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  He did indeed drive a fancy car. Something with letters and numbers for the name, sleekly black, and so low to the ground, Bri’s calf almost cramped getting in.

  “You look great in green,” he said when he’d taken his spot behind the wheel.

  Bri fluffed her ball gown, pleased with the compliment. “Thank you. This was my mother’s. She wore it to her prom—the one she went to with my father. It was their third date.” Bri flashed a smile, hoping he only saw the action and not the hurt behind it. True, Bri knew stories of her parents. Had thumbed through hundreds of pictures. Listened to Nana speak of their wedding, how much they’d loved her, and their plans for their future. A future they never got to have.

  “That’s wonderful,” Carter said. “I don’t know exactly how my parents met.”

  Bri both saw and heard the emotion he carried. “Why did you never know your mother?”

  Carter shifted the car into gear, and Bri felt the power of the engine rumble in the seats.

  “She didn’t want the big city lifestyle, apparently.”

  “Did she die young?”

  Carter’s dark eyes seemed to glisten with unshed tears. Or maybe that sparkle spoke of danger. “Yes,” he said. “I know she’s buried here, but I haven’t been able to find her grave marker.”

  Bri’s hand rose to her chest, pressing right above her heart. “That’s awful. We’ll find it.”

  “We will?” He turned toward the French Quarter, one of Bri’s favorite parts of New Orleans.

  “Do you want to find it?”

  “Yes.” His quiet voice, combined with his good looks, nearly undid Bri’s composure. She hadn’t known many lawyers in her life, but he didn’t match up with any of her expectations.

  “Then I’ll help you find it.” Bri smoothed her hair back, the decision made. “After all, you’ve got me for a city guide. We’ll find your mother’s grave.”

  The music leaking from the hotel prompted a smile from Bri. Nothing soothed the soul like New Orleans jazz. She stepped into the blessed air conditioning and turned toward the grand ballroom, where the gala and fundraiser were in full swing.

  Despite his injury, Carter matched her pace, his presence as powerful as it was comforting. She spied Wes just behind the people checking tickets, and she slipped her arm into Carter’s. The weight of Wes’s glance landed on her, and she lifted her face toward his with a smile that felt plastic.

  He didn’t return the gesture as they arrived at the counter. Bri handed over the tickets, received a smiled nod, and caught Wes’s eye as she and Carter broke the threshold of the ballroom.

  She reached out and touched Wes’s forearm, and he gave her a slight nod. Satisfied she hadn’t ruined his night—he could only leave his post once—she turned toward the ballroom.

  Musicians owned the stage at the front of the room, filling the space with a swingin’ ragtime beat. Chandeliers dripped soft golden light on the attendees, some of whom danced in the center of the room, some sipped champagne near the perimeter, some drifted along the tables set up against the far wall.

  “Do you dance, Mister Carter?” Bri spoke in her Southern Cowgirl Tone, linking her arm through his again.

  His swallow visibly bumped against his throat, and Bri threw her head back and laughed at the suddenly panic etched around his eyes.

  “I thought this was a concert of sorts,” he said. Well, practically yelled, over the music and the chatting and whatnot.

  “It is. We can just watch if you want.” Bri snagged a flute of champagne as they made their way toward the edge of the dance floor. The pop of a flash caught her attention as the band switched to a slower rhythm, one reminiscent of the blues.

  Couples in poofy gowns like Bri’s dotted the floor, and she appreciated the gold lace on a lady’s red dress before the black whirl of another went by. Happiness infused her, and she was glad she hadn’t skipped this event that had been a tradition for her and Nana for decades. With Nana’s absence, loneliness engulfed her for a brief moment, but Bri blinked away the hint of tears. She would not cry tonight.

  “Shall we?” Carter limped onto the dance floor, presented his hand to her, and bowed slightly.

  “Oh, I was kidding. I don’t actually dance.” She glanced at his leg, but he seized her, that sparkle in his eye definitely dangerous now.

