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Chapter 1

Wren

There are three things I know for certain about New Orleans.

The humidity is trying to kill me, the men are dangerously charming, and the weather forecast is about as reliable as my ex-boyfriend’s promises.

Which is to say, not at all.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

I stop beneath the striped awning of a closed bakery as thunder cracks overhead, shaking the windows along Saint Street. Rain pours from the sky in sheets, turning the gutters into miniature rivers and sending the last few pedestrians scrambling for cover.

Twenty minutes ago, the sky was blue.

Twenty minutes ago, I was arranging peonies at the flower shop, congratulating myself on surviving another day without crying, screaming, or checking my ex’s social media.

Personal growth, ladies and gentlemen.

Now I’m stranded six blocks from my apartment, wearing a sundress that’s approximately three raindrops away from becoming transparent.

Fantastic.

I clutch my canvas tote against my chest and glance down the street. The old iron balconies drip with rain, their hanging ferns whipping in the wind. Somewhere nearby, a trumpet plays a mournful tune before abruptly stopping.

Even the jazz musicians have better survival instincts than I do.

“Come on, Wren,” I mutter. “You’re a grown woman. It’s water.”

I step out from beneath the awning.

A gust of wind immediately flips my dress against my thighs.

“Very aggressive water.”

I hurry along the sidewalk, dodging puddles and holding my bag over my head. My sandals slap against the wet pavement, and my auburn hair sticks to my cheeks.

Then I see him.

Across the street.

Standing beneath the overhang of an antique shop.

Tall. Dark hair. Expensive charcoal suit.

My stomach drops.

Grant.

For one terrible second, the entire world goes silent.

I stop walking.

The man turns his head.

I can’t see his face clearly through the rain, but the way he stands, one hand tucked into his pocket, shoulders squared with that effortless arrogance, makes my pulse race.

Grant Mercer.