Peter Pan.

Seeing him again after all these years is positively surreal.

So is sitting in his office of a place he built with the knowledge he gained from his illegal work as a child. Probably not many success stories like that out there, and yet, here he is.

Wearing a grease-streaked wifebeater and a pair of coveralls hanging from his trim waist, he settles his muscular frame—big enough to belong to a heavyweight fighter with extensive tattoos to match—into his worn leather desk chair. He looks so different, nothing like the boy I once knew, and yet…

He looks everything like him. Same messy blond hair, same crystalline blue eyes promising adventure, and the smirk that was both innocent and mischievous at the same time. Though, with the way he’s looking at me right now, that smirk doesn’t seem quite as innocent as it used to. If he keeps that up, he’ll burn the clothes right off my body, and this meeting will get decidedly less professional, really quick.

Leaning back in his desk chair with his hands threaded over his flat stomach, Peter studies me like I’m a museum artifact. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to fidget in my seat across from him.

“LB Automotive, huh? That’s clever,” I say with a nervous smile. “Are all the Lost Boys here?”

“No, Hook has his own crew across town. It’s just me, Si, Carlos, Thomas, the twins, and Nick.”

“And Tink,” I add.

He nods. “And Tink.”

“She looked just as happy to see me as she ever did, if that wicked glare was anything to go by.”

“You know Tink. She’s always had a problem with mothers.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not anyone’s mother, Peter. I never was.”

“But that’s not what we pretended, was it?” He asks the question like it’s a demand for admission. For me to admit to the silly scenarios we played out as children. Scenarios that turned more real with every passing year until, eventually, we acted like a true married couple in all the ways that mattered.

Heat swirls in my belly and settles into my cheeks. If I don’t change the subject to something more innocuous, he’ll be able to read my every thought.

“I’m proud of you, Peter. Despite all the odds stacked against you, you came out on top.”

“You doubted I would?”

“Of course not. You know I always believed you could.”

A hint of sadness flickers across his face before he sets his jaw, and his walls come down. “Just not if I stayed in Neverland.”

The barb stings enough that I wince, but it’s okay. I deserve to share the pain.

“Sorry,” he says, blowing out a breath and leaning forward to brace his forearms on his desk. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, it’s okay. I never should have asked you to leave. I was being selfish, wanting you to come with me.”

“No more selfish than me wanting you to stay.” Peter stares into my eyes like he’s trying to see our past in their reflection. “But I didn’t belong in your world any more than you belonged in mine. You leaving was for the best.”

“It didn’t break our hearts any less, though,” I say softly.

He gives me the signature Peter Pan half-shrug. “Broken things can be fixed; I do it every day. All you need are the right parts, a good set of tools, and the desire to get a little bit dirty and a whole lot sweaty.”

The crooked grin and wink he flashes me is all mischief, and I hope the flush I’m feeling isn’t visible above the scoop neck of my top. But then he chuckles, the sound deep and husky, and I know I have no such luck. “It’s good to know some things don’t change. Still as proper as ever, I see.”

I narrow my eyes at him and lie through my teeth. “I’m not all that proper, Peter.”

He arches a dubious brow and leans back again. “No? Then why don’t you come over here and show me just how not proper you really are, Wendy.”

I should’ve known he’d call my bluff, he always did. Dang it, why do I keep blushing like a schoolgirl with a crush? It’s been ten years and half a dozen relationships since I’ve seen this man. Any butterfly-flapping, skin-tingling, or spark-igniting feelings should be long dead and buried by now.

But those half a dozen relationships were never anything to write home about in the bedroom. Not that I would have ever written home about my sex life—oh my God, my parents would have had heart attacks, not to mention, I would’ve died of embarrassment—and these…these feelings that I’ve always had for Peter, make everything I’ve ever felt for another man pale in comparison.

“See?” he says, pulling me from my musings. “Wendy Moira Angela Darling, ever a lady. That’s okay, Wen. Your properness is one of the things I always liked about you.”

I arch a brow. “Then why were you always trying to get me to break the rules?”

Smiling wide, he leans back far enough to pop his feet onto the corner of his desk, lacing his fingers behind his head, which—Heaven help me—makes the muscles in his upper arms bulge deliciously. “I’m pretty sure it’s Rule #1 in the Bad Boy Handbook: Find a good girl and convince her to break the rules. It might be the only rule, actually. And I excelled at it, if I do say so myself. Which of course, I do.”