  “Oh, yes, you do.” He took her champagne and placed it on a tray. Then his hand planted itself firmly on her waist, the other lifting hers to the side. He glanced over his shoulder and eased them into the flow of dancers with the grace of one who’d participated in many grand balls.

  Surprise mingled with the heat in her bloodstream. If all injured lawyers moved with this level of liquidity, she’d have to start hanging out at a different kind of bar.

  You haven’t been out in months, she chided herself. By the time she finished work at Abbington House, all the energy Bri had left was expended on grabbing take out and heading to Nana’s for a couple hours of conversation. Most nights, Bri fell asleep moments after Nana did, only crossing the lawn to her guest house when she woke up in the dead of night.

  Carter’s fingers kneaded her closer, and Bri went willingly, the pop of that camera flash glinting in the corner of his dark eyes.

  The song ended and a man stepped to the microphone on stage. “Give it up for our Intermediate Collegiate Level jazz ensemble!”

  The crowd applauded politely, Bri included, noticing that several women nearby wore gloves. Her hands suddenly felt naked.

  “Kiss for the camera?”

  Bri turned toward the voice, a tall man aiming a digital camera in her direction. “No—”

  “Come on,” the photographer said, a wide smile splitting his face as he looked from her to Carter. “Gorgeous couple like you two? Just a quick kiss.”

  Bri’s dinner plate eyes met Carter’s. He didn’t look nearly as panicked as she felt. He shrugged one shoulder, his head tilting to the side as if to say, Why not?

  Bri looked helplessly between the photographer and Carter. She hadn’t kissed a man in a year. Maybe longer, if she had a calendar and really cared to work it out. Carter infiltrated her personal space, that warm hand sliding around her waist and drawing her into his chest.

  Their lips met, and Bri’s eyes fluttered closed. She registered the bright light of the camera flash, heard the photographer say, “Great, thanks,” but everything else fell away under the gentle pressure of Carter’s mouth.

  Bri didn’t mean to deepen the kiss. Didn’t mean to slip her hands under Carter’s jacket to the heat of his back. Didn’t mean to enjoy the touch, smell, taste of this man quite so much.

  By the time she came to her senses and pulled back, the next band had taken their place on stage and begun to play.

  Chapter Four:

  Carter lay in his lumbar-supported bed, staring at the ceiling. His muscles ached from holding them so tightly, and he consciously forced himself to unclench his fists.

  He hadn’t gone out with a woman as interesting as Bri in a long time.

  He hadn’t experienced a kiss like the one with Bri in even longer.

  He hadn’t lied to a woman about who he was before kissing her, ever.

  He growled, wishing he could turn back time and tell that photographer no. Better, go all the way back to lunchtime, when he’d met Bri and given her a false name.

  He sat up straight as if someone had pulled him by puppet strings. An arc of fire carved through the muscles in his calf, just below those blasted stitches. Dancing, even for half of one song, had been a huge mistake, something even the strongest painkillers hadn’t been able to fix.

  “I’ll just tell her who I am. It won’t matter.” His heart pulsed against his ribs, something he could feel when he pressed his palm to his chest.

  Of course his true identity—the fact that he owned the B&B next to hers—would matter. He flopped back on his down pillows, his thoughts so circular he felt sure he’d go mad by sunrise.

  His phone r
ang, and he reached for it, a new level of dread icing his stomach. Only one person would call this late: his father.

  “Yeah,” he clipped out, not in any mood to entertain questions about how the safety inspection had gone, or when the grand opening of Hammond House would be now that they’d passed.

  “Oh, uh, hello, Carter. It’s Bri, and—”

  “Bri,” he breathed, her voice loosening the tension in his body as he imagined her stormy eyes after their kiss. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” She waited, her soft breathing coming through and nearly driving him insane with the reminder of how she tasted. Like candy and mint.

  “Look—” she said at the same time Carter said, “Can I take you to breakfast?”

  A pause pulled him like taffy before a giggle tickled his ears.

