She couldn’t come back without thinking of him. Without the hard yearning that had never gone away, running like honey in her veins.

Mick . . .

Damn it.

But it was her town, too—her hometown. Allie had been gone for the better part of the last twelve years, away at college in San Francisco, then at culinary school in Europe, then back to San Francisco to practice her pastry arts. She’d returned to New Orleans on occasion to visit family and friends, but Mick had always managed to avoid her. Except for that one summer when she was twenty years old. The summer Mick had finally—finally!—come to his senses and had her.

One night. One night that had left her shattered. And more unable to forget him than ever.

She stepped off the running board of the trolley car that ran the length of Chartres Street and moved toward the small French café that was her destination. Patrons sat at white-clothed tables in front of the old brick structure. Like so many in New Orleans it was a little decayed by the tropical moisture, the bricks literally crumbling at the corners. Yet it was covered in the yellow and pink lantana that lent a spicy perfume to the air all over the old city.

She paused, catching her reflection in a shop window, and ran a hand through her long, dark hair.

He’d always loved her hair.

She could see his face in her mind, the face she’d known since those very first moments when her body had awakened to desire and come to know what it was to be female.

He had hard features, but he was beautiful in the most masculine way. So tall, towering over her. She loved that about him—that he could intimidate with his height, with that well-earned air of bad boy. She loved the way his black hair fell into his face. And those soft gray eyes that always melted her . . .

A woman bumped into her, apologizing, and the noise of the passing cars and the crowds on the sidewalk came to her as she shook her head, shook herself out of the memories that tried to come flooding back. If she was going to be in New Orleans, live here again, she’d better get a hold of herself. It wasn’t as if she’d come back specifically for Mick, although he was definitely on her radar.

Which was why she was meeting Jamie for lunch today, only a few days after she’d returned to the city. He was one of her oldest friends—and Mick’s best friend. Not that she didn’t want to see Jamie—she did, of course. She’d missed him. But the struggle she fought against every day, between the part of her that wanted to forget Mick and the part that yearned to know every detail of his life, was impossible in New Orleans. Their town, where everything had happened. She couldn’t resist asking Jamie about him. And if Mick was still available—and since her best friend was married to Mick’s brother she had some insider information that told her he was—well, she had a plan. Jamie was the one person who could help her execute it.

Feeling like she was involved in some espionage plot, and a little silly, as well, she settled her purse on her shoulder and squeezed between the outdoor tables and into the cozy bistro where they were having lunch.

She spotted Jamie at a table by the window, all six feet of his long legs sprawled out in front of him, but he rose as soon as he saw her, a wide grin on his gorgeous face.

“Allie.”

He pulled her into a long hug, and she stood on her toes to wrap her arms around him. It felt lovely, familiar, and she realized with a sudden pang how much she’d missed New Orleans and all the people in it. But she was done missing everyone. She may have let Mick Reid chase her away all those years ago, but she was back. And she was determined that everything would be different this time.

Pulling back, she took a good look at Jamie. “You’ve shaved your hair almost completely off!” She ran a hand over the brown buzz cut. “Ooh—it’s soft. And it suits you. I like the eyebrow piercing, too.”

He laughed and pulled out a chair for her, held it while she settled into it before seating himself across the small table from her. “I’m glad you approve. You can give me all the style advice you want. I’m just glad you’re back.”

“I am, too. It’s so good to see you. What have you been up to?”

“The usual. Working on cars. Trying to stay out of trouble.”

“How’s the shop doing?” she asked. Jamie’s business was restoring vintage muscle cars, work he’d loved since high school.

“It’s doing great. We’re finally recovering, along with the rest of the city. Business is good. In fact, my cousin Duff is coming in from Scotland in a few months. We’ll be expanding the shop to include his specialty—he restores vintage motorcycles. We just gutted the space next door and are about to start the build-out. What about you? Are you settling into the house?”

“The house” was a small cottage in the Garden District left to her by her great-aunt Joséphine, her father’s aunt—the reason she’d initially decided to return to the city and make it her home once more.

“The house is a bit of a mess, actually. The kitchen needs to be completely redone, and it needs to be painted—a few other things. I wanted to ask if your brother Allister is available to take on the job.”

“Of course. He runs several crews these days. I’ll talk to him, have him give you a call.”

“Thanks.” She smiled at him over her menu.

The waitress brought water to the table, and they ordered.

“So . . .” Allie started, wanting and not wanting to ask about Mick.

Jamie raised an eyebrow. “So?”

“So . . . I ran into Summer yesterday.”

“Summer Grace?”

“Yes. It was nice to see her. We ended up sitting down and talking over coffee. You know she still has the hots for you.”

He groaned. “Jesus, do people still say ‘has the hots’?”

Allie couldn’t help but grin at his discomfort. Summer Grace Rae—Brandon’s sister—had been after Jamie since they were all kids. “She’s a total sex kitten, that girl. You could do worse.”

“Worse than hitting on my best friend’s little sister? The one who he asked me on his deathbed to look after?”

“That could be one way of doing it,” she teased.

He blew out a breath, his hand rubbing the stubble on his head. “Why do I have the feeling you’re using this to avoid the conversation you came here to have with me?”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Yes,” he answered simply.

She bit her lip, her fingers tightening around the white cotton napkin she held. What the hell—she was going to ask sooner or later.

“Okay. So, I was wondering . . . How’s Mick? Is he in town?”

“Mick’s fine. And yeah, he’s here in town. What’s the rest of the question?”

Allie tried to laugh, but it came out short and sharp. “You know me too well.”

“I know you both too well.”

“Just tell me, Jamie. What’s going on with him? Is he . . . is he single? And God, did I really just ask you that?”

Jamie laughed. “You did, sweetheart. And it’s Mick. Of course he’s still single.”

Allie folded her napkin, laid it carefully across her lap, avoiding her friend’s gaze.

“Is he still playing at the club? The Bastille?”

“We both are.” He narrowed his gaze at her. “What do you know about The Bastille?”

She looked up then, met his gaze. “Everything. I know about your kink, about Mick’s. Maybe it’s time we talked about mine.”

He raised his brows. “Yours? Your kink? What are you saying, Allie?”

She took a deep breath. “I should have told you sooner. I don’t know why I didn’t, especially since I’ve always known you would never judge me.” She paused. “I learned a lot while I was away. In Berlin. Amsterdam. I went to my first club when I went to culinary school in Paris. It was . . . eye-opening. Life changing, really. I belong to two of the top clubs in San Francisco—I’m sure you know their names. Sanctuary. The Ring. Everywhere I went to learn pastry, I went to the clubs. I’ve probably had as much experience with kink as you. Maybe more.”