I give her a look of surprise. Hell, as if I’ve never been called that, or worse. “I’m not. I swear I’m not.”

“You totally play the game well.”

God, she’s adorable. I can’t stop chuckling, but I sober up when I tell her, “It’s never been a game with you.”

“What are you doing now?” She seems genuinely confused.

I evade.

“What am I doing now?” I glance straight ahead. “Walking down memory lane, in the middle of…” I search for the street sign, “20th Street.”

She smiles.

I stare at her mouth for the millionth time in what feels like the same second. I’m distracted lately, can’t stop thinking of her after last night. I wanted to see her. I want to kiss her senseless. Slip my hands under her top, feel her warmth, feel her against me, force her to feel me and what she does to me.

For days, I’ve listened to her passionately tell me about her project, trying to keep my distance, trying to keep my head straight.

Telling myself I should say no, and instead I see her again. Asking her to do better. Wanting her to keep impressing me.

I’m impressed with her business. With her.

I want to see her, and I want to bring this vision to life.

I walk next to her now, aware of the way she drinks in the city like a new thing, like a novelty, with excitement and hope.

I don’t want that hope for a future here dashed. But she’s a complication in my life.

I’m giving up the plans I set for myself in the past few years, to go for the ones I had when I was young.

It takes some adjusting.

But it’s like we never even said goodbye, that’s how I feel when I look at her.

The night before I left Austin, she teased me, but I remember the sadness in her eyes. She cried in my arms, and it didn’t feel good to hear her cry, but it felt good to hold her in my arms. I felt greedy; I wanted more. She got my only good shirt wet, and it didn’t fucking matter; I never wanted it to dry. I nuzzled the top of her head and breathed three words into her hair, not because I wanted her to hear them—I actually didn’t want her to—but because I needed to say them. Somewhere in her subconscious I wanted her to know she meant something.

Being with her now, vetting her more ruthlessly than I’ve ever vetted anyone (because I’m selfish—I want to know it all) is reminding me exactly what they meant.

This is the girl I loved and could never love.

This is my chance to do it.

Bryn

The next morning, I march into the office, sleepless, angry, sad, and with the list of expenses that King Christos demanded of me.

“He’s waiting for you,” Robertha says when she spots me.

I swallow back my anger and frustration and walk inside, staring at anything but him as I walk forward.

I can’t seem to bear it when he’s near—it hurts like a bitch and nothing I do can get rid of the ache in my chest.

“Here’s the list you requested. Call me if you have any questions. I need to be across the street organizing the arrival of the clothes and don’t have a lot of time.”

“Bryn.”

I inhale and turn, meeting his penetrating gold gaze.

It’s darker than usual today as he drags his hand down his face. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

“I’m sorry too. I’m not sleeping well and I suppose the launch is so close that the stress is making me moody.”

“Is that it?” he asks, softly.

I force myself to nod, and the disappointment and cutting grief in his eyes makes me want to blurt out that that’s not it at all. That I miss him, that I’m mad at the whole world because I don’t understand why he’s not with me even though I understand, I understand perfectly.

“Anyway, call me if you have any questions.”

I head to the warehouse and get to work. I’ve been so busy with the launch, the crying spells are coming less frequently. I feel more in control, less as if someone else owns my destiny, more like I’m steering my own boat.

I suppose it helps to get approached by so many men on Match.com. Though I haven’t agreed to any more dates as of yesterday, it helps to be reminded that I am sexy and attractive to the opposite sex.

But I still cry early in the morning and late at night, unable to grapple with the reality of having Aaric so close, having been so close to being with my soul mate and losing him in the end.

To know his kisses won’t ever be mine again, his touch won’t ever know me or drive me wild like it did.

“You’ll get over him,” Jensen says, when he meets me at the warehouse, where I keep opening boxes of the first collection.

We’re busy unpacking, and sweat is coating my skin when the man haunting my dreams—my backer, my fantasy man, the love of my life and the only man I’ve ever loved—walks into the warehouse.

Like a king, confident, gorgeous, and unnattainable.

And he steals my heart from me all over again.

I spot him instantly—tall and powerful, in black slacks and a white shirt, tieless—and I’m transported twelve years ago to him arriving in his mechanic’s suit to help me lug boxes at Kelly’s.

My damned eyes, it seems, haven’t had enough weeping, because the sense of loss I felt when my parents died, when Kelly’s was taken away, and when the man I love left me comes back with a vengeance when I watch him lift one of the boxes and prop it over his shoulder only to look at me.

Dejà vú all over again.

I blink back the moisture and look away, and keep opening boxes so hard I almost cut myself.