I was bored out of my fucking mind.

The candlelight flickered against the exposed brick walls of Acamaya, all moody and perfect and designed for seduction. There was a jazz duo ying in the corner—upright bass and trumpet, smooth as velvet—and the woman across from me was stunning, sharp, and precisely the kind of woman I usually liked to fuck.

And I couldn’t give less of a shit.

“I clerked for a federal judge before I even graduated.” She swirled her wine, a bottle of skin contact that she’d ordered. “And I made partner in seven years. That’s almost unheard of.”

“Impressive.” I forced a tight smile.

She didn’t notice the strain. Or maybe she didn’t care. This woman was interested in herself.

“I’m heading up litigation for two Fortune 500 clients right now. Honestly, I don’t have the time to date. It’s just nice to get out and remind myself that there are still men with…potential.” Her eyes trailed down my arms, lingering on the tattoos.

It wasn’t the first time I’d seen that look.

She didn’t want me. She wanted the fantasy—rough hands, dirty mouth, blue-cor. A good story to tell her friends or to forget as soon as it was over.

The problem was that I used to want that, too. But not anymore. Not since Naomi.

Not since I learned what it felt like to be known.

“You worked on this house? Oh, I wish I could’ve gotten a peek inside. You know, a vampire used to live there?”

“Baby, you know vampires don’t really exist.” I wrapped an arm around her as we walked past 1039 Royal Street, known to be owned by Jacques St. Germain, the notorious vampire who inspired Anne Rice’s Lestat.

Back in the early 1900s, a man calling himself Jacques St. Germain moved into that grand white house on Royal Street—handsome, refined, ent so French it made women swoon right into his arms. He threwvish parties, served wine no one could identify, and was never seen eating a single bite. Said he just didn’t have the taste for food.

Rumor had it he was a descendant of Comte de St. Germain, the 18th-century alchemist who imed to be immortal. Some folks whispered he was the same man—never aged, never died, just changed cities every hundred years or so.

The story took a darker turn when one of his party guests—a woman—was found bloodied and hysterical, having jumped from his second-story balcony. She swore he’d bitten her. Drank from her. That he had eyes like fire.

When the police arrived, St. Germain was gone. Disappeared. Left behind a bloodstained table and a winess full of something red that wasn’t merlot.

The house has been sold and resold a dozen times since.

“You know, on certain nights, you can see a figure in the upstairs window—tall, still, watching?” she insisted.

“That’s probably the new owner,” I teased.

“Did you check out the wine cer? Did you find any interesting wine?”

“You want me to make up a story, baby?”

“Yes, please.”

Iughed, kissing the side of her head.

Barb, short for Barbara,wyer extraordinaire, was no Naomi. She didn’t have her sense of humor, her ss, her humility….

Stop thinking about Naomi. Focus on the woman in front of you, Gage.

I tried. I really did.

I drank the funky wine she ordered, which wasn’t to my taste. If I wanted to drink something that tasted like beer, I’d fucking drink beer. I liked my wine ssical—normal—not this new-age natural shit.

I nodded along as she trashed her coworkers and gushed about somewsuit she’d won.

I kept picturing Naomi—barefoot in her shop, twisting ribbon through a corset, her mouth quirking with amusement as she listened more than she spoke.

Naomi wouldn’t have spent dinner talking about herself. She’d have asked about the building. The restaurant. The exposed beams, the tile choice, the history of the damn space.

She’d have cared.

This woman didn’t give a shit what I thought about anything.

She thought restoration meant I flipped houses and made good money doing it. She’d mentioned it a couple of times—probably because she knew where I lived. In Uptown, on that sliver near Audubon where the houses had wraparound porches, original gasnterns, and a whole lot of inherited money behind iron gates.

She thought the zip code meant something. Thought I was one of those guys who wore work boots by day and Rolexes by night.

She didn’t know the half of it.

I didn’t own a damn Rolex, and the only reason I could afford the ce was that I’d restored it myself, every inch of it—reimed cypress floors, hand-stripped moldings, and original ster medallions brought back from the brink.

“How old is this ce?” Naomi had walked around, touching the walls, seeing everything, the first time I brought her to my ce. A two-story Greek Revival off Magazine Street, tucked beneath a canopy of oaks and partially hidden by a tangle of jasmine vines that bloomed like crazy every spring.

The house had a wide front porch with mismatched rocking chairs, original wrought iron railings, and gasnterns that hissed softly at night. The paint was a dignified gray-blue, the shutters weathered just enough to look intentional.

