The swing band’s rendition of “Fly Me To The Moon” plays throughout the mansion and confirms the already bustling party. Earlier in the day, the palatial room was being transformed into a ballroom. First thing first, I need a glass of something strong. I head directly to the open bar and request bourbon. “Basil Hayden, straight, please.” I cast the entire room in search of anyone I may know. And there is Julian, holding court in the corner, surrounded by at least five other men. My breath hitches. His presence staggers me. He’s handsome, no doubt. But it’s more than those grayish-blue eyes that have captured me. Fourteen years ago, Julian was a prepubescent teen. Buzz haircut, mouth full of braces, dark Harry Potter style eyeglasses, short, skinny, and frail. The awkwardness of his teen years has been replaced by confidence earned by being successful in his own right.

Elegantly dressed in what looks like a black Tom Ford suit and his favorite shoes, he walks slowly toward me, mouthing, “You look beautiful.” A glass of bourbon has given me a pleasant buzz, and Julian’s nearness feels so good. I remain planted by the door, still holding my drink in one hand, while the other fidgets with my dress. My thoughts are interrupted when I hear, “JC,” and turn my head. Right beside me is the Amazonian. A pang of disappointment washes over me. I had been an idiot for assuming that Julian had been admiring me. The sentiment he uttered a few seconds ago had been meant for someone else. The whiny bitch. Nearly bumping into my bourbon, Shira rushes over to the man who captivates me and kisses him on his full lips.

I see his hesitation. This time, there’s no mistaking it−his gorgeous eyes are focused on me. He mouths again, “Beautiful.” One word. That’s all it takes. My heart flutters. And although we have been apart for more than a decade, Julian knows me better than anyone else. It’s his innate ability to understand my low self-esteem. As Julian walks toward me, even with Shira by his side, I continue to admire him. He’s closer now, and all I see is a huge grin planted on his face when I mouth, “Thank you.”

I take all of him in. His grin. His outfit. His movements.

There’s something about the way he moves. Aware of each step he takes, he doesn’t just walk. He walks with purpose. He’s ready to capture you. Julian has captivated me as no one has ever before. Wearing a suit or casually dressed in his usual vintage t-shirt and jeans, my crush always looks absolutely delicious. While all the other men had buttoned their collars and looked more formal, he kept the top of his shirt unbuttoned and seemed much more relaxed. Other men wore ties while he remained tieless. There is something quite sexy about a man who is relaxed in any attire he is wearing.

All around are some of Marcel’s closest friends and colleagues. There were maybe two or three familiar faces, but no one, in particular, I would feel comfortable enough to approach. Shira is now draped in Julian’s right arm as they continue to make the rounds. My stomach hardens, and a sensation burns through my chest.

Jealousy is the root of this fucking pain.

I stand near the bar alone, avoiding a certain couple. I continue to drown myself in Basil Hayden when I hear a distinctive voice I have not heard in years. “Lovely as ever, Evangelina.” Peeking up, it’s those blue eyes staring at me that grab my attention. “Cat got your tongue, lovely?” the staggering handsome man teases.

“Could it be?” I tilt my head as I marvel at the sight of this gorgeous guy who looms a few inches over me. His blue eyes sweep over my body without any hint of embarrassment. He slowly starts to lick his full lips.

Alistair Caine.

Like Julian, Alistair has grown up to be ... hot. His light blue eyes are similar to his cousin’s, yet there are lines on the side of his eyes. Although he’s an inch shorter than Julian, he is equally imposing. His short, dark blond hair is slightly messy, and his skin is slightly tanned from what could easily have been a recent trip from somewhere exotic. As I blatantly admire him, he’s nothing short of gorgeous. He was always a good-looking kid. But now, he’s got that bad boy thing going on−a cross between Alex Pettyfer and a young Steve McQueen. His hand is now holding mine, slowly bringing it up to his lips. As the back of my hand finally reaches them, I hear, “Alistair,” and it is Julian’s voice that startles us.