Rolling my eyes, I change the subject before his ego gets too big to fit through his office door. “Well, I’m not here to break any rules now. I’m here to hire you to rebuild a classic car for me.”

His eyes narrow slightly, and his feet hit the floor. For several seconds, he just stares at me. “I didn’t realize you were here on business.”

That pulls me up short and twists the metaphorical knife I’ve lived with for ten years. The day I left Peter—chose to leave Peter—felt like I’d plunged a blade into my chest. I kept telling myself I’d come back, but between college and internships that demanded all my free time, months turned into years, and eventually, I was too scared to come home. I’d convinced myself that maybe Peter had only thought he loved me because he’d never known another girl who wasn’t his pseudo-sister. Or maybe he’d moved on and found someone else to share adventures with and dance beneath the stars. It was cowardly, I know, but girl logic doesn’t always make the best sense, and my heart had decided not knowing was better than breaking all over again. So I stayed away…until now.

Tilting my head, I ask carefully, “Why did you think I came?”

Something runs through his mind; I can see it just barely there, and then he closes down all over again. Pushing to his feet, he moves to lean on the wall, crossing his arms as he studies me. “I didn’t really give it much thought. But business purposes are just as good a reason as any other. Tell me what you need.”

Dark clouds hang over us, fat and heavy with all the things we’re not saying. But neither of us are ready to incite that storm, so I push it back and focus on my immediate concern. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the annual Love for Littles event.”

“You mean the ritzy party that London’s elite uses as an excuse to get dressed up and throw their money around for charity?”

“Yes, I mean the huge fundraiser gala that raises hundreds of thousands of dollars every year for the Children’s Hospital of London,” I tactfully correct. “This year, the proceeds aren’t only going to the hospital but also to a non-profit organization that helps children in foster care, so it needs to be bigger than ever.”

“Huh,” he says, rubbing his chin. “I’m surprised the hospital board is willing to share, even if it is another good cause for kids.”

“Truth be told, they did need a little convincing, but the new social worker at the hospital also runs the Lost Ones of London, so he had some pull.”

I make sure to leave out the minor details that L.O.L. is my mother’s foundation, which is run by Michael, who also happens to be the hospital’s new pediatric social worker. The last thing I want to be accused of is nepotism.

“Okay, so what does this event have to do with you?”

“Right, sorry. The event planner who organized it for years moved to California to become a wedding planner to the stars or something. It wasn’t easy, but,” I pause for dramatic effect and for the mental squeal I still do whenever I think about my hard-earned victory, “I won the account.”

Peter stares at me expectantly, like he’s waiting for the punchline. “For…your financial firm?”

“Oh! I forgot that you— Sorry, no, that’s not what I mean. I actually quit being a financial advisor about a year ago and started my own event planning business. See? A proper girl would’ve stayed in the career she spent years in school and paid a sickening amount of money for, even if it was stressing her out to the point of chronic migraines and severe anxiety.”

He frowns, his brows crinkling together. “I don’t know, sounds like you made the right choice to me.”

Yeah, tell that to my father who’s convinced I’m throwing away a solid career in financing to be one step above a children’s party clown. Just because I’ve never done anything larger than birthday parties and baby showers doesn’t mean that’s all I’m capable of.

Landing this account means the world to me. It’s my chance to make a name for myself in this highly competitive industry. My chance to prove that I have what it takes to organize large-scale, big budget events. And maybe more importantly, my chance to show my dad that following my heart—instead of continuing down the path he paved for me—wasn’t the biggest mistake of my life.

My mom was more apt to encourage us to chase our dreams, and she was good for countering my dad’s extreme practicality. But after she passed three years ago, he’s been more rigid than ever with his black-and-white views of the world. Succeeding at something my mom would’ve encouraged me to do—and something that will help the foundation she started and nurtured after I planted the seed about so many local orphans and foster children needing help—will be my tribute to her memory. For all those reasons, I’m going to make this the best Love for Littles event this city has ever seen.

“So, you’re an event planner now. That’s great,” Peter says. “Let’s get to the part where you need me.”

I swallow hard. Why does he have to say things in a sex-roughened voice? Or what I imagine his adult sex-roughened voice would sound like. This is insane. It’s like my brain has situational A.D.D. around him and keeps getting distracted by thoughts of— Stop it, Wendy!

