We stopped near the middle of the parade, where a group of kids twirled umbrellas and an older man spun a woman half his age in an elaborate dance move that had everyone cheering. The energy was infectious. Even I could feel its pull.
“Why New Orleans?” Anna asked suddenly, her tone light.
The question caught me off guard. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, out of all the places you could’ve gone, why here?”
I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “Let’s just say, people aren’t exactly thrilled to see my face right now.” Her eyebrows lifted, inviting me to continue. “I needed to lie low. And Topher offered me a place. End of story.”
She didn’t push. She just nodded and gestured at the scene around us. “Well, maybe this is exactly what you need.”
I hesitated before finally giving in, waving the handkerchief in time with the beat. Dancing without a care in the world—or trying to. “So, what about you?” I stepped a little closer to her. “You’re obviously passionate about New Orleans. Why don’t you write about it?”
Her smile froze, faltered, and then quickly shifted into something guarded. “That’s a loaded question,” she said lightly, but her voice had an edge to it.
“Is it?” I tilted my head at the color-drenched scene around us. “You say you’re never going to live anywhere else, and you talk about this place like it’s magic. Seems like it’d be a gold mine for a writer.”
Her laugh sounded forced. “Not everything’s as easy as it looks.”
Before I could push further, she spun away, waving her handkerchief as though the conversation hadn’t just shifted. “Come on,” she called over her shoulder. “The band’s moving. Don’t get left behind.”
I watched her for a moment. Clearly, I’d hit a nerve I hadn’t meant to. But she was already disappearing into the crowd, and I had no choice but to follow.
I caught up to her just as a woman near us twirled her umbrella with dramatic flair and called out, “Come on, handsome. Show us what you’ve got.”
Anna glanced back at me, her earlier tension replaced by a broad, genuine smile that seemed to light up the entire street. “See?” she said, her voice lilting over the music. “You’re almost blending in.”
“Almost?” I echoed, the beginnings of a grin tugging at my lips as I waved my handkerchief in an exaggerated flourish.
She smirked, tilting her head as if sizing me up. “You could use a little more hip action.”
"Hip action?" I attempted what I thought was a sway, moving my hips in what probably looked more like a broken washing machine than dancing.
Anna's hand flew to her mouth, but she couldn't contain the laugh that burst out. "Oh my gosh, no. Stop. You're going to hurt yourself." She stepped closer, and before I could protest, her hands were on my hips, guiding them in the actual rhythm. "Like this. Feel the beat, don't fight it."
The contact sent a jolt through me that had nothing to do with the music. "I'm feeling something," I murmured, and she either didn't hear me or chose to ignore it.
"There," she said, stepping back to admire her work, though her cheeks looked slightly flushed. "That's almost acceptable."
"Almost?" I challenged, feeling emboldened. "Watch this—I'm practically a local now." The band had shifted to something slower, more soulful—a trumpet crooning over a steady, hypnotic beat. Anna swayed with it, and without thinking, I pulled her closer, attempting what I hoped looked like a proper dance move.
I went for a dip, like I'd seen in old movies. Somehow, miraculously, I didn't drop her.
"Practically a local," she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper as I pulled her upright.
That's when I spotted a street photographer with a camera the size of a small cannon, swinging it in our direction. My instincts kicked in before my brain could catch up.
"Down!" I grabbed Anna's hand and pulled her behind a group of enthusiastic dancers waving oversized umbrellas.
"What are you—" she started, but I pressed a finger to my lips.
We crouched there, her shoulder pressed against mine, both of us trying not to laugh as we peered through the forest of legs and umbrellas. The photographer panned across the crowd, oblivious that I was hiding three feet away.
"This is ridiculous," Anna whispered, her breath warm against my ear. "The photographer's not from a tabloid. He's just from the local newspaper covering the parade. We look like we're in a spy movie."
"I'm trying to maintain a low profile," I whispered back.
"By army-crawling through a second-line parade?"