“Hey, mate,” Alistair responds without taking his blue eyes off mine, his lips still planted on the back of my hand.

Shira is by Julian’s side, and there are no introductions. This does not go unnoticed by her. “JC, who is this?” Her tone clipped, her arm possessive.

Bitch.

“My cousin, Alistair,” Julian responds, his gaze traveling back and forth between me and his cousin. There is tension in the air, and I understand why. Growing up, Alistair and Julian were so close as children. Only a couple of months apart, they were inseparable when they were in the same city. Yet tragedy tore them apart.

Like all the relationships after Elisa’s death, this one disintegrated as well. The last time I saw him was a couple of months before Elisa’s passing. Alistair had remained in London during his aunt’s memorial while grieving his own father’s death.

It’s been easy to be familiar with Alistair’s whereabouts all these years; he has an affinity for publicity and remains a constant fixture in the society pages in several continents. Evidently inheriting his father’s charms and womanizing ways, Alistair is often seen squiring the latest models and heiresses. I glance at him and he definitely has ‘playboy’ written all over his ruggedly handsome face.

Alistair shifts to face me. “I think we need to refill your glass.”

I break out of my daze and study him. Alistair’s smile is perfect. Too perfect. His attention is now on Shira. “Who might you be?”

The bitch’s smile is perfect as well. “Julian’s girl−”

Julian coughs, interrupting his date.

“Julian’s friend,” she corrects herself.

The woman who Julian will be fucking tonight, I think to myself.

After the awkward introduction, we stand in the corner of the ballroom, chatting among the four of us. The conversation moves to various topics, ranging anywhere from Trump to Brexit.

Although the dinner party was intended to be casual, it is anything but informal. Suddenly, all the guests are being summoned to the dining room. Elegantly set, there are dinner place cards on every table. To my dismay, I find myself sharing the same table with Alistair, Julian, and his date. Joining us is an older couple who I have never met before.

The swing music dies down, and the entire room becomes quiet. Marcel rises from his seat. “I would like to thank each and every one of you for helping me celebrate my fortieth birthday.” Everyone laughs. As the laughter ceases, Marcel stares ahead, and his eyes are fixed on his only surviving child. “I have missed you all terribly.” He pauses before realizing he is in the middle of a speech. Turning to his left, he glances down at Astrid and then proceeds to speak to his guests. “Excuse me; I’ve become an old fool. I’ll keep it short. I have to admit I really didn’t want a party, but my lovely wife insisted. And I am quite happy that, as always, I let her have her way.” In unison, all the glasses are raised as warm wishes are heard throughout the room.

I scout the dining area and instantly recognize Marcel’s neighbor and close friend, Roan Emerson, who is seated next to his wife, Helena. Our eyes meet, both of us offering a smile of recognition. I remind myself to seek out the couple after dinner. In that instant, I am reminded of my many years with the Caines. I briefly close my eyes and take a deep breath.

Enjoy the moment.

The sound of clapping disturbs my thought. Laughter is in the air and everyone is in a celebratory mood. I open my eyes.

Astrid is beaming, and at that moment, she smiles lovingly at her husband. Only someone looking closely would see the small tear that escapes the side of her left eye. I assume it’s a sign of happiness. Marcel leans down, kisses his wife on the cheek, and mouths, “I love you.”

I continue to clap along with the others when I feel his eyes on me. I turn, and directly across the table, I am greeted with Julian’s beautiful eyes.

The haunting eyes I dreamed of last night are studying me. The juicy lips I imagined kissing earlier today are slightly curving into a smile.

A mischievous smile that has my heart beating a mile a minute.

Everyone is still talking, but I am unable to make out the conversation. Voices start to move farther and farther away. It takes everything in me not to leave the table. Rather, I turn my gaze away, staring at my almost empty glass, allowing my forefinger to trace its rim. With trembling hands, I raise it to my lips and swallow what remains of my bourbon.