“Amy’s dating the dick-bag again,” Luke said into his beer as his best friend, Brady Taylor, turned on the Saints game. “Also, he told me to get a dog.”

Cracking the aluminum cap off a beer, Brady settled back in his chair and muted the TV. “You should get a dog.”

He and Brady had been friends for longer than Luke could remember. Somewhere in his mother’s attic, there were photos of the two of them at Little League Baseball games and birthday parties. Luke and Brady hadn’t ever attended the same school, thanks to the differences in their financial situations growing up. While the O’Connors had lived paycheck to paycheck, Brady’s grandparents (and guardians) had enough wealth to feed a starving nation.

Brady’s only saving grace was that he was down to earth and, after leaving the nest at eighteen, had never requested another penny from his family. That fact made it slightly easier to digest all the times Brady’s old clothes had been passed off to Luke or when Mary and Arthur Taylor had invited the O’Connor family for holidays, loading them up with clothes and household items that tided them over until the next thin paycheck arrived.

Luke swallowed a healthy dose of his beer. “I don’t want a dog.”

Brady didn’t even look at him. “Maybe a dog would improve your shitty disposition, seeing as how you’ve sworn off all women.”

This is what he got for being open with his best friend—trash talk, and a kick to the nuts when he was already down for the count. Although, maybe Robb and Brady were right. Maybe a dog would do him some good; just because he wasn’t in the mood for human companionship didn’t mean a four-legged friend wouldn’t be . . . nice. Dogs were man’s best friend, right? Not that he’d ever had a dog to really know. Luke frowned. “I told you, I’m taking some time for myself.”

Brady pointed the bottle at him. “You’re wallowing in self-pity.”

Biting out a half-curse, half-laugh, Luke shook his head. “Want to remind me again why you invited me over?”

“I wanted to watch the Saints play.”

“You could have done that on your own time, maybe call Danvers and have him put up with your sweet talk.”

“He’ll be over in about an hour.”

Luke had met Nathan Danvers just before deploying a year ago. The guy was enormous—more mountain than man—but with a quick-witted humor that Luke appreciated. Helped that the guy was a former marine, so they had the military in common.

Hooah.

“Where’s Shae?” Luke asked.

“At the boutique. They’re hosting a party today.”

Mention of La Parisienne immediately brought forth a visual of Anna. The last time he’d seen her, three days earlier, had been at Tuck’s. For three days, Luke had put a mental block on that night. But now he couldn’t help but recall the weird feeling in his gut as he’d sat in their booth and watched her flirt with Dev Smith, or whatever the fuck his name had been.

Unlike her date with Mr. Twat, the two hours Anna had spent in Dev’s company had been . . . good, Luke guessed. She hadn’t looked Luke’s way, not for the entire time that he’d sat there, beer clasped in hand as he waited for any kind of signal.

The signal had never arrived.

Dev Smith had been a complete gentleman, paying for her drink, making her laugh. They’d exchanged stories of their pasts, and Luke had learned that Anna Bryce was a woman with much to offer.

That, he’d already known.

What he hadn’t known was the fact that she donated five percent of La Parisienne’s monthly profits to various local charities. He hadn’t known that she’d once booked a flight to New York City when Julian was five, simply because she’d wanted to see what the world outside New Orleans had to offer.

Luke had traveled all over. Hell, he’d been stationed in Germany and Hawaii, in addition to serving deployments in other parts of the world. He recalled her flippant comment about harboring a fascination with British TV, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she watched it so religiously because she wanted to know something other than New Orleans.

But even as he’d sat in that booth drinking his beer, he’d acknowledged that he hadn’t been privy to all the information about her personal life. It hadn’t been Luke O’Connor she’d told, but a guy named Dev Smith who dressed like a wannabe hipster and wore nonprescription glasses like an asshole.

Meanwhile, Luke wore sweats because jeans were still too constricting on his already limited mobility. His T-shirts were a generic Wal-Mart brand because he’d never given too much thought into what made a Wal-Mart T-shirt any different than a designer T-shirt, aside from the price tag.

