GRETNA, LOUISIANA

Louisiana was hell.

Not because of the people, or the food, or the European flare that clung to the city’s coattails, but because of the godforsaken heat. It was only the first week of April, her second day in the city, and Jade felt like she was sledging through a bowl of soup (Flavor: 100% Humidity).

Miami was hot, but this was . . . Jade paused mid-step as she felt her only-just straightened hair begin to frizz at the temples. She bet that she looked like a poodle—a poodle with sweat gathering between its bra cups.

She definitely should have opted for a tank top tonight instead of her skinny jeans and soft black sweater ensemble. Sighing with resignation, Jade switched the bottle of red wine from one hand to the other and reached for the doorbell.

After a few weeks, she’d find her footing. She’d remember to wear shorts and sundresses, just like she’d remember that New Orleanian drivers were just this side of crazy and that most of the roads were one-ways.

There was nothing more mood killing than blasting down a one-way street with Beyoncé singing at an octave that should have punctured Jade’s eardrums, only to see flashing blue lights approaching. Despite her Florida license, car registration, and plate, the cop had gifted her with her first New Orleans Municipal traffic ticket within five hours of arriving in her new home.

Jade wasn’t the sort of girl to simper and flutter her eyelashes, so she’d grudgingly accepted the white slip of paper.

Gracias al cielo she’d managed to find her way to the Cartwell’s home on what she’d learned was called the “West Bank.” Her GPS had informed her she’d actually been driving east, which had provided ten minutes of panic as she’d clutched her steering wheel at ten and two, and crossed the sky-high bridge over the grand Mississippi River.

Speaking of the Cartwells, were they even home?

Jade hit the doorbell again.

“Get the door, Lizzie!”

“Mom, I’m holding the gumbo—how am I supposed to get the door?”

“Is Danny here? Make him get it.”

A pause. “He’s not here yet. Seriously, can I put the gumbo down first?”

The sound of heavy footsteps crunching over the gravel walkway alerted Jade that she wasn’t alone, and she immediately turned around. Under the darkening sky, he was a shadowed silhouette.

“They disinvite you?”

His voice was dark, smoky, which appropriately matched his obscured form marching through the night. His heavy footfalls halted beside her, and Jade had to tilt up her chin in order to look at his face.

He was tall. Definitely taller than John Thomas, who topped off at about 6’2”. Compared to this guy, Jade, at 5’8”, finally knew what it was like to feel petite. But his height also felt threatening, overpowering, and Jade was done feeling overpowered by men.

“I hope not,” she replied, deciding after a quick once-over that he was friend and not foe. His hands remained loose at his sides, the timbre of his voice more amused than aggressive. Not exactly the signs of an attacker. “I nearly lost my life crossing the bridge—I’m hoping for a meal and good company before we face off again.”

In the shadows, she saw him dip his head to look at her. “They don’t got bridges like that in Miami?”

His roughhewn accent was like a seductive caress against bare skin. A little more Italian New Jersey than Sweet Tea Drinkin’ Georgia. She’d imagined the New Orleanian accent to be a close sibling to Savannah’s, but found that she actually preferred the rough way his vowels merged with the hard hits of his consonants.

Call her crazy, but she wanted to hear him say her name. Would it roll off his tongue like sweet molasses or sharp and succinct the way Lucia said it?

Wait—no, no. She was taking a break from men. All men.

She’d come to New Orleans with only two rules. First, no dating—Jade needed to try out the single life. Second, focus on her new job. The two went hand-in-hand.

She glanced up at the guy standing next to her and mentally added him to her Stay Away From list. Without even having seen his face, she knew he was dangerous to her well-being. It was in his stance, the confident way he held himself. It was in the deep baritone of his voice, the amused glint signaling that he didn’t take himself too seriously.

That he didn’t take life too seriously.

And his big frame . . . Jade was a sucker for tall men with broad shoulders, and the shadows of the night expertly proved that this man ticked off both of those boxes. He was the sort of guy you fantasized about when you were home alone and feeling horny. The kind of guy your mind brought to fruition when your fingers dipped beneath your panties and your breathing hitched with the possibility of what if.

Jade brought the wine bottle to her chest. “We’ve got a lot of things in Miami, including decent drivers.”

