I don’t know what the guy I’m meeting looks like.
I mean, I know what the version of him ten years ago looked like. Long, curly black hair, pulled back into a man bun before man buns were even a thing. I scrunch up my nose, trying to remember other details. He’d been long and lean, almost coltish. Full, dark beard. Not my type at all, truth be told, but to give credit where it was due, I do remember that he had very nice eyes. They were light blue with thick, those-can’t-be-real black eyelashes.
The trouble is, the bar is far too dark to see anyone’s eye color, so I’m at a bit of a loss. I scan the room and come up empty. My palms get a little sweaty, and I hope he didn’t leave because he thought I’d stood him up. I scan the room again, slower this time.
Get-a-room couple in the corner? Nope. Group of girls laughing shrilly next to them? No. Not the elderly couple either, nor the business meeting that looks to be two glasses of wine past productive. It’s definitely not the single lady reading her book, nor the two dolled-up cougars on the prowl.
There’s a man with his back to me who has the right hair—longish and black, although he seems a bit shorter than I remember … the man turns his head. Nope. Too old.
Next.
I look all the way to my left and see a hot guy in the far corner that I’d somehow missed the first time around. His clean-cut good looks, broad shoulders, and dark suit are pure fantasy material, and a reminder that buttoned-up businessmen are one thing that New York does very well. Guys in California tend to be a bit more casual. His attention is on his phone, so I can’t get a good look at his face, but it doesn’t matter, because as yummy as he is, now is definitely not the time and place to be ogling.
I drag my gaze away from Hot Guy and continue my search. Cute old lady reapplying her red lipstick. No. There’s a couple giving off first date vibes. No.
Damn it! No man bun in the entire place. Maybe he did leave.
I pull out my phone to see if I have any missed messages, when I feel eyes on me. Not surprising, considering I’ve been standing in the middle of the crowded bar without taking a seat. What is surprising is who’s doing the looking. The hot guy in the corner’s attention is no longer on his phone. It’s on me.
His blue eyes are so piercing, so direct, so … familiar.
My stomach drops out.
Oh.
My.
God.
The hot guy is my guy.
Somehow it had simply not occurred to me that my brother’s lanky, awkward best friend from college would turn into … this.
My mouth is a little dry as his gaze holds mine. There’s no trace of a smile on his face, though I could swear there’s a hint of a smirk in his eyes … as though he’s very aware what I’m thinking and is amused by it.
No, no. We can’t have that.
I paste a confident grin on my face and make my way toward him. He stands when I approach, and I think we can say, without a doubt, he’s not lanky. Not anymore. He’s turned into male perfection: broad shoulders, lean waist, and long legs. If I had to bet, six-pack under the dress shirt. No, eight-pack.
Twelve-pack? Is that a thing?
I reach his table and he gives the slightest nod. “Charlotte.”
The voice is the same. Gorgeous and lilting, and every bit as Irish as I remember.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” I say breezily, lifting my cheek to receive his kiss.
Damn. He smells good too. Expensive and clean.
Why did nobody warn me about this?
“Almost didn’t recognize me?” he says, lifting his eyebrows. “If I had to guess, I’d say you didn’t have the faintest clue who I was,” he says, pulling out my chair for me before settling back in his.
“Well, in my defense, you’re not on social media. And your picture isn’t on your firm’s website.” I know, because I’ve looked. “How was I supposed to know what you look like these days?”
“You could have asked your brother.”
“Right, because that’s something normal siblings do. Ask their brother for a picture of his best friend,” I say, picking up the drink menu in an effort to hide my nervousness.
A tuxedo-clad server comes over for my drink order and I opt for a martini, because strong sounds like just the thing for this particular moment in my life.
The waiter disappears, and for a moment, my brother’s best friend and I simply look at each other. He’s clearly taking me in, assessing, but I don’t mind because I’m doing the same, absorbing all the details I couldn’t see from a distance.
The beard’s gone, although there’s a hint of a five o’clock shadow that draws attention to the Superman-worthy jaw that really never should have been covered up in the first place. His hair is as black as ever, though ruthlessly short now.
“What happened to your man bun?” I ask.
He blinks. “I’m sorry?”
I gesture to my own messy knot. “You know. Before, you wore your hair long.”
I expect him to smile, but he doesn’t; his blue eyes lock on mine. “I cut it.”
I give in to the urge to roll my eyes. “Okay. Good talk.”
“You look …” His gaze trails over me, more calculating than sexual, which, let’s face it, is kind of insulting. “The same.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m going to choose to interpret that as you saying I look like I did when I was twenty-one. I thank you for the compliment.”
He shrugs as though he doesn’t care one way or the other how I take it, then exhales a long breath, the first sign that he’s as unnerved by all of this as I am. “Thank you for coming.”
“You said it was urgent?” I ask, deliberately letting the question enter my tone.
I’m dying of curiosity here. I have been ever since his email came three days ago, saying he needed to discuss something urgent with me—in person.
After establishing that my brother wasn’t dying of cancer or something awful, I’d agreed. Partially because I needed a break from work, partially because I was dreadfully curious, and partially because, well … a little sliver of me has known for a while that it’s time—past time—to face this part of my life.
He waits until the server puts a wonderfully large martini in front of me, waits until I take a sip and somehow manage to withhold a moan at how good it tastes after the day I’ve had.
And then, as though he’s been deliberately waiting until I had a little booze flowing through my veins, lets me know the reason I’m here.
“Charlotte.”
“Yeah?” I give him an encouraging smile.
He looks nervous but determined.
Then he lays it on me: “I want a divorce.”
Chapter 2
Thursday, August 13
I can explain. Really, I can. Throughout my teens and early twenties, I was, um … how do I put this …?
A bit of a handful.
I’m not sure when it started. Puberty, I suppose. Up until then, I was the perfect WASP daughter. I wore big bows in my hair that matched the adorable, little-girl dresses I wore to St. Thomas Church every Sunday. Eventually, I graduated to wearing headbands that matched the pastel cashmere twinsets, paired with flouncy skirts.