If Dev Smith was Anna’s “type,” then Luke never would be.

Why do you even care?

Right. Luke drained half his beer, doing his best to forget the moment when Blondie’s date had dropped a kiss to her lips and she’d returned the favor without hesitation.

On the TV, the Saints scored a touchdown—miraculously. All New Orleanians knew that the NFL had made a bad call when it came to naming the team; historically, saints were martyrs, and the Saints NFL team made a point to be historically accurate every season. Brady thrust a fist up in the air, shouting, “Hell, yes!” even as Luke raised his beer in salute to the football gods for their hand-delivered miracle.

For the first quarter, they did nothing but watch the game, bitching about badly called penalties and commiserating on the team’s inability to set up a proper defensive line. When the game turned to a commercial, Brady stood up and announced, “I have to show you something,” and then reached for his sweats.

Luke shaded his eyes. “Please, for fuck’s sake, do not whip out your dick. I’ve seen it before and I’m still not impressed.”

“Worried that you’re going to feel like a lesser man?”

“I’m worried that I’m going to see your shortcomings up close.”

“I see I came at just the right moment,” said a voice to the right. “Pun intended, by the way.”

The front door closed behind Danvers, and he held up a six-pack. “I come bearing gifts,” he said. “But I’m only giving them up if you promise to keep the snake in your pants, Sarg.”

“Jesus Christ, y’all,” Brady snapped, glaring at his two friends. “I’m not showing anyone the goods.”

“Good.” Luke tipped his beer in Brady’s direction. “Because no one wants to see that shit.”

“My fiancée does.”

“That’s because she signed an invisible dotted contract—wait.” Luke sat up, his hands forming a T. “Time out. Did you just say fiancée?”

Danvers placed the six-pack on the coffee table and chose the single couch to Luke’s left. “How could you not tell us you proposed? Hell, for that matter, how do we not already know that you proposed? Jade and Shaelyn are tight.”

Brady reached into his pants’ pocket and withdrew a black velvet jewelry box. Going for humor, Luke quipped, “I’m guessing that’s not for me, eh?”

“You don’t sleep with him,” Danvers said, “so I doubt a ring is coming your way.”

“The ring’s not for you,” Brady confirmed, reclaiming his seat on the couch. “Y’all want to see it?”

“Am I going to need a beer for this?” Danvers asked, at the same time Luke grumbled, “I’d almost rather see your fake snake.”

“The snake’s not fake,” Brady said. “Also, I know y’alls bitching means you’re just excited.” He flicked the box open and set it on the coffee table next to the six-pack. Luke was halfway surprised when a light didn’t burst from the ceiling and shine down upon the ring glistening under the reflection of the Saints losing on the TV.

Luke leaned forward. He knew nothing of rings. Never had been the sort to give women jewelry and have them thinking that the relationship was more than it was. But even he could recognize a finely made piece. Diamonds glittered, even when there was no direct sunlight hitting the stones.

Danvers, ever the dramatic one, threw up a hand over his eyes. “I’ve been blinded! Quick, hand me a beer.”

Rolling his eyes, Brady tossed a beer to his coworker. “I take it that means you like it?”

“It means that the moment Jade sees this, she’s going to get ideas.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Brady asked, drinking his own beer.

“Nah,” Danvers said with a shake of his head, “I’d marry that woman tomorrow, but her mother is determined to see us get hitched in a big-ass wedding. I don’t know. There’s been talk of a guest list being three-hundred deep.” He mock-shivered.

“Shaelyn and I don’t want a big wedding.” Brady shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. “We should have gotten married years ago. Hell, I’d bring her to city hall if I didn’t think her grandmother wouldn’t clobber me over the head.”

“Brady, you say that like your own grandparents wouldn’t murder you,” Luke pointed out, to which he was rewarded with the middle finger.

