She shrugged, as if to say duh. "There you go. Brent said there's some new band at his nightclub tonight. A hot young indie-rock band. Take her to that. It'll be like old times."

"Is that what I want? Old times?"

"Yes. That's what you want," she said as she set down her cards, winning the hand with a trio of sixes.

"Nice," he said, with a low whistle of admiration.

She dragged a handful of chips closer. "So what was it like? Seeing her?"

That was the question of the day, one he'd been weighing since leaving the Petrossian Bar a few hours ago.

How could he even begin to describe seeing Annalise? It was like resistance meets infatuation. The whole time, he'd reined in his desire to kiss her, touch her, taste her lips. Because, well, that would be wholly inappropriate, and he had no f.u.c.king clue if she wanted it. A wild, delirious thought popped into his brain. Had she looked him up for the same reason he'd tried to find her ten years ago?

Ah, h.e.l.l. No. He couldn't go there. Couldn't linger on the biggest heartbreak of his life. On the absolutely epic sh.e.l.lacking he'd walked right into, like a fool who thought the past could be resurrected. The past was best left buried. Tonight would just be...fun.

"It was awkward, but easy at the same time," he said, after much consideration. "If that makes sense."

Mindy nodded thoughtfully, her blue eyes serious. "Yeah, it does."

"We sort of slid right back into conversation about work and memories. It was good, even though I still feel like there are a million things I want to ask her."

Mindy patted his arm. "I know. But perhaps it's best to save 'Do you ever think about me?' for another time."

"Yeah. Good point."

"Keep it light and fun," she advised, then tipped her chin to his phone. "And maybe let her know the plan for tonight."

He texted Annalise the details, lingering to appreciate the ease with which he communicated with the woman he'd once had the hardest time in the world staying in touch with. So much had changed over the years. Even things like...text messaging. They hadn't had this luxury when they were younger.

When Mindy finished the round ahead, she thanked the dealer, collected her winnings, and walked away from the table. She was a measured player, always knowing when to stop. They wandered through the casino, then down the hall toward the restrooms, stopping outside the ladies room where it was quiet so they could catch up on other matters.

"Did you see the report from Morris?" she asked, mentioning the private detective he'd hired. Mindy had worked with the guy, so when Michael was looking for a solid recommendation, he'd taken hers.

"Yeah. Not much there. The guy goes to the grocery store, and to buy sheet music at the piano shop. Doesn't even take his girls to school. I swear I don't get it. How can he be head of a street gang?" Michael dragged a hand through his hair in frustration. He'd hired the detective to gather some intel on Luke Carlton, the mild-mannered local piano teacher by day, leader of the notorious street gang the Royal Sinners by night. The cops were trying to gather enough evidence to bring him in, and Michael wanted to do everything he could to help take down the f.u.c.ker he was sure had played a role in plotting his father's death.

"But that's how it's always been," Mindy said. "This guy has supposedly been running the Royal Sinners for years, so he d.a.m.n well knows how to be inconspicuous."

"That's the trouble," Michael said, as his phone buzzed.

Annalise.

A concert! Sounds great. I will be there.

He promptly forgot about Luke and zoned in on those last four words. She would be there.

His Annalise.

She peered in the mirror, considering the skinny jeans and boots she wore as the phone trilled in her ear and she waited for her sister to pick up.

"It's two in the morning," Noelle grumbled, sleep thick in her voice.

"I know," Annalise said, checking out the side view. Not bad. "But you instructed me to call you the second I had a report."

Her older sister groaned, then Annalise heard sheets rustle, and she a.s.sumed Noelle was dragging herself out of her tiny bed in her tiny flat in the Fifteenth Arrondiss.e.m.e.nt. "Fine. Report."

"I'm seeing him again. Tonight," she said, a grin tugging at her lips.

"You've already seen him once?"

"Yes. This afternoon."

"And you didn't think to give me a report then?"

"I wanted to wait until I knew for certain another time would be happening. He just texted me details a few minutes ago."

"Mon pet.i.te papillon," Noelle said in a playful huff, using the nickname she'd bestowed on Annalise many moons ago. Annalise froze, not because it bothered her, but because it reminded her of what Michael used to call her. Not a b.u.t.terfly, but he had given her an affectionate little name, and she hadn't thought about it in ages. She thought about it now, though, and how much she'd liked it. "Tell me more about tonight."

Annalise gave her the details of their coffee conversation, because it was Noelle who had encouraged her to see him in the first place. "Time to move on, mon pet.i.te papillon. No more crying in the croissants," Noelle had said a few months ago.

Annalise wasn't crying in the croissants, or her pillow, anymore, thank you very much. She hadn't for many months. Still, was she truly ready? And ready for what?

"To love again," Noelle had said, and Annalise had scoffed and shaken her head.

"That won't happen."

"Then just go on a date."

Fine, a date seemed reasonable, if she could call it that. Finding Michael had been no easy task, but persistence had paid off, and she'd tracked him down, then sent the letter to his office.

He'd seemed a safe bet for her first time out with a man in two years. Comforting, even. High school sweethearts, and all that.

Falling for Michael Sloan-back when he was Michael Paige-Prince-had been the easiest thing in the world when she was sixteen and living far, far away from home. He ran the radio station at their school, and played guitar in a band with some friends in the afternoons. He was laidback, easy-going, and quick with a joke. She was the arty French girl who liked the same indie music, and who took pictures of him and the other guys playing their instruments in the garage. They were late-90s teens in love, bonding over Pearl Jam and Nirvana, grunge and flannel, American jargon, and kisses that lasted well past midnight. Endless kisses, the kind that made her feel like her skin was humming.

