Prologue

      Fat Tuesday

      Everyone was dancing and having a good time. Everyone except Emma. That wasn’t unusual, though. Emma Dempsey had forgotten how to have fun a long time ago.

      After her recent breakup, she was beginning to wonder if something was wrong with her. Her ex, David, had said she was boring both in and out of bed. She made the mistake of telling that to her friend and former sorority sister, Harper Drake, and the next thing she knew, she was at a Mardi Gras party at a loft in Tribeca.

      She’d tried. She wore a pretty butterfly mask and a tight skirt, but this just wasn’t her cup of tea. Perhaps she should just call a cab and go so she didn’t ruin Harper’s night. She nibbled absently on a carrot stick as her gaze fell upon a tequila bar that had been set up on the kitchen island beside her. That was always a second option.

      Emma knew she had to make a choice. She could either go home and join a local Red Hat Society at the ripe age of twenty-seven or she could take this bull by the horns and have some fun for once.

      Feeling brave, she abandoned her plate and moved down the island. There was an assortment of small paper cups, slices of lime, a salt shaker and several bottles of tequila laid out. She prepared a shot and held it there, knowing once she leaped off the cliff, there would be no turning back.

      Being with you is like dating my grandma. The memory of David’s painful words pushed her over the edge.

      Without further hesitation, she licked, drank and sucked the lime furiously to cover the flavor of the liquor. It burned her throat as it went down, splashing in her stomach and sending a scorching sensation almost immediately through her body that a beer couldn’t even come close to.

      It tasted absolutely terrible, but within seconds, she could feel a pleasant change. Almost as though her spine had loosened. Slinky. Maybe feline. This wasn’t bad at all. With a smile of satisfaction, she poured a second shot as someone else came into the kitchen. A quick glance confirmed her worst fears.

      “Hey there, beautiful,” a creepy guy in a Batman-like mask said, leaning against the counter.

      The compliment fell flat considering 75 percent of her face was covered in an ornate Mardi Gras mask. Emma sighed and slammed back the second shot of tequila without salt or lime. She needed it. She started pouring a third, blatantly ignoring him.

      “Would you like to dance? I’ve got some sweet moves.”

      She doubted it. “I don’t dance, sorry.”

      Batman frowned. “Well, then wanna blow this party off for someplace quiet and dark where we can...talk?”