Brady gave a heavy sigh. “You’re right. We’re probably going to have a huge wedding. The old folks are going to want to invite half the city. But as long as the proposal goes my way, I won’t complain.”

During halftime, they tossed around proposal ideas. Danvers believed the bigger, the bolder, the better, which didn’t come as much of a surprise to the rest of them. Luke suggested proposing at dinner, but only because he had no idea what constituted a good proposal and he figured better safe than sorry.

In the end, Brady turned them both down and grumbled, “I’m just gonna talk to Anna about this.”

Luke reached for another beer, steeling his shoulders at the sound of Blondie’s name. “They’re close, aren’t they?”

“They’re cousins.”

“I’ve got cousins. Don’t even ask me what their names are.” It was true. Luke had no contact with his father’s side of the family, but even contact with his mother’s side was slim to none. His maternal grandparents had died before he was born, and Moira’s older sister lived across the country with her family.

In thirty-one years, he’d met his cousins all of two times.

“They’re best friends, too,” Brady said, eyes glued to the football game. “If anyone knows anything about Shaelyn and her wedding dreams, it’s going to be Anna.”

Luke eyed the engagement ring.

“Speaking of Anna, I heard some interesting information.”

Shit.

He bought himself time by taking a pull of his beer.

“Shaelyn told me that you and Anna have something going on.”

Not quite true. They had a dare going on, that’s all. “It’s nothing.”

“I thought you said you were laying off dating for a while,” Brady said, turning his gaze from the TV to Luke.

“We aren’t dating. I haven’t even kissed her.”

“But you want to?” This from Danvers. “You got the look of a man who wants something he can’t have, like a Chihuahua after its favorite stuffed toy.”

“First, I resent being compared to a five-pound dog.” Luke shook his head adamantly, adding, “And it’s not like that. I promised to help her meet a guy.”

“You’re playing matchmaker?” Brady took a sip of his beer, his brows lifted in curiosity. “Bit of a switch in gears from being a soldier, don’t you think?”

Yeah, it was a change in gears. Except that Luke had no intention of making matchmaking a permanent gig. He was doing this for Blondie because he’d been cornered, and, maybe, just a little bit because Anna Bryce presented an alluring distraction from his life.

“Too bad you’re just now just getting into this gig,” Danvers said with a shit-eating grin, “I would have paid you good money to find a nice guy for my sister. Maybe still will—hey, how do you feel about breaking up relationships? Lizzie’s found herself another asshole and—”

“Jesus, y’all, I’m not a fucking matchmaker.”

“But you are matchmaking for Anna?” Brady said slowly.

Luke dragged his fingers through his hair. “Three dates in three weeks. We came up with this deal, challenge, fuck, I don’t really know what to call it. I told her that she had shit intuition about picking the right guys, and she dared me to find three perfect men for her to date. Meanwhile, she’s picking her own.”

“This might just be better than the Saints game,” Danvers said.

Brady pointed a finger. “Blasphemy.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” Danvers paused, then added, “It’s actually way better than the Saints game.”

They all turned weary eyes to the game in question, where the Saints were trailing behind the Broncos by 31 points. Fourth quarter, one minute left in the game. It was a goddamn execution.

“Big question here,” Danvers said, “what’s the winner get?”

“Whatever they want,” Luke told them with air quotes. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Sounds like an invitation.”

“I don’t think it was,” Luke muttered, draining his second beer and placing the empty bottle on the coffee table. He didn’t move for a third. He had no plans to get sloppy drunk on his best friend’s couch while an engagement ring box sat on the table, especially not when Luke’s brain was already a convoluted mess.

Brady thumped him on the shoulder. “You know what you need?”

“I don’t want another beer,” Luke said, when Danvers quipped, “The Saints aren’t going to win. Hell hath not frozen over yet.”

Brady ignored them both, his blue eyes finding Luke’s face. “You need a dog and I know the perfect person who’d kill to be its personal walker.”