“Late 1800s.”

“I love this.” She smiled at me. “I know there are some newer constructions, especially post-Katrina rebuilds—but the charm and prestige of this area are still centered around a home like yours.”

“You know your history, baby.”

She shrugged sheepishly. “The woman who owned Aire Noire before me, Madame Marguerite, gave me history lessons.”

I wondered what Barb would think about my house that smelled like wood polish and old paper, where the furniture was simple—leather, wood, heavy pieces with history. There were a few family portraits on the walls and several framed architectural sketches, old maps of the city, and books stacked in towers I kept promising myself I’d organize one day. There was a record yer in the corner. A half-fixedmp. A worn nnel on the back of the couch.

It wasn’t shy. It wasn’t cold. It was the kind of home that felt like it had a heartbeat.

No, Barb would find it was not sophisticated enough. Too blue cor, despite its price tag.

By the time we left the restaurant, I was raw with frustration. Not at the self-obsessedwyer—at myself, for thinking I could just move past Naomi.

But I had to try.

I couldn’t have her.

I just had to get my dick wet, and then…then my connection with her would break. It was just that I hadn’t had sex in months, and thest time I did was with her.

Don’t think about that, Gage. Barb might be vapid but even she doesn’t deserve you thinking about another woman while you fuck her.

We ended up at her ce in the Warehouse District—sleek, cold, minimal.

She poured more orange fucking wine.

I drank it.

We kissed.

It was fine.

Clinical.

Hands went ces, clothes hit the floor, and I went through the motions, hoping that if I pushed hard enough, I’d feel something. I’d want the woman naked with me.

I didn’t.

By the time she was urging me inside her, I stopped. She made a sound—half confusion, half frustration.

“Everything okay?” she asked, breathless.

“Yes…no.” I pulled away.

She sat up, scowling as I reached for my jeans. “What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry.” I meant it, even if it sounded like bullshit. “This isn’t working.”

“What?” She looked at my hard cock.

How do I tell her this is not for her?

This was for a woman who smelled like orange blossoms, the woman I couldn’t stop thinking about.

“I’m so sorry, Barb.” I put on my shirt.

She just shook her head. “You men are all assholes.”

“I know,” I agreed and repeated as sincerely as I could, “I’m really sorry.”

Then, I walked out of her fancy ce feeling like I’d cheated on Naomi.

It didn’t sit well with me, not at all.

By midnight, I was drunk at my ce with the lights off, a half-emptied bottle of bourbon, and Kind of Blue ying on vinyl because, apparently, I liked to punish myself with moody Miles Davis when I was spiraling.

By the time I went to bed, the sky was lightening.

Iy in bed, staring at the ceiling. The fan spunzily above me, the shadows slicing across the walls in rhythm.

I’d apparently drunk myself sober.

My skin itched. My chest felt too tight. I hadn’t felt this out of control in years.hr

The crash hit before the dream even had time to build.

Rain.

Headlights.

Screaming tires.

The smell of blood and gasoline.

Broken ss.

Lia’s slumped body.

The sound of sirens.

The way her name tore out of me like a wound.

“Lia.”

“No, no, damn it. Open your eyes.”

I woke up choking on my breath, sweat slicking my back, heart hammering against my ribs like it wanted out. My sheets were tangled. My mouth tasted like ash.

The clock read 5:12 a.m. I’d gotten an hour of sleep, tops.

The nightmares were back, and they were fucking with my head.

You know when I didn’t have them? When I was with Naomi.

When I was with her, I slept like I hadn’t slept since I was neen.

No jolts.

No screaming awake.

Just her warm body pressed against mine, her hand on my chest, her breathing soft and steady like an anchor pulling me up from the deep.

She never knew. I never told her.

I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, trying to catch my breath.

I’d fooled myself into thinking what I had with Naomi was just hot sex.

This wasn’t about sex. It never was. Not with Naomi.

She’d been more than a lover. She had been a safe ce. The first one I’d had in over a decade, and I’d walked away from her like it meant nothing because I was too much of a coward to admit that I…loved her.

What the fuck? No, I didn’t. That wasn’t who I was.

I scrubbed my hands down my face, then over the back of my neck.

I couldn’t do this anymore.

Not the women. Not the pretending. Not the running from what I already knew.

I still didn’t know how to be the man Naomi deserved. But I was starting to understand that not being with her was worse than anything else I’d ever faced.

Even grief.