Iwas the only person in the room in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt—everyone else was in what one called business casual, linen suits, and Brooks Brothers dresses.

    The New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival board was meeting in the upstairs parlor at The Columns. Sunlight streamed through tall windows framed by velvet drapes, throwing light over gleaming hardwood floors and jewel-toned upholstery. Chandeliers sparkled above the polished mahogany table, their antique mour offset by yful wallpaper and thoughtfully curated artwork.

    The 1883 Italianate mansion with its dramatic mahogany staircase had been lovingly renovated to be a hotel and event space. Outside, the St. Charles Avenue streetcar ttered past like a slow-moving witness to tradition. Inside, the mood was elegance and a quiet reverence reserved for a ce that had survived generations of revelers, thinkers, and dreamers.

    We were less than a month out before the jazz festival hit our city, and both excitement and anxiety was high.

    “They finally confirmed the Stones,” someone said as I grabbed coffee from the silver urn in the corner.

    “And Whatsisname wants a private dressing room inside a tent. With climate control,” another board member grunted, passing around the updated performer list.

    “Let the man have his damn climate control,” Jonah Lamarre dered.

    He’d shown up ten minuteste and was, as always, throwing his weight around. I fucking hated this whose-dick-is-bigger shit some of these assholes pulled at these meetings.

    Why the hell was I part of this board, again?

    ‘Cause it’s your fucking civic duty and you love jazz.

    “We’re talking about history here. Jazz Fest is going to blow up this year,” Jonah continued.

    We’d been working on getting The Rolling Stones to New Orleans for years, and this year we were luckier than ever because in addition to the Stones, we had Trombone Shorty, Big Freedia, Esperanza Spalding, and even Stevie Wonder signed on.

    The grounds at the Fair Grounds Racecourse were getting expanded, vendors were tripling, and every damn hotel in the Quarter had been booked solid for the duration of the festival.

    It was going to be a monster year.

    And I should’ve been riding the high of it.

    But being around Jonah was pissing me off.

    Was he still seeing Naomi? Were they serious?

    During a break at the meeting, he settled into a chair next to me, casually flipping through the performance schedule. “It was nice seeing you and Sloane at Saffron.”

    Was it?

    I made a nomittal sound to that.

    “I’m real excited to see Naomi at the festival. I’m going to take her to see the Stones. Do you know she’s never heard them live?” He prattled on like I gave a shit.

    I didn’t respond and pulled out my phone to pretend I had better things to do.

    Jonah, like a dog with a fucking bone, set the schedule down and grinned at me. “She’s an interesting woman. She told me you were…ah…acquaintances.”

    My jaw clenched.

    Yeah, asshole, I’m acquainted with her body and soul.

    “Remarkable woman,” he continued.

    I knew what he was doing. The trap was right there, and I walked into it. I couldn’t help myself, which seemed to be the case whenever it was about Naomi.

    “You two serious now?” I asked, voice low and t.

    He smiled. “You’ve got to be with a woman like that.”

    I red at him and blurted out without thinking about it, “She’s not yours.”

    He leaned back in his chair, adjusting the cuff of his crisp white shirt. “From what I hear, she’s not yours either.”

    I didn’t answer because I didn’t have the right to argue; and the motherfucker knew it.

    I’d fucked it up when I went to Aire Noire. But I couldn’t regret it. It was heaven touching her, but also hell because now I had to admit that I missed her. I didn’t want another woman because my body was still into Naomi Lenc.

    Your heart, too, you moron.

    Still, I wished I had not lost control because I hurt her…again.

    But God help me, if Jonahid a finger on her?—

    “Let’s not y this like we’re twenty,” Jonah’s words dripped with amusement.

    “What the fuck does that mean?” I wanted to punch the prick’s lights out.

    “Just that, I know she’s your ex. And I get it.”

    “What is it you get, Jonah?”

    When the fuck was this break going to end? Come on, people, that’s enough coffee and scones, let’s get to work!

    “That you still have feelings for her. I don’t me you. I mean?—”

    “I don’t have feelings for her,” I bit out. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to take a piss.”

    I walked out of the meeting room, mostly because I didn’t trust myself not to break his jaw.

    After the meeting, I should’ve gone home, or to the gym, or the river, or anywhere else, but I ended up in the Mahogany Jazz Hall on Chartres in the Quarter.

    My friend Reggie was ying, and I’d said I’d show up if I could.

    Naomi and I had been there several times. She liked their moody jazz ambiance and their absinthe selection, which was legendary.

    “I love the atmosphere.” She waved a hand around at the vintage surroundings. “Here it feels as if the past might lean over your shoulder and whisper to you.”

    “Baby, if you hear anything from the past, actually whisper to you, it might be a haint or probably, and more likely, the absinthe talking.”

    “You’ve got no sense for history,” she teased.

    I kissed her softly. “Maybe if I drink some of you, the absinthe will flow in my blood, and I’ll hear a whisper or two.”

    Reggie yed with the famed Trumpet Mafia—New Orleans brass legends in the making. They were a bunch of local horn yers who believed more was more, and blended jazz, hip-hop, funk, and gospel into an explosive sound that felt like a second-line parade crashing into a block party.

    It wasn’t unusual to see eight or more trumpet yers onstage at once, trading riffs and weaving harmonies so rich and chaotic it felt like the music had a pulse. Their sets were part celebration, part battle cry, and always an act of joy.

