St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 had always been Brandon’s favorite. He and Jamie and their group of friends from high school had gathered here back in the day to drink beer and hang out in the shadows of the ornate marble mausoleums, following tradition by spilling drops of beer on the infamous Voodoo priestess Marie Laveau’s tomb as an offering. It was their spot whenever they needed to discuss the really deep issues, like the true definition of getting to third base with a girl and their dreams about the future.

Now the ones left behind met here every year on the anniversary of Brandon’s death.

That first year after Brandon died it had simply been where they’d all gathered, showing up one by one, as if they’d ended up there purely by accident. Maybe they had, at first. But Jamie didn’t quite believe that. This was New Orleans, and no one could live here for any amount of time without believing at least a little that there was more to life than random chance.

The evening air was moist on his skin, hot even in his cotton wifebeater as he walked down the row past the stone and brick and marble structures with their low, ornate iron fences, past the statues of weeping angels. The scent of old stone and plaster was strong in the air, mixing with the aroma of decaying flowers and the hint of exotic spices that lingered everywhere in the city.

He saw them as he approached their usual meeting place—at the end of the row that housed Marie Laveau’s tomb. Even in the dark he could make out Mick’s tall, lanky form, his arm around Allie’s shoulders. He could see the long curl of Marie Dawn’s hair, her husband Neal—Mick’s brother—at her side. Then he saw Summer Grace and every muscle in his body went tight.

He knew it was going to be difficult, but had no idea it would be this gut-wrenchingly hard to see her. No, that was total crap. He’d known it—he’d simply kept himself too busy all day to think about it. But it had always been hard to see her. He should be used to it. Every single time he ran into her over the years his resolve had been challenged. Summer Grace Rae had grown up to become the embodiment of temptation, pure sex in a doll’s body. And now he knew that body. Maybe even more, he knew her. The woman she’d grown up to be. The woman he’d left after having the best sex of his life. The kind most people read about and called bullshit on because nothing in reality could be half that good, that damn life-changing.

He was well and truly fucked.

He watched the silhouette of her delicate figure as she moved in to hug someone. Watched her long, pale hair catching the moonlight as he walked up to the group. So damn pretty, that hair. And everything else. Beautiful.

Don’t look at her too closely.

As if she were Medusa, about to turn him into stone.

Oh, she’d make him hard, all right. Always had. Always would, he suspected. Not that he planned to do anything about it tonight. No, they had to talk first. If she even wanted to talk to him. Fuck, if it were any night but this—the anniversary of her brother’s death—he’d make her talk to him.

But it was this night. July twenty-fifth. Damn it.

“Hey, Jamie.” Mick greeted him, coming up to slap him on the back. “I see you made it over the wall. Wish they didn’t shut this place down like fucking Fort Knox at three in the afternoon.”

Jamie shrugged. “It doesn’t keep us out, though, does it?”

“Never.” Mick grinned and bent to retrieve a beer from the six-pack on the ground, tossing it at him.

“Thanks. Hey, Allie.” Jamie bent to kiss her cheek. He was damn happy to see the two of them back together after all their years apart. And pleased with himself that he’d had something to do with it. It had been a few months and he’d never seen either of them happier.

“Good to see you, Jamie,” she said, smiling at him.

“Marie Dawn, Neal. How are you two?”

“We’re good,” Neal answered. “Just . . . you know . . . we’re here.”

Marie Dawn grabbed her husband’s hand, shooting Jamie a look that told him Summer Grace had confided in her friend about the two of them. Great. Now everyone would know he was an asshole.

“We all still miss him,” she said, putting voice to the one thought Jamie knew they all shared. “Especially this year, with Allie home again. It’s like we’re all back together again except for Brandon.” She paused, shaking her head. “It just feels wrong to be here without him.”

“Yes.” It was Summer Grace, her voice small but with a raspy edge that let him know how upset she was. It would be arrogant of him to assume it was all about what had happened between them. What he’d done to upset her.

God fucking damn it.

He took a breath. “Good to see you, Summer Grace.”

“Summer,” she said stubbornly.

She’d always hated that he called her by her full name. He did it partly to annoy her, he had to admit to himself—never to her, of course. But also partly because he’d known her forever and that was who she was to him. It was what Brandon had called her.

“Jamie,” she said more softly, and went into his arms for a hug he hadn’t offered.

Well, hell—he had to put his arms around her, didn’t he? Offer her some comfort on the anniversary of her big brother’s death? And pretend in front of their oldest friends that nothing was going on between them, good or bad. But if Marie Dawn knew then Allie knew, which meant Mick knew, and hell . . .

He held on to her as long as he could, trying not to feel every soft curve of her small body, the press of her breasts right up against him, for God’s sake. He pulled in a breath and gritted his teeth, waiting for her to pull away. She didn’t, which made him feel even more like an ass. Maybe she really did need some comfort from him.

Finally, he pulled back. “You get a beer?”

“I’ve had two already,” she answered. “Could probably use a few more tonight.”

“Yeah, we all could,” he agreed, thankful she was talking to him at all.

“So,” Mick began. “Who wants to start?”

Jamie popped his beer open and took a long swallow. “I will,” he said. He was always the first one to talk about Brandon. Mick asking was a formality.

He glanced at Summer Grace but Allie had pulled her aside and looped an arm around her shoulder. He was glad to see someone was caring for her, since he couldn’t. Not tonight.

“You have the floor then, buddy,” Mick told him as some of the others sat on the ground or on the shallow steps of one of the old mausoleums with their beers.

Jamie took a long swig, swallowed, and did his best to focus on the reason they were all here. “Brandon was my best friend from the time I was eight years old, new to the country and full of fight. Even then, he was the best guy I knew. He never made fun of my accent. Never acted like he cared that I was the new kid. He taught me about New Orleans—taught me to love this place. He was more than a friend to me. He was family.” He was quiet a moment, taking another long swallow of his beer while gathering his thoughts. “When someone dies at nineteen, it’s just not fucking fair. He deserved more of life. I can’t help thinking—all the time—what would he be doing if he were here with us now?”

Mick chuckled, said quietly, “Probably making out with some girl and ignoring us.”

Jamie started to grin, the constriction in his chest easing a little. It was true. The girls had loved Brandon—there was always one or two mooning over him—and he’d loved them right back.

“He would have gone into business with you, Jamie,” Summer Grace said, the low rasp of her voice soft on the night air, “the way you two were always talking about. He would have rebuilt your muscle cars with you, spent his time covered in grease and happy as could be, doing what he loved. Happy to be working with his best friend. The man who was like a brother to him.”