Excerpt

DiAndra Collins clutched the pewter urn between her breasts. It was the closest she’d been to her husband since his death six weeks before. Reduced to ashes and chips of bones, this was all that remained of Wes. Never again would she feel his lips enticing hers into passion—that gentle pressure, those sweet nips that grew more demanding as the fire between them built. Never again would she feel the weight of his body hugging hers into the mattress. Or the fierce joy as his throbbing cock took possession of her in a ride that could be slow and sweet or hard and demanding, but never disappointing.

Her nipples tightened against her T-shirt as memory and a crushing longing absorbed her. Tears flowed down her cheeks unrestrained. This was all they’d ever have. At least he wasn’t buried beneath the cold dirt where she couldn’t reach him. It would do…for now.

If all went well, they’d be together soon. Everything was ready for her to begin the ritual. All she waited for was moonrise to chase away the day.

DiAndra set the urn on the marble fireplace mantel. Her head had to be clear, her thoughts focused, before she could even think about performing the ceremony. God knew her heart was pure, her motives true. Nothing else must be left to chance. Too much was at stake. She had one opportunity to get this right. If she failed…

No! It will work. By the time the sun rose on another day, she and Wes would be together again.

It was time to set the stage. Preparation would help calm her nerves and keep her busy while what remained of the day passed.

The wooden floor creaked with her steps. Kneeling at the far edge of the braided rug that had been a part of her family for generations, DiAndra slowly rolled it up. Stiff spirals of earth-toned colors—rusty brown, sage green, and goldenrod—protested at the movement, fighting her all the way. Strands of her dark brown hair drifted in her eyes, another threshold guardian to thwart her from her path. DiAndra shoved them behind her ears and kept going. The roll of rug grew. She’d never be able to move it out of the way. Hopefully, it would be far enough back it wouldn’t matter.

Threads popped free, loosening one section. Biting back a curse, she tucked that section into the roll and pushed. A blast from the phone gave her a start. The rug snapped open, shoving her to her butt.

“Damn it all! What part of privacy do you not understand?” Everyone had been asked not to bother her today.

She snatched up the phone on the second ring and watched the rug casually resume its former position.

“Hello?” She’d broken a nail on top of it all.

“It’s me, Di.”

She chewed off what was left of her nail as she fought tears. The last thing she needed right now was a sympathetic friend. Scott Asher had been just that. He’d truly owned up to the title of “Wes’s best friend” in the months since Wes’s diagnosis and subsequent death. He’d been Wes’s rock, then hers, as the brain tumor ate away at the man she loved.

But she’d cried on Scott’s broad shoulder too many times. It was time to stand on her own two feet and let Scott get back to his life.

“I thought you might like to talk, have some company.” His voice was always sunshine to her wounded heart. But there were some things she didn’t dare share. What she was about to do was one of them.

“I’m fine. Wes is finally home where he belongs.” The words caught. She tried to pass them off as a cough. Scott probably wasn’t fooled, but at least he was sweet enough not to call her on that.

“I would’ve gone with you to the mortuary.”

DiAndra sniffled. “I know. It was just something I needed to do myself.”

“How about sharing a pizza and—”

“I’d really like to be alone with Wes tonight, Scott.”

His sigh was clearly audible. Shivers wiggled down her spine of their own volition, readying her to make her stand.

“Di, he was my best friend. I miss him, too. But you can’t lock yourself away like this.”

She lifted her chin, hoping that act of defiance would shore up her resolve. “I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

“Di—”

“I have to go.” She hung up before he could say another word, then held her breath while she waited for him to call back.

Silence.

DiAndra nodded slowly. Finally Scott understood. More loneliness replaced any joy she thought she’d feel. She’d wanted privacy and now she had it.

Her gaze wandered to their picture wall—frozen moments in time forever captured. She and Wes at their wedding, on vacations. Their families. Scott and Wes just being guys. They’d always joked that they were mirror mates. Wes was blond, blue-eyed, and left-handed, while Scott had brown hair and eyes and was right-handed. They both packed a lot of muscle on their six-foot frames. They’d once teased her that they could put bags over their heads and she’d never be able to tell the difference. That had led to a bawdy discussion of their respective male genitalia that had her laughing until she’d cried.

She wandered to her favorite picture—the one of them on top of the highest sand dune in Death Valley National Park. DiAndra was bookended between the two. They boasted victory smiles. The photo was taken by yet another girlfriend of Scott’s who didn’t stick around long.

Marcia, wasn’t it? At least DiAndra thought that’s what her name was.

But a lot had happened since then. Within two weeks of that trip, Wes’s growing migraines were diagnosed as an aggressive and non-operable tumor. Scott’s latest and last girlfriend took off a week later. None of his women ever understood the bond the three of them had.

She traced the smooth wooden frame with her finger. How could things change so much in less than six months?

“Oh, well, time to get back to work.” Heaving a sigh, she knelt before the rug once more.