The last thing Jamie Sullivan was looking for when she climbed the staircase to the third-floor attic was true love. She was looking for an extension cord. One thing she actually had a chance in hell of finding.

The air-conditioning system had died less than thirty minutes ago, and it was already muggy and musty-smelling. Ah, the French Quarter in the springtime. And it was bound to get a whole lot worse, she thought, praying that Marta's managerial skills extended to sweet-talking a repairman out early tomorrow morning.

At least the damn thing hadn't conked out until their grand-opening weekend was over. She pushed several boxes out of her way and ducked under the Y-beams as she stumbled toward the tool bench she recalled seeing on her last foray into the attic.

"What a mess." She'd spent all of her waking hours for the last two months getting the ground-level bookstore and cafe ready to open on schedule. She'd taken only enough time to convert the corner room on the second floor to a somewhat livable bedroom. However, her Martha Stewart skills had failed at that point. The remainder of the nineteenth-century Creole town house still looked like the neglected piece of real estate the place had been for the past couple of years. But it was her home now. Not exactly home-y. Not yet. But it would be someday. She'd see to that. She was nothing if not determined.

Determined to lean on the A/C repairman herself, she thought grimly, as a line of sweat formed at the base of her throat and trickled down to form a small pool in her bra.

She was still getting used to the idea that she had a fixed address for the first time in over ten years. Well, longer than that, really. She cou...