"Call me when you're done with the concert," Noelle said from the other end of the line.

"So you do like my report at any time of day," Annalise teased.

"I'm a glutton for punishment when it comes to you. Just make sure it's a good report."

"What would make for a good report?"

"You know precisely what would make for a good report."

Yes. Yes, she did. Was it so wrong to hope he'd kiss her tonight? The flutter in her chest said a kiss would only be right; the spate of nerves flying across her skin told her the opposite.

She inched closer to the mirror, pursing her lips, studying them, wondering what it would feel like.... It had been so long since she'd felt anything. She ran her index finger over her top lip, both wanting something desperately from Michael, and terrified of how she'd feel if anything happened.

Anything at all.

A few hours later, she entered the dark, pulsing nightclub and found him at the far end of the steel bar, his eyes on her the whole time she walked toward him.

The way he looked at her told her this night had the potential to take her breath away.

CHAPTER FOUR.

He'd changed his clothes.

She wasn't sure why this detail mattered, but she liked the chance to see him in a different outfit than earlier. Maybe because she'd changed, too. Or maybe because he looked so d.a.m.n good in those dark jeans and the untucked navy blue b.u.t.ton-down. He'd been so put-together and crisp earlier, and now he was a touch more casual. Still sharp, though, and still so f.u.c.king beautiful.

She wanted to photograph him. She imagined raising the lens to her eye so she could capture the cut of his jaw, the determination in his gaze, and the tiniest twinkle of a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

Framing him in her mind's eye, she snapped the shot. There-she'd have it later to linger on.

"You look handsome in your navy shirt," she said when she reached him. She lifted her hand as if to run a finger across the collar or down the b.u.t.tons. Then she scolded herself and dropped her hand to her side. That was muscle memory, an echo of the past.

She had no more permission to touch his clothes than she did to kiss him.

His eyes raked over her, as if he, too, was recording all the details. A flush crept across her neck from the intensity of his gaze, and then from his words as he spoke. "And you look as stunning in dark green as you did in black."

Stunning.

He'd never failed to compliment her when they were younger, and he excelled at the pursuit as an adult, too. "Even in this dark club you can tell the color of my top? And that it's different than earlier? I'm so impressed, Mr. Sloan. I never knew your color-matching skills were so top-notch."

He shrugged casually. "Impressive, I know. I've been working on it for some time. Can I get you a drink?"

"A drink sounds fantastic," she said, and he gestured to the bar, then placed his hand on the small of her back to guide her through the press of people waiting to get service. A spark zipped through her from the possessive touch, his palm pressed lightly against the silk of her top. The hum of music surrounded them, the low thump of the nightclub, though the band hadn't started yet.

At the bar Michael raised a finger, and the bartender at the far end nodded, indicating he'd be on his way.

"That was quick. Do they know you?" she asked.

"No. Brent just has really good bartenders. They're fast with all customers. Which is one of the reasons this place does so well."

"I'm glad to hear that. And he's married to Shan now?"

Michael nodded. "They eloped this summer. Translation: Got back together and went to a twenty-four-hour chapel to tie the knot."

She laughed. "Perfect for them. And congratulations to the happy couple. How is your sister doing?"

Michael made an arc with his hand over his belly.

A morsel of glee spread through Annalise. "How exciting! When is she due?"

"Five months," he said as the bartender arrived, a young man with a goatee who asked what he could get for them.

Michael turned to Annalise, letting her go first. "Champagne," she said to the man behind the bar.

"Make that two," Michael added.

"I wouldn't have pegged you for a champagne fan," she mused as the bartender set to work.

He arched a brow. "Why not? Do I seem like I have a dislike for drinks that are delicious?"

She shook her head. "No. I'd just have figured beer, or scotch, or something strong and manly."

He held up a hand. "Wait. Now I'm not manly? Because I ordered champagne?"

She laughed, shaking her head. "This is coming out all wrong. You're very manly. And champagne is very good. I'm glad we didn't have to sneak around to find some. Do you remember the time on New Year's Eve when we tried to figure out how to steal some from Becky and Sanders's collection?"

"Never found that d.a.m.n champagne," he said, but the sparkle in his eyes as they latched onto hers told her he remembered the other way they'd rang in that new year-a long, lingering kiss at midnight that didn't stop at the lips. It went on and on, and led to hands under shirts, and below belts, and low, m.u.f.fled groans, heated sighs, and their names falling off each other's lips.

The memory moved through her, heating her up. Or maybe it was just being near him now that did that.

"And now we don't have to track it down like thieves," he said.

"We have permission to drink it," she said. "I suppose that's a benefit of being older."

He nodded. "One of them."

"And, now it turns out champagne is good for you. Did you know that?"

"I read that recently. What's the story there?"

She tapped the side of her temple. "Supposedly, it helps improve memory."

"Ah," he said with a nod. "Sometimes, that's not my strongest suit. But that's what Post-It notes are for."

Post-It notes. Champagne. Jokes about the color of clothes.

He couldn't believe these were their discussion points.

But this was all he could handle. His pulse hammered in his neck, and he hoped she couldn't tell how G.o.dd.a.m.n hard it was to stand this close to her, to be so near to her, and not talk about the things he most wanted to know. The why.

Why she was here?

What did she want?