Being back in my hometown was not at all how I imagined it would be. The one thing that never changed was the unique sound that gave Belle Musique its name. On the outskirts of New Orleans, Belle Musique was named after the melodic sounds of the Mississippi snaking between the tall blades of blue wild rye grass. A fact every child raised in the town learned by the time they reached seven years old. Me included.

It’s funny how all that information came rushing back as soon as I crossed into town limits. In Chicago, I had no reason to know things like what types of grass grew between the cracks in the sidewalk, because that was the only place I’d really seen grass in all the years I spent there. My attention had been on things like my grad school “friends” stealing and then selling my business from right under me. And then I’d spent all my energy on the five-year legal battle to dissolve the company and have them pay me my fair share.

The money was nice, but truthfully, I would have been happier to see them have to return the money to the billionaire playboy who’d bought the biz off them. Instead I had to be content with twenty million in the bank. Don’t get me wrong, I was content with the money, it gave me the freedom to figure out what I wanted to do with my life.

It turns out that the rat race wasn’t for me, at all. But writing erotic romance was indeed my jam. Yep, while I was spending a fortune on lawyers who were happy to use every dirty trick in the book to win my case, I wrote three erotic romance novels that became kind of a big deal. But a year after the third one was published, book four still sat on my laptop with a scant fifty pages to it.

I was blocked.

And exhausted mentally.

So I decided to pack up my life in Chicago and bring myself and my brown bunny, Lollipop, back home to Belle Musique to get my mojo back. But a week inside the beautiful yellow plantation-style home with not one, but two wraparound porches, and I had a whopping fifty two pages written. Yep, two whole pages added to my masterpiece.

Too many years spent in the city meant I concentrated on too many indoor activities, namely, work. That’s why I’d chosen a property on the edge of town with plenty of space between neighbors. There were just two other houses on the block and one was vacant, at least according to the chatty realtor I spoke with over the phone. Now that I was away from Chicago and back in the sticky bayou heat, I planned to do more things outside, like tend to my salsa garden.

I’d always wanted a garden, and even though my pale skin was beginning to bubble under the New Orleans sun, I was determined to make sure that by the end of summer I could make my own homemade salsa. I probably should have researched to see if June was too late to start a garden, but the seeds and baby plants were in the earth now and it was too late to change it.

It was kind of soothing, actually, gardening. Digging my fingers in the dirt to create something stimulated another part of my brain, the one that allowed me to start to sketch out more of my novel, Sweeter Nothings.

But I was tired of thinking of all the things I hadn’t done yet, so I cranked up Aerosmith and focused on my new plants and the flowers planted by the previous owners. It was something I could deal with. Something I could accomplish, and as the minutes ticked by, I started to feel more relaxed. More settled, as I pictured how the yard would look when I finished it. There would be a large tented gazebo that I could sit under and write, with a pitcher of iced tea or hard lemonade at my side, and a solar charger within reach at all times. That way I’d make the most of my yard and the hot sticky Louisiana weather.

But the weeds, they tended to get the better of amateur gardeners like myself, and I ended up ass deep in fresh soil.

“Shit!”

A gasp sounded behind me. “You have a potty mouth!”

I turned to find a little girl with wild black curls, big blue eyes, and the deepest dimples I’d ever seen. “Yeah? Well, you’re kind of nosy.”

She giggled and came closer. “I’m Norah.”

I’d never spent much time around kids before, but she was straightforward and well-mannered. So far. “Nice to meet you, kid. I’m Viviana. Do you live around here?”

She nodded and pointed vaguely behind her. “Why were you swearing?”

“Because I was frustrated that those weeds wouldn’t come out of the ground, and swearing made me feel better. Besides, I’m a grown-up. I’m allowed to swear.”

Her head tilted as she thought about that for a second. “You gotta pull from the roots.”

“Thanks,” I told her with a grin as I pulled the wretched weeds up. “How’d you know that?”

“My dad makes me help pull weeds every spring.” Her tone implied she hated it, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Is that your bunny?”

“Yep, his name is Lollipop and you don’t have to help me pull weeds, kid. Want some lemonade? I think it’s booze free too!” I poured two tall glasses and set them both on the table that was without a tent or gazebo, but there were chairs. “Have a seat.”