In an attempt to walk off my nervous energy and prevent him from seeing all the thoughts running through my wayward mind, I stand and pace the small area in his office as I explain the situation. “The committee wanted a new idea they haven’t done before, and I proposed that they do a classic car theme with the highlight of the evening being a customized rebuilt classic car that they could auction off at the end of the night. Lucky for me, they loved the idea, and I got the job. All on my own merit, I might add.”

“I’m sure you did. But why come here, to Neverland? Why not go to one of the more prestigious custom design shops in London like the Toy Shop?”

That stops me in my tracks, but I don’t turn to face him.

Because I’ve been waiting for an excuse to come see you… To make sure you don’t hate me… To remember the girl who threw caution to the wind and lived for the moment whenever she was with you… To see if there’s part of you that still feels for me the way that I feel for you…

I pretend to look out at the shop through the window in front of me, but I’m not focused on anything except his presence behind me. “I’m a firm believer in bringing business to friends whenever I can. I know you’re good at what you do, and I think you’d deliver an amazing car.” I try one of his half-shrugs on for size and hope it doesn’t look as forced as it feels. “Why not come to you?”

“Friends, huh?”

Like all those years ago on the first night we met, he’s suddenly so close I can feel the warmth from his body. Turning, I come face to chest with him. Normally, I’d look up and meet his gaze, but if I do that, I might melt on the spot. Not that staring at the ribbed cotton stretched over his tattooed pecs is much better. Come on, Wendy, you can do it. Look up.

I finally do, and my legs stand firm. Brava to me. “Of course, Peter,” I say with a grin and all the nonchalance I can muster. “We’ve always been friends.”

He squints at me, crossing those beefy arms over his chest. I can practically see the smoke coming out of his ears as he thinks everything through. “Okay, fine. I’ll do it, but there’s some conditions.”

“Shoot.”

“We’ll go shopping for the car together. It just so happens that there’s a car show next weekend at the Pitt County Fairgrounds. We’ll start our search there. We should be able to find something, but if not, I have some contacts that might be able to help us out.”

“Sounds good. I’d like to be a part of that process, anyway. Then I can keep the committee up-to-date on what we bought and what your plans are for it. But is there something we can look at sooner? We only have six weeks before the event, which isn’t much time and—”

“Plenty of time,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “Condition two: you help with design choices. Custom accessories, paint job, etcetera. Anything that will be seen by someone, you’ll pick it out. Unless you pick the wrong thing, in which case, I’ll veto your decision and make the right choice.”

Now it’s my turn to cross my arms. “Then what’s the point of me even choosing?”

“Condition three,” he says, steamrolling over my complaint, “since we’re friends who haven’t seen each other in a decade, you need to come to our place tonight for the weekly Friday festivities.”

“Our place? Do you all live together?”

“Why wouldn’t we? We’re family. Families live together.”

When he puts it like that, it doesn’t sound strange for a group of mid- to late-twenty somethings to be living together like a bunch of frat boys. Wait. “Did you say weekly Friday festivities?”

Again, he ignores my question and asks one of his own. “Are you back for good?”

He stares at me intently, and I can feel the weight of my answer on my chest. “No,” I say softly. “I’m staying with Michael right now. I’ll go home to Charlotte after the job is over.”

Peter gives a stiff nod and grabs a business card off his desk. “My cell is on there. Text me the address. I’ll pick you up at nine.”

I’m a little flustered, what with the deluge of emotions on top of the conditions and plans he’s rattled off as though they’re foregone conclusions. I’m better when I can plan a presentation and then give that presentation to a quiet audience who later communicates with me via email. So I deserve a bit of a break when all I get out is an okay as I stare at the card I’m now holding.

“Wendy,” he says, lifting my chin with his finger until I meet his smoldering blue eyes. “I didn’t want you to break the rules because of any Bad Boy Handbook.”

Using his thumb, he gently pulls my lip from my teeth, stealing my breath with the vivid memory from a lifetime ago that feels like only yesterday. As he holds my gaze, I swear he’s not seeing our past anymore. This time, it’s as though he’s trying to catch even the slightest glimpse of our future, and it makes my wounded heart ache.

“I did it because those times when I watched your face light up from the thrill of doing something you knew you shouldn’t, however harmless…those were the moments I lived for. Those were the best adventures I ever had.”

Me too, Peter. Me too.