In the bathroom she turned on her iPod speakers and blasted the most upbeat music she could find to keep her mind busy as she showered, but the act of washing his scent from her skin was almost painful. And Goddamn it, even her favorite violet-scented soap reminded her of him now! She might have to pick up something else at the lingerie shop today. They had rose and lily of the valley and jasmine. She could do jasmine.

“God, what am I thinking? I am not changing myself for him!”

She stepped from the shower and dried herself, then ran the towel over her wet hair. Today she would focus on work. Tonight she would wallow in whatever unbearable muck this was.

But work brought no relief. Luxe was slow, as Tuesdays often were, and the only other task she had was checking in a new shipment, which was mindless work. Too mindless, offering no escape from the endless loop in her head, reviewing her morning with Jamie over and over. She wasn’t close enough with any of her salespeople to confide in them—not that she wanted to talk about it, anyway. Which was why she went for drinks with the girls from the shop after work rather than calling Dennie. She limited herself to two margaritas so she wouldn’t get too sloppy. That would have been all she needed. By ten she was home again.

She changed into her pajamas and fed Madame, who expressed her displeasure at her late meal by meowing plaintively even after she was done eating. Summer ignored her and Madame started a thorough cleaning of her paws before slipping out the back door into the garden.

Summer found herself at loose ends. She sank down onto the sofa in the living room and flipped the television on, but she rarely watched TV and after trying to get into a movie, then a late-night talk show, then another movie with little success she finally turned it off and went into the bedroom, intending to get a good night’s sleep. But the scent of Jamie and sex from the pillowcases hit her too hard. With a curse she stripped off the sheets, stuffing them into her wicker laundry basket and making up the bed with fresh ones. But once undressed and in bed, all she could do was stare through the curtains at the moon rising through a dark, misty sky and think of him.

“Goddamn it, Jamie,” she muttered, flipping onto her side. “Why do you have to be so . . . you!”

She wished he’d been mean about it. That he’d been lousy in bed. That he couldn’t make her laugh the way he did. That he hadn’t known exactly how much pain she could take with her pleasure, or what to say to make her feel special.

She rubbed at her forehead, which had started to ache.

She would spend the next few days—or whatever it took—obsessing over it, trying to come to some sort of peace with the situation. But the fact that he hadn’t called or texted her all day made it pretty likely he was having exactly the same ideas.

“Damn it, Jamie,” she said into the dark for the tenth time that day.

She had a feeling she might be cursing him for some time to come.

CHAPTER

Six

B RANDON WAS SCOWLING at him and Jamie knew why.

“Brandon, I’m trying.”

Brandon raised an eyebrow at him—honey-gold brows and hair, just like Summer’s. And his eyes that same baby blue. Summer’s eyes. Or maybe hers were Brandon’s. Either way, he couldn’t stand that his friend was pissed at him. Even worse, disappointed in him.

“Okay, okay. I know I fucked up.” He paused, searching his friend’s eyes, but he found them empty. Blank. Just like that day at the hospital. His last day. “Did I fuck this up?”

Suddenly it was that last day and Brandon lay pale against the white, white sheets of the hospital bed and the smell of antiseptic was making Jamie feel sick to his stomach, but he had to hold on for his friend. He’d do anything for him. Except, apparently . . .

Brandon’s voice was a low hiss. “This is your version of taking care of my sister?”

“Brandon, no. No. It’s not. It’s . . . I’ll get my shit together. I’ll figure it out. I’ll take care of her the way I’m supposed to. I will.”

“I will!”

Jamie bolted upright in bed, the sheets a damp tangle around his waist. His heart was a hammer in his chest. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

It was the same dream he’d had the other night. Twice in one week. Twice since he’d left Summer Grace’s house the other day and hadn’t so much as called her since. Sure, he’d sent a few texts, but she’d answered in the same short, meaningless sentences he’d used with her. “How are you?” “Fine.” It was all crap.

Managing to escape the twisted sheets, he got up to stand by the bedroom window that overlooked the empty street below. He folded back the heavy plantation shutter. It was early, the sun barely beginning to rise in a shimmering glow of pink and gold, the streetlamps still lit. He flattened his hand against the glass, absorbing the coolness left from the night air and thinking about the dream.

Today was Saturday. July twenty-fifth. The twelfth anniversary of Brandon’s death. Which could be the reason for the dreams, but he knew that wasn’t the whole reason. He was being fucking haunted for screwing things up so completely with Summer Grace. Either by starting this with her in the first place or by taking off the other day and hardly giving her the time of day since. He really could be an asshole sometimes.

But maybe the worst thing he’d done had been to encourage her involvement in the kink life. Maybe if he’d left her alone her curiosity would have run its course and eventually she’d have left kink—and his club—behind.

He scrubbed a hand over his buzz cut. No. That wasn’t how this shit worked—not for the people who were serious enough to play at the clubs. Or rarely, anyway. And she’d taken to it all too easily. She was made for this life. Or maybe that was simply more of his own selfish desires clouding his judgment.

Selfish because he still wanted her. Wanted to be with her.

He wasn’t entirely comfortable with that idea. But when had he done anything in his whole adult life other than make sure things were fucking comfortable? It had been years since he’d really been involved with a woman. Certainly not anything long-term. Not since the woman he’d—foolishly—married when he was almost twenty, less than a year after Brandon died. And she’d left him six months later. He’d never told a single soul what the real reason was. They’d both told everyone it was because she wanted to go to grad school in California. And that part had been true, but . . . no, the rest was his secret to carry.

He heard the low rumble of a diesel engine and looked down to see his downstairs neighbor, Astrid, drive off to her Saturday morning nursing shift at the hospital. The same hospital where Brandon had died. Which brought him back to the fact that it was this particular Saturday. Which meant he’d see Summer Grace that evening at the cemetery.

He pulled in a lungful of the damp morning air, blew it out, trying to clear his head. Summer Grace and Brandon and guilt were too heavy on his mind. Guilt around Ian and Traci, too, but that was always hanging over his shoulder, tangled up in everything else. But there was no way around it. Not today.

Today they remembered.

“Miss you, buddy,” he said quietly, pulling his palm away from the cool glass, swallowing hard as he went to get a quick shower in before heading to the shop for the day.

*   *   *

JAMIE LOVED THIS cemetery after dark. Quiet but dangerous, full of memories and mementos, life and death. In New Orleans loved ones weren’t buried beneath the dirt and forgotten—they were celebrated and enshrined. It may have originated out of necessity, but now it was a point of pride with the locals as well as being a tourist attraction. Particularly this cemetery.