That’s why I need to put him out of my mind. If there was ever a guy I could point to and say “he’s totally out of my league,” Bishop was him.

I lay in bed for another thirty minutes, torturing myself by cataloging all the reasons I would never wake up to Bishop saying dirty things to me like Dream Bishop had this morning.

Not that I was carrying some kind of torch for Bishop. I didn’t even know him. At most, I had some weird fascination with him. That was all. It was never going anywhere. It was the same as having a crush on some unattainable celebrity.

Oh God, I said crush. I do not have a crush.

I rolled again, this time to the edge of my bed so I could sit up and make my next stop the shower, where I could drown any misplaced feelings I might or might not have about Bishop.

I spent the next hour alternatively trying not to throw up and trying to talk myself into leaving the hotel again rather than staying in this room until I was old and wrinkly and someone had to carry my body out for my funeral parade.

God, that’s morbid.

Although, seeing one of those jazz parades would be cool. I wondered if they had them for reasons other than death? I needed to look that up.

I swiped on mascara and lip gloss before adding some blush to make me look a little more human, and stepped out of the bathroom.

I would not stay in this room all day. I would see more of the city. I would not go drinking. I would not do anything else that would require being rescued. Today I was truly starting over.

A glance at the clock revealed it was already one in the afternoon, and I blanched. Jeez. Had I ever slept until noon before? Even in college? Not that I could remember.

When I gathered my purse up off the desk, the room-service menu stared back at me, reminding me I didn’t ever need to leave. I could stay hidden up here until they booted me out.

And how would that be any different from the life I lived in New York, watching the world pass by from the window of my apartment or the window of an SUV?

I wasn’t going to waste this opportunity. I was going to live.

I looked down at my jeans, Sperrys, and rose-colored cardigan. First things first. I needed to go shopping so I could fit in here a little more. Then, it was time to check some things off my list.

I FOCUSED ON THE EXCITEMENT humming through my veins as I pushed open the lobby door and stepped onto Bourbon Street. The concierge had written down a list of shops that I should try if I wanted to get a true New Orleans shopping experience, along with a map. Thankfully, the list jogged my memory. The place Delilah had mentioned was included—Dirty Dog. I had to resist the urge to pump my fist in the air at the familiar name. Small victories.

In the light of day, Bourbon Street was a completely different experience. It wasn’t empty, by any means, and given that Mardi Gras was right around the corner, that didn’t surprise me at all. Obviously, there were still the obligatory partiers who either hadn’t quit from the night before or were getting an early start, but it seemed that the crush of people from last night had moved on to sleep it off.

The concierge had also been so kind as to let me know that there were several other parades today, each put on by a different krewe, groups that organized parades and parties for Mardi Gras. I tucked the information away for later.

The first stop on the concierge’s list was only a block and a half away, and I breathed a small sigh of relief when I saw the black sign with red letters on a brick building. HELL’S ANGEL. I reached for the door handle and turned.

Locked.

I checked the hours on the window and groaned. It didn’t open until two. Well, that was disappointing. I peeked through the windows to see what exactly I would be missing if I skipped to the next place.

Everything looked either black or red or covered with skulls or spikes—or all of the above. Like the black-and-red corset with skulls on each boob that were covered in spikes.

“Oh wow,” I mumbled. “Maybe I should come back to this one later.” I caught my reflection in the mirror. Eyes wide, looking like I’d discovered an alien planet.

Maybe I could find something a little more . . . practical. That wasn’t unreasonable, right? I mean, how often would I really wear a spiked corset?

Dirty Dog had to be more promising, especially given Delilah’s personal seal of approval. Decision made, I twisted the map around to match the configuration of the streets ahead of me. It wasn’t far, only a couple of turns and a couple of blocks. Even I couldn’t get lost in this perfect grid of streets. I hoped.

The map also noted where I could find Anthropologie and H&M, but I wasn’t looking for the same kind of clothes I could buy in New York. I wanted something local. Something that wasn’t mass produced and sold in a thousand locations.

I set off down the street, only to be distracted by the delicious scent of coffee and fresh yeasty bread. My feet practically directed themselves as I stepped inside the tiny little café and selected a fresh croissant and the largest coffee they sold.

Nectar of the gods, I thought as I devoured the croissant in three bites and nearly burned my tongue on my sweet praline latte. Totally worth it.

Coffee cup in hand, I returned to the street and kept walking.

Distracted by the fabulous architecture, I made it a solid four blocks before I realized I had to be lost.

The pedestrians that wandered the streets of the Quarter had disappeared, and in front of me was a boulevard and a park. Thankful for the easy-to-find street signs, I pulled out my map again and twisted it around to try to figure out where I’d gone wrong.

The freaking café. It had been on a corner, and I’d gone in a door on one street and come out the door on the other street and kept walking. Honest mistake, right?

Not willing to let my minor detour get me down, I turned back around and walked in the direction of the café so I could find my way again.

Thirty minutes later, I found myself in front of a big teal-and-white sign with DIRTY DOG wrapped around the outside and a white bulldog in the middle. The front of the building was painted a cheery yellow, and the old dress forms in the window sported the cutest retro dresses I’d ever seen. One was pink with white paisley print and a white belt around the waist, and the other was the same dress, but in deep purple with black paisley.

Immediately, I wondered if I could get away with wearing either of them. Or both.

Please be open. Please be open.

My thoughts were answered when the door chimed and a girl poked her head out. “Hey! I’m JP. Are you coming in?”