  He added his chuckle to her higher sound. “Is that a yes?”

  “Do I have to order eggs benedict?”

  Carter wrote a dozen texts canceling breakfast with Bri.

  I’m sorry I can’t go to breakfast. I got called into a meeting.

  I have to fly back to New York. We’ll have to do breakfast another time.

  An emergency at Hammond House will keep me from breakfast. So sorry.

  He erased the last one and started to thumb out another. He thought of her brunette curls, that green gown that hugged her waist and swelled at her chest, her radiant laugh, the champagne-sweet taste of her lips.

  He grunted in frustration and tossed his phone onto the couch next to him. He wanted to go out with her. Was that so wrong?

  Yes, Jason, it is. She doesn’t even know who you are. He went into his kitchen and poured himself a strong cup of coffee. Maybe he’d know what to do once caffeinated.

  His phone rang, and he practically leapt for it, the stitches pulling against the movement as his fingers fumbled the slim slip of metal. His heart plummeted when he saw the screen, but he swiped open the call anyway.

  “Good morning, Dad.”

  “Carter.”

  Carter lifted the phone away from his ear lest he go deaf. He held down the volume button until his father’s voice became tolerable.

  “I’m boarding a plane right now,” his father said. “I’ll be in New Orleans by lunch. Can’t wait to see this bed and breakfast of yours.”

  “You’re coming today?” Carter’s visions of a slow breakfast next to the river faded into a distant horizon.

  “As we speak. I heard the safety inspection went through this time, and I….”

  Carter stopped listening as fury invaded his eardrums. How did his father know about the safety inspection? Who’d told him?

  “…pick me up, and we’ll do our final walk-through. You can tell me how the grand opening will go.”

  Carter gave his agreement and hung up. His hands drooped at his sides; spending the day with his father was as inevitable as the setting of the sun. He took a deep breath and texted a real excuse for why he couldn’t have breakfast with Bri.

  As he contemplated how long his father would stay in town, he wondered how many excuses he could make before she’d think him disinterested. Because he couldn’t introduce Bri to his dad. At least not until he told her who he really was.

  It’s okay, Bri’s text came in. I can start looking for your mom’s grave marker.

  Carter pressed his eyes closed and groaned. He couldn’t give Bri his mother’s real name—how could he say her name was Felicia Hammond?—which meant every minute she spent searching would be a colossal waste of time.

  Maybe she won’t ask, he thought at the same time she texted, What’s her name?

  He stared at his phone. Another lie? How many would he have to tell before this ended?

  He couldn’t be dishonest with her again. He wouldn’t. So he silenced his phone without responding and moved back into the bedroom to change into his most expensive Italian suit. Gotta impress his father. Even with the perfect clothing and the perfect B&B, it still wouldn’t be enough.

  Four hours later, Carter left Hammond House to go pick up his father from the airport. The now-installed air conditioning had the B&B at a comfortable seventy-three degrees, the cleaning crew Carter had hired last-minute had polished, swept, and shined everything in the building, and his office had been stocked to accommodate his father’s eclectic tastes in coffee.

  A dull ache sat behind his eyes, even with his designer shades battling the relentless sun. His father wasn’t even here yet, and Carter knew the headache wouldn’t leave until the formidable Leon Hammond did.

  Carter raised his hand so his dad would see him as he came out of the security check-gate.

  His father, all smiles and crisp lines, stepped toward him, his carryon not bulging at all. Carter estimated he might stay overnight and then leave. An insane amount of hope shot through the nerves in his gut.

  “Dad.” He clapped his father on the back and received the same man-hug in return. “How was the flight?”

  “I had no idea you had to fly over the water and come back in.” Several people turned at the volume of Leon’s voice.

  Carter led his dad toward the moving sidewalk. “It’s exciting, for sure.”

  “Next time, I won’t get a window seat.”

  “Well, maybe you won’t have to come down here very often.” Carter stepped into the parking garage, where everything Leon yelled would be amplified. “Things are going well at Hammond House. I don’t expect you’ll need to come much, if at all.”

