some of the places from the book. Find them here!

This note is getting quite long, so I best wrap it up! (Eeek, I’m sorry!). But I do want to say thank you to my beta readers, as well as my ARC street team, who helped spread the word. For those of you who had a hand in this book, please see this link here—I’m thankful to have your support!

And thank you to you, Fabulous Reader, for giving Brady & Shaelyn a shot. I hope that they have made you cry, laugh, curse, and remember that second chances always do exist :) Until next time, Much Love, Maria

P.S. —> Sometimes, real life gives you such crazy people that you don’t even need creative license. Crazy Shirley is one of those people - I bet she is still sweeping the leaves into the draining pipes to this day, and I have to say that I’m slightly thankful we aren’t neighbors anymore!

WOULD YOU LEAVE A REVIEW?

Did you enjoy Say You’ll Be Mine?

If you did, it would mean the world to me if you might consider leaving a review on Amazon. As an independent author, I love to know that people enjoyed my work! But also as an independent author, I don’t have the push of a big publishing house behind me, like Avon Romance.

When Amazon sees that an author’s book is getting more reviews, Amazon then works in my favor by making their super-secret algorithms help me to reach new readers like you, who may never have heard of me otherwise.

If you’re up to it, you can visit this link and just scroll down to the bottom where it says, “Customer Reviews/Leave a Review”: the link!

Again, thank you so much for even considering it! As I like to say, if I could give you gold and unicorns I would, but all I can do is give you more smexy heroes :)

MORE BOOKS BY MARIA LUIS

Power Play And coming soon! ...

NOLA HEART SERIES Take a Chance On Me (ft. Danvers & his super secret heroine).

June 2017 Dare You To Love Me (ft. Luke & his …oops, no revealing her just yet!)

August 2017 BLADES HOCKEY SERIES Sin Bin (ft. Andre Beaumont) May 2017

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2017 by Maria Luis. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Alkmini Books, LLC.

Cover design by Yocla Designs Editing by Indie Editing Chick.

Created with Vellum

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Maria Luis is the author of contemporary romances, though she has a few completed historical romances hiding in the cobwebs of her desktop.

When she’s not writing about strong men and the sassy women who sweep them o their feet, Maria is a historian who specializes in medieval England and 19th century New Orleans. What do the two eras have in common, you ask? Nothing except for disease, scandalous activities and crime — Maria’s favorite historical topics.

Maria currently lives in New Orleans with her better half, where she can generally be found hiking with her dogs, Zeus and Athena, kayaking in Louisiana’s intercostal waterways or curled up on the couch with a good book.

Want to find Maria out in the wild? @MariaLuis629 marialuisauthor https://www.marialuis.org