She could have sworn he flashed a grin, but whatever he might have said next was silenced by the front door swinging open. The brown-haired woman on the other side was in her late twenties, about Jade’s age. Her feet were strapped into a pair of pink stilettos, while the dress hugging her body left little to the imagination.

Were the Cartwells hosting dinner or the next rage party? Abruptly, Jade felt not only overheated but also underdressed.

“You gonna let us in, Lizzie?”

Lizzie jumped into action, miraculously balancing on the thin points of her shoes like they were platform wedges, and waved them through. “Sorry, sorry,” she muttered with a glance at the still unnamed man beside Jade. “I was trying to find a place to leave the gumbo.”

“The kitchen might work.”

“Obviously, Einstein. That’s what I did.”

Jade turned to look up at the man, and nearly stumbled.

His sultry voice matched him to perfection. Hair as dark as her own was brushed back from a chiseled face. His eyes were the color of slate, or the turbulent gray of storm clouds as the wind whipped up into a frenzy over Miami’s white, sandy beaches. They remained locked on Lizzie, as if Jade weren’t even there.

Good. That was good. Fantasy guys like him, with their broad shoulders and muscular frames were dangerous to a girl’s . . . ambitions.

“I’m so sorry, I haven’t even had the chance to introduce myself!” Without warning, Lizzie wrapped her arms around Jade in what should have been one of those introductory, nice-to-meet-you hugs, but turned into the Clashing of the Cleavages.

“Sorry,” Jade said weakly, feeling heat climb her throat.

Lizzie waved a dismissive wave in the air. “You don’t think I’ve never had a boob-hug before? Girl, this just means we’re automatic friends now.” She gave a wide, disarming grin. “I’m Lizzie. This knucklehead here is my brother.”

Lizzie’s brother.

You are not relieved, you are not relieved, you are not relieved.

Jade plastered a smile on her face and stuck out her free hand. “Jade Harper.”

Stone gray eyes flicked over her, their pewter depths dancing in amusement. Probably over the boob smashing—what guy didn’t like a little girl-on-girl action? It was too bad for him that despite Lucia’s proclamation just two days beforehand, Jade was still firmly entrenched in the “I like dicks not chicks” camp.

Realization slowly dawned that her hand had yet to be shaken, and she let her arm drop back to her side with an uncomfortable laugh. “Nice to meet you, too.”

To her right, Lizzie groaned like this was a common problem with her brother. “His name is—”

“Nathan.”

“—Danvers.”

Jade glanced between the two siblings. “Which one is it?”

“Danvers.”

“Nathan.”

Lizzie made a choking noise like she wouldn’t mind strangling her brother. The accompanying hand motions went with it, and Jade felt a sudden stab of longing for her two sisters—specifically Sammie, who’d been Jade’s rock since they were kids. The six-year age difference between Rita and Jade had somehow always proven too large to overcome, even as adults.

With a bubbliness that Jade was already beginning to expect from her, Lizzie plucked the wine bottle from Jade’s grasp and looped their arms together. “His first name is Nathan, but no one calls him that. Even Mom calls him ‘Danvers’ or just ‘Danny,’ if she wants to mix it up.”

Jade glanced over her shoulder to the man following them with even, long-gaited strides. “A nickname?”

His gaze turned cool, and Jade’s interest piqued.

“My surname,” he said in a low voice. A raspy voice. Was he a smoker? Jade’s father had been a two-pack-a-day kind of guy for years before kicking the bad habit. This man’s voice shared the same gruff quality.

For a moment he only looked at her, as though debating whether or not to reveal more. He must have decided she’d passed whatever test he’d put her through because he added, “From my mom’s first marriage.”

Ah.

“What do you prefer I call you?” she asked. “First name, last name—do you have a preference?”

Please don’t say you go by both, together. Life would prove only too cruel if she’d managed to break up with a John Thomas, only to be attracted to a Nathan Danvers.

Not, of course, that she was interested in him. She was here in New Orleans for a reason, and that reason did not include the mountain of a man standing next to her with slate-hued eyes and biceps the size of her head.

“Just Danvers,” he said.

A dangerous thought hit her: what type of women would it take for him to go by his first name? On the heel of that thought was another: in the course of ten minutes, had he written her off as not his type?

Don’t go down that road, Harper. He’s not for you.

Her gaze latched onto his broad shoulders encased in a soft-looking T-shirt.

Easier said than done.