  “You have the online registration set?”

  Set, set, set vibrated through the air, but at least no one else had to be victim to Leon’s habit of yelling the simplest of sentences.

  “Yes. It’s been ready for weeks. We even have a dozen bookings already.”

  His father frowned. “How is that possible? You don’t even know when you’re opening.”

  “We set the earliest booking date as June fifteenth. I knew we’d be open by then.”

  Carter unlocked his car and ducked into the driver’s seat. His father hated sports cars and how low they rode—precisely the reason Carter had picked this particular vehicle.

  His father heaved his carryon into the microscopic backseat before settling into the passenger seat and buckling up. “And when are you planning to be open?”

  “Next weekend.” Carter started the engine, taking comfort from the dull roar. “I’m announcing it today via social media. The newspapers are running it in their Sunday feature tomorrow, and I have a news crew coming Monday morning as part of their early show.”

  “Hmm.”

  His father’s best way of giving approval. A hum. Growing up, Carter had often wished for more. More praise. More attention. More of anything. Now, the less his father said, the better.

  “Have you heard Amanda Monroe is getting married?” his father asked as they pulled from the parking garage into the New Orleans sunshine.

  “She is?” Carter settled his shades over his eyes. “I knew she’d been dating that guy for a long time. What’s his name?”

  “Vincent Powers.”

  “Is Amanda going to change her name?” Carter had grown up with the Monroes, as they lived on the top floor of one his father’s high-rise properties. The top floor right next to the Hammond’s penthouse suite, in fact. Fiercely independent, Amanda would probably plan her own wedding.

  Once, Amanda and Carter had sent flashlight messages from window to window. Once, he’d taken Amanda to prom. Once, they’d shared the same limousine to a political fundraiser. There’d never been anything romantic between them, and Carter’s lips curved up when his father said, “Yes, she’s going to change her name.”

  “Good for her. Maybe marriage will suit her.”

  Amanda had been somewhat of a wild child, as evidenced by her dyed-pink hair, the copious amounts of dark eye makeup, and now, her popularity in the teen pop music industry.

  “Rumor is she’s looking to book a destination wedding.”

  And…back to business. “You think she�
��d come to New Orleans?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Why would she?”

  “She could have her wedding at Hammond House. Make a big splash.”

  Carter opened his mouth to argue and found the retort silent. Having Amanda Monroe, pop sensation, bring her wedding party to Hammond House sounded like great marketing. Really great marketing.

  Leon Hammond was right. As usual. And blast if that didn’t make Carter’s throat narrow and his blood burn.

  Chapter Five:

  Bri went to work in her flirty sundress, even though Carter had cancelled their breakfast. She wouldn’t be doing any handyman work—unless the guest bathroom toilet became a geyser—and the splashy, yellow and blue striped dress made her feel fun.

  She set to work putting together Amanda Monroe’s wedding package details, looking up prices for catering and décor, and crafting a professional email to the musician’s personal account. After a couple hours of sitting at her desk, she finally sent the message. A smile curved her lips as she sat back and stretched her shoulders.

  “Bri!” The Frantic Tone of Yasmine caused Bri to leap to her feet and fly across the room.

  “What?” She scanned the lobby for mishaps—outlets sparking electricity, slashed rugs, alien spacecraft crashing through the front windows. Nothing. Everything looked as it had yesterday.

  “I just booked the whole House for the Fourth of July weekend.” Yasmine beamed at her from behind the registration counter. “I should get a raise.”

  Bri realized that what she’d identified as a Frantic Tone was really a Triumphant Tone. She grinned at her friend, who tucked her dark braids into a bun as she smiled. “That’s great, Yasmine. But no raise.” She glanced toward the front doors, even though they didn’t point toward Hammond House. “At least not until we see how that new B&B affects us.”

  Yasmine finished fussing with her hair and settled onto the stool behind the counter. “I just read on Facebook that they’ll be opening next weekend.”