    Reggie, in his signature porkpie hat, was all swagger and soul as he led the call-and-response lines, his trumpet practically an extension of his body. Every note punched the air unapologetically, unforgettably alive.

    Tonight at the Mahogany, they were ying a stripped-down set—just four horns, keys, and drums—but the energy was no less electric. You couldn’t hear Trumpet Mafia and stay still. The room hummed with life, feet tapping, bodies swaying, history being made in real time.

    I wasn’t in the mood for music or much of anything else. But I’d shown up all the same, agitated as hell—burning from the inside out because of Jonah, who’d thrown gas on an already smoldering fire just by existing too close to Naomi.

    Reggie knew Aurelie—hell, the whole damn city knew Aurelie—and he was also in Naomi’s orbit, which was probably why my ass was currently parked on a barstool, pretending I gave a shit about anything besides the woman I’d spent months trying to forget.

    I was here for her.

    I was here to steal a nce.

    I was here to breathe in her orange blossom scent.

    I was here because I was half-mad with wanting.

    I was here because I was lovesick.

    And there it was again—that four-letter word I’d been choking on for weeks.

    Love.

    Goddamn it.

    The club had arge open window behind the band where smokers congregated, making the ce thick with sax and cigarette ghosts.

    One set ended and then another began; and like always when it did, a hush fell through the room like someone had dimmed the world outside.

    Music curled through the air like smoke itself—low, mournful, sensual. The opening notes of ‘Round Midnight slid from Reggie’s sax, all broken ss and velvet. It made me want to rewind thest six months of my life so I could have Naomi sitting next to me.

    Why was I fighting this so hard? I could just go to her and…what? She wanted forever, and I didn’t even know what that meant. I couldn’t give her what she wanted if I didn’t even understand that kind ofmitment, not when people left you.

    “Hey, handsome.” udine settled against the bar, facing me. She was in a tight dress—any other day I’d be ready to haul her to the nearest bed and fuck her into the mattress. But I knew now that no other woman would do and thinking about fucking anyone but Naomi made me sick to my stomach.

    God, just kill me now!

    “udine,” I murmured.

    She took the drink from my hand and sipped it. Her lips were glossy, red. She looked good. I couldn’t give a damn even if I tried.

    “Lagavulin, nice and smoky,” she purred; then half turned to catch the attention of the bartender. “I’ll have a mint julep, baby.”

    It was a New Orleans thing, calling everyone baby. If you went to Cajun country, everyone was sugah or sha.

    I called Naomi baby.

    Could I think of anything, pretty much anything without thinking about her? Apparently not!

    “How have you been, Gage.” She leaned a little so her tits looked like they were ready to spill out of her dress.

    “Been busy, udine.”

    “I hear The Chapelle is the talk of the town.”

    I wanted her gone, far, far away from me. I wasn’t in the mood.

    “Yeah, it’s done.”

    “Sloane has been singing your praises….” She bit her lower lip. “You seeing her?”

    I drank some whiskey. “Babe, feel like listening to the music tonight.”

    She ignored the not-so-subtle fuck off message.

    “I’ve been wanting to continue our date fromst time.” Her drink was ced next to her, and she picked it up. Drank from it, studying me with lust.

    “Like I said?—’

    “Is this about your lingerie girl?”

    I downed the whiskey in one burn. The fuck? “Huh?”

    “So…what’s the problem?”

    I blew out a breath. “I’m just not interested.”

    She blinked, faux-wounded. “Excuse me?”

    “I brought you around to Maison that night because Naomi needed to get the message. She’s a clinger. Level five. Couldn’t take a fucking hint.”

    The subtext being: a whole hell of a lot like you.

    I heard a gasp—two of them.

    One from udine and one from behind me. Standing by the back wall, frozen, eyes wide, hurt blooming across her face like bruises under candlelight, was Naomi. Next to her, Aurelie looked at me with eyes that could y.

    “Fucking hell,” I muttered and rose.

    udine smirked. “You have some timing, Gage Walker.”

    Tell me about it.

    I turned to Naomi. “Baby,” I began, but she held her hand up and whispered, “No.”

    Her gaze met mine. And in that split second, I saw every moment I’d ever kissed her, touched her, held her—and how I’d just set it all on fire.

    She walked away, out into the melee that was the Quarter.

    “Fuck,” I whispered, shoving away from the bar.

    “Leave her the fuck alone,” Aurelie warned, gripping my arm, holding me from running after the woman who I seemed to keep hurting, intentionally and inadvertently.

    I slowly walked out of the bar and found udine outside, a cigarette in hand. She threw me a disgusted look.

    I felt like a shit.

    I am a shit.

    “I’m sorry,” I said.

    I have a lot of people to apologize to.

    She shrugged. “Whatever.”

    I shook my head. “No, udine. I am sorry. I…that was a terrible thing to say to you.”

    “Oh God! Don’t get all maudlin, Gage. You were supposed to be a fuck…and that’s all.” She sucked in smoke and blew it out. “You don’t think I’d want more with a construction worker, do you?”

    I let out a deep breath. I deserved her snideness. I used her on purpose and then spurned her cruelly. Regardless of what she wanted, I didn’t have to behave like aplete dickhead.

    “Regardless. I’m sorry, udine.”

    “Go fuck yourself.” She turned away from me.

    I’m not sure if I hurt udine, but I did insult her, just as I did Naomi.

    Reggie’s horn wailed—low and bitter and blue.

    And as I stood in the smoke and the sound, I felt like the biggest idiot in the world.