Norah stared at the brand new cushions on the metal chairs and then down at her dirty cut-off denim shorts. “You sure?”

“Go ahead, chairs are for sitting.” My own mother had been obsessed with cleanliness, at least before she ran off to live unencumbered by a needy little girl. “Come on, Norah. If you stand, then I have to stand and I really don’t feel like it.”

“Okay.” She climbed onto the chair and pulled the glass close, taking a careful sip to taste it and then a bigger, louder gulp. “Why are you wearing beach clothes back here?”

“Because it’s hot and I can. Shouldn’t you make sure your parents aren’t worried about you?”

“Nope.” She took another big sip and smacked her lips together. Loudly. “My dad is in the workshop and he won’t notice until he takes a break.”

I didn’t know if she was lying or not. How did you know when kids were lying if they weren’t your kids? Then again, if she was lying, there would be an angry mom and dad banging on my door soon enough. “Hungry?” I flipped open a red cooler and pulled out two plates, one with a loaded veggie sandwich and the other with carrot chips.

“Sure.” She was polite and nosy, but she ate like she spent all day working in the fields. “That’s good but you forgot the meat.”

“Veggies are good for you or didn’t you get the memo?”

“What’s a memo?” Her nose scrunched up adorably, and I thought I might actually like this kid.

“It’s a note or document to write down something important. Like the fact that veggies are good for you.” She rolled her eyes and I laughed.

“I’ve never had carrot chips before.”

“Me neither, but I found this recipe online, so I decided to try it out. I like trying new things because it’s fun, but also because it helps my writing.”

She sucked in a breath. “You’re a writer? What kind?”

“I write books that are completely inappropriate for a girl your age.”

“You don’t even know how old I am.”

“Ten,” I said with an authority I didn’t feel.

“Eight.”

“Close enough.” I shrugged and finished my sandwich. “And eight is way too young.”

“Grown-ups always say that when they don’t want to talk about something.”

She was right. Totally right. “Fine. Do you like kissing boys?”

“Ew, no!” Her face looked like she’d just sucked a lemon.

“Well, I write about a lot more than kissing boys on the mouth.”

“Really?” She looked so excited I knew that my plan had immediately backfired.

“Yep, and that’s all I have to say about that. The last thing I need is for your mom and dad to think I’m some perverted corruptor of the innocent.”

“You talk funny.”

“So do you. Come on, kiddo. Time to get you home before you turn into a pumpkin.”

“You’re weird.” She giggled as I herded her through the backyard and onto the sidewalk. Lights were on which meant someone might be searching for a raven-haired eight-year-old.

“If your parents start yelling, I’m totally throwing you under the bus.” The last thing I needed was a bunch of nagging neighbors making it hard to write, especially since I had plenty of other things making it difficult.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Good,” I told her as we climbed the steps.

“But I do know that you still have your bikini top on.” If the sound of her laughter wasn’t so charming, I might have been more upset.

“Now you tell me. Thanks a lot, Nor.” I wasn’t all that upset but I could imagine how it might look to some suburban mom.

“Sorry.”

“I might believe you more if you weren’t smirking.” The door opened and I stared, stunned, at a face I hadn’t seen in almost ten years. Same royal blue eyes, same jet black hair a little longer than it used to be, and same broad shoulders. Only now, with more muscles. “Holy sh-” I looked down at Norah. “Holy crap, Nash Boudreaux! Norah, you didn’t tell me Nash was your old man.”

“You never asked,” she sang and wrapped an arm around her father.

He wore a scowl that said I wasn’t welcome here, and I took a step back because I was no longer the girl who didn’t notice things she should.

“Right. Well, it was nice to meet you, Norah.” I tossed a wave over my shoulder as I jogged down the steps, eager to get away from Nash and the feelings he evoked. Not the crush I had on him for like five seconds back in high school, but the feeling that I got just now, of being someplace you’re not wanted.

I’d missed it with Claire, Jase, and Thad and it cost me almost a decade of my life. I wouldn’t make that mistake again. No matter what it cost.

“Sorry, she bothered you.”

“No bother,” I said and waved again without looking back, pumping my legs in long strides to hurry back to the safety of my own space. And there was plenty of it with two storeys plus an attic and basement, so I could get lost for days without needing to surface.

But first, I needed a stiff drink. Ice cold.

And maybe a shrink.