Shaelyn 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 off 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 officially 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 off.”

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 offending 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 effectively ruined her escape by leaning against her car door with his arms crossed over his hard chest. Hadn’t she suffered 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 off 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 differently 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 office 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 ’cuffs from that party tonight and put them to good use on me?”

* * *