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The man I spent three years loving.

The man who taught me that love could sound an awful lot like an order.

The man I left behind in Chicago with two suitcases, a broken heart, and enough emotional baggage to bankrupt an airline.

He can’t be here.

He doesn’t know where I live.

At least, he shouldn’t.

The man steps away from the building.

My feet move before my brain catches up.

I turn and run.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

I race down Saint Street, my sandals skidding on slick pavement. Thunder explodes overhead, and rain lashes my face as I glance behind me.

I can’t see him.

That doesn’t make me feel any better.

I take the next corner too fast, nearly colliding with a trash can, then spot an old wrought-iron gate tucked between two brick buildings.

Beyond it lies a narrow passageway leading toward an abandoned chapel.

The gate hangs slightly open.

Good enough for me.

I slip through, shove it closed, and hurry down the passage until the noise of the street fades behind me.

Only then do I stop.

My chest heaves.

Rain drips from my eyelashes.

“Get a grip,” I whisper.

I press my palm against the damp brick wall and force myself to breathe.

Grant is in Chicago.

I’m in New Orleans.

There are approximately nine hundred miles between us, and I intend to keep every single one of them.

Besides, men in expensive suits aren’t exactly an endangered species.

I probably just panicked over some innocent accountant.

An accountant with excellent shoulders.

And a face I never actually saw.