I peered in the mirror, considering the skinny jeans and boots I wore, as the phone trilled in my ear.
“It’s two in the morning,” Noelle grumbled when she picked up, sleep thick in her voice.
“I know,” I said, checking out the side view. Not bad. “But you instructed me to call you the second I had a report.”
My older sister groaned, then I heard sheets rustle, and I assumed Noelle was dragging herself out of her tiny bed in her tiny flat in the Fifteenth arrondissement. “Fine. Report.”
“I’m seeing him again. Tonight,” I said, a grin tugging at my 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 that there would be another time. He just texted me the details a few minutes ago.”
“Mon petit papillon,” Noelle said in a playful huff, using the nickname she’d bestowed on me many moons ago. It reminded me of what Michael used to call me. Not a butterfly, but he had given me an affectionate little name, and I hadn’t thought about it in ages. I thought about it now, though, and how much I’d liked it. “Tell me more about tonight.”
I gave her the details of our coffee conversation, because it was Noelle who had encouraged me to see him in the first place. Time to move on, mon petit papillon. No more crying in the croissants, she’d said a few months ago.
I wasn’t crying in the croissants—or my pillow—anymore, thank you very much. I hadn’t for many months. Still, was I truly ready? And ready for what?
To love again, Noelle had said, and I had scoffed and shaken my head. But Noelle had suggested simply starting with a date.
Fine, a date seemed reasonable, if I could call it that. And there was really only one man on my mind when I considered who I’d want that date to be with, and it seemed kismet once I learned I’d be flying to Las Vegas for work. Finding Michael had been no easy task, but persistence had paid off, and I’d tracked him down, then sent the letter to his office.
I was nervous, sure, but he’d also always made me feel safe. And for my first time out with a man in two years, that was comforting. But, after all, we were high school sweethearts.
Falling for Michael Sloan—back when he was Michael Paige-Prince—had been the easiest thing in the world when I was sixteen and living far, far away from home. He ran the radio station at our school and played guitar in a band with some friends in the afternoons. He was laid-back, easygoing, and quick with a joke. I 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. We were teens in love, bonding over music and style, American jargon, and kisses that lasted well past midnight. Endless kisses, the kind that made me feel like my 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,” I 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, I did. Was it so wrong to hope he’d kiss me tonight? The flutter in my chest said a kiss would only be right; the spate of nerves flying across my skin told me the opposite.
I inched closer to the mirror, pursing my lips, studying them, wondering what it would feel like . . . It had been so long since I’d felt anything. I ran my index finger over my top lip, both wanting something desperately from Michael and terrified of how I’d feel if anything happened.
Anything at all.
A few hours later, I entered the dark, pulsing nightclub and found him at the far end of the steel bar, his eyes on me the whole time as I walked toward him.
I wanted to photograph him. I imagined raising the lens to my eye so I 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 my mind’s eye, I snapped the shot. Michael, in dark jeans and an untucked navy-blue button-down. There—I’d have it later to linger on.
“You look handsome in your navy shirt,” I said when I reached him. I lifted my hand as if to run a finger across the collar or down the row of buttons. Then I scolded myself and dropped my hand to my side. That was muscle memory, an echo of the past.
I had no more permission to touch his clothes than I did to kiss him.
His eyes raked over me, as if he too was recording all the details. “And you look as stunning in dark green as you did in black.”
Stunning.
He’d never failed to compliment me when we 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 from 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,” I said, and he gestured to the bar, then placed his hand on the small of my back to guide me through the press of people waiting to get service. A spark zipped through me from the possessive touch. The hum of music surrounded us, 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?” I asked.
“No. Brent just has really good bartenders. They’re fast with all the customers. Which is one of the reasons this place does so well.”
“I’m glad to hear that. And he’s married to Shannon now?”
Michael nodded. “They eloped this summer. Translation: got back together and went to a twenty-four-hour chapel to tie the knot.”
I 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 me. “How exciting! When is she due?”
“About six months I believe. She just told us,” he said as the bartender arrived, a young man with a goatee who asked what he could get for us.
Michael turned to me, letting me go first. “Champagne,” I said to the man behind the bar.
“Make that two,” Michael added.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a champagne fan,” I 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?”
I shook my 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?”
I laughed, shaking my 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 damn champagne,” he said, but the sparkle in his eyes as they latched onto mine told me he remembered the other way we’d rung 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, to low, muffled groans, heated sighs, and our names falling off each other’s lips.