The question haunts me all the way home, still echoing in my head when I find a spot on the street in the French Quarter and throw the Bronco into park. My confusion dogs my heels as I walk toward the old iron gate that separates me from the passageway that connects to the courtyard outside my tiny second-floor apartment.

His perfect body and tattoos are flashing through my mind as my heels click on the brick. My heart still thuds in uneven beats, and I wonder if it’s possible to have permanent heart palpitations from the best sex of your life.

Small price to pay, I think before quashing the thought.

But I can’t ignore the fact I can still feel him between my legs.

Why did I do it? Why didn’t I run? It’s not like he wove a spell on me and hypnotized me with his dick.

That didn’t happen until a bit later. A half whimper, half chuckle escapes from my lips as I reach the courtyard.

“That you, Temperance?”

My gaze searches the darkness, interrupted only by the Chinese lanterns and fairy lights hanging from the trees and the watery blue light coming from the splash pool, until it lands on the red dragon emblazoned on the back of a black silk kimono, topped by a fluffy white head of hair.

Shit. My landlady.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you, Harriet. I’ll just—”

She spins around, spry for her advanced age. “Oh, girl, you’ve got sex hair. At least that makes one of us.”

I squeeze my eyes shut in humiliation. “I . . . uh . . . got—”

“Done up right by a real man, I’d say. About damn time, girl. I was starting to think you were a lost cause of all work and no play. Almost wondered if I’d have to find a new tenant to get some entertainment around here.”

I blink twice as she shuffles toward me, fluffy pink marabou slippers on her feet. “You were going to kick me out because I work too much?”

I knew my landlady was a little nutty, but I didn’t realize she was downright crazy.

“It would’ve been a last resort. I was going to send you a male stripper first. Girl, you need some fun in your life, and you do nothing but go between here and work. Boring as hell.”

Her point is finally sinking in, but part of me is still in shock. “I’m boring?”

“Of course you are. I swear, you go out of your way to stay that way too. But not tonight. Tonight, you look like you got dicked down by a real man.” She takes a seat at the outdoor patio table and reaches for a bottle of wine. “Here’s a glass. Now, sit down and consider part of your rent spilling the juicy details.”

Dumbstruck, I close the distance between us and take a seat at the table. “It’s nothing. I swear.”

“Girl, you’re practically walking bowlegged. I’ve been around the block plenty of times. You won’t shock me.”

I reach for the glass of wine and take a long drink. Good Lord, I needed this.

“I shouldn’t even be admitting what I did tonight.”

Harriet’s aged eyes practically light up as she grins. “Those are the best stories. Come now, I’ll take it to the grave.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “I think I accidentally went to a sex club.”

Harriet’s wineglass clinks the metal of the table. “I knew this was going to be good. How do you accidentally go to a sex club?”

I tell her about the note that came to the office, and rushing to meet the appointment, assuming I was there to sell whiskey . . . and end with the part about running from the room.

Harriet claps with childlike excitement. “There’s hope for you yet, Temperance. When are you going back?”

I’m stunned at her reaction. I didn’t exactly expect her to judge, but I sure didn’t think she’d cheer me on.

“Never. I can’t. That’s not me. I’m not . . .”

“Interesting? Sexually adventurous? Up to be manhandled regularly by a real man?”

“I don’t even know his name!”

Harriet waves off my concern. “If I had a nickel for every man whose name I didn’t know, I’d be even richer than I am now. You can’t take life so seriously. You’ll never make it out alive. Now, you go upstairs, take the rest of this bottle of wine, and get tipsy enough to forget all the shouldn’ts and can’ts. If you need me to do some stalking to find this guy, just let me know. I have connections.”

I can’t even begin to imagine what kind of connections Harriet, an elderly artist who has lived in New Orleans for decades, could possibly have, but I wouldn’t put anything past her.

If she told me she was besties with the Queen of England, I wouldn’t be all that surprised.

I reach for the bottle, intending to pour her another glass, but she stops me.

“Don’t worry, I have a second one chilling. Go run along and drink. If you want to skinny-dip later, you’re more than welcome. I’ll be in my studio until dawn.”

A sharp pang of envy lances through me at the thought of spending time in a studio, creating something from nothing.

One more thing I shouldn’t be thinking about.

I don’t have room in my life for that either anymore.

I grab the bottle of wine by the neck and give her a smile. “Good night, Harriet.”

“Bonne nuit, Temperance.”