Brooke clutched her hairbrush as she peered at her reflection in the ladies' room mirror. Sometimes she hated how blunt Amanda was, but couldn't deny it was true. The network had chosen her proposal over all others not because Brooke knew how to breathe life into a rundown restaurant or how to add some pizazz to a dull bar.

No, they wanted her because of a bad break-up. Which meant that the show wasn't going to be about her work at all. It was going to be about her life.

Maybe she should just walk away.

It wasn't as if she had any great desire to be on television. Quite the contrary. If it weren't for the promotional value, she'd be more than happy to live her life well outside of the public eye.

But the show would promote her business—that much was a guarantee. After their meeting, one of the producers had texted her rough mock-ups of print ads that would advertise the show. Assuming, of course, that Spencer signed on and the show actually aired. Slick, classy-looking ads that splashed the name of the show in big, bold letters—and the show shared a name with her business.

Not only that, but the ads also included her website and contact information, in equally eye-catching fonts.

It was as if the execs had known she might get cold feet and had wanted to make sure she was all in.

Well, it worked.

She wasn't going to back off the show. Not even now that Amanda had opened her eyes.

But as for why she was sticking...

Well, the horrible truth was she wasn't sure if that was because she couldn't bear to turn her back on any possible promotion for her business ... or because of Spencer.

She missed him.

Dear God, she missed him.

Those months surrounding their wedding had felt like a goddamn Greek tragedy. At the time, she'd been so sure she'd done the right thing. Protecting his family. His show. She'd sacrificed everything for him, then held the secret close because he couldn't know. Hell, he still didn't know what she'd done.

She'd believed she could move on with her life. That there would be another man who could make her feel the way that Spence had. And maybe there was. Maybe that mystical guy was out there in the world somewhere. But if so, she hadn't found him yet.

But even though some secret part deep inside her wanted to see him again, she was certain the feeling wouldn't be mutual. She wasn't naive enough to believe that Spencer had forgiven her. Not for walking away on their wedding day. And certainly not for what he'd perceived as betrayal.

No doubt about it—their meeting was going to bruise her heart all over again.

But if it launched her business to a new level, it would be worth it.

She needed to keep repeating that to herself. Over and over and over.

She shoved her brush back into her purse, then started for the ladies' room exit, only to jump back when someone pushed the door open with so much force it slammed back against the wall. Two women stumbled in, laughing uncontrollably.

"The floor is moving," the dark-haired one said. She was looking down at the completely motionless floor, but then she lifted her head to glare at her companion. "I totally blame you," she said at the same time that Brooke gasped.

"Shelby?" Brooke said, peering at the woman. It couldn't be. Brooke's accountant was about the most straight-laced, calm, and introverted person Brooke had ever met. And although theirs was a mostly professional relationship, Brooke and Shel had gone out socially a couple of times—and Shelby had never ordered anything stronger than Perrier with lime.

So this laughing, stumbling, well-on-her-way-to-wasted woman couldn't possibly be Shelby Drake, CPA.

Except it was.

Shelby blinked owlishly behind aqua-framed glasses. Then her eyes widened in time with a spreading grin. "Brooke Hamlin!" She threw out her arms and enveloped her in a hug. "Isn't this the best party?"

"Um, yeah?"

Brooke glanced up at Shelby's companion, a tall woman with a mass of unkempt curls and an expression that could only be described as amused. "Hannah," she said, thrusting out her hand. "Also known as Shelby's babysitter."

"Like hell," Shel said, then clasped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, dear." She stumbled toward the single, empty stall and locked the door behind her.

Brooke looked between the closed stall door and Hannah. "So, ah, was there an alien invasion that didn't make the news? Because Shelby's been my family's accountant for years, and that's not Shelby."

Hannah laughed. "Isn't it awesome? We're here for a friend's bachelorette party, and I told Shel she had to let her hair down."

"You're evil," Shel said from the stall.

"But you love me," Hannah called back. She tilted her head as she studied Brooke, her eyes a little foggy. She'd clearly been drinking, too. She just had a much higher tolerance than Shelby. Or else she'd drunk half as much. "Have we met?"

"I don't think so." Brooke was sure she'd remember the woman with her wild hair and piercing blue eyes.

"Damn, you look so familiar, but I can't—wait. Are you Judge Hamlin's daughter?"

Brooke stiffened. "Yeah. That's my dad." Formerly a powerful attorney, her father had recently run for a District Court seat. He won, of course. With the exception of her career choice, her father always got what he wanted.

"I'm a lawyer, and I've worked with your dad a couple of times. I think I remember your picture from his office. Or maybe from a fundraiser for his campaign?"

"Maybe," Brooke said, though she didn't remember Hannah at all. But they didn't press the connection because Shel emerged from the stall, then grinned.

"I feel better," she said, then used one of the little cups to squirt out some complimentary mouthwash. She swished and spit, then smiled ruefully at Brooke, who hid her amused grin behind a fake cough.

"Want to join us for a drink?" Hannah asked.

"No, thanks. I need to get going." She'd taken approximately a billion photos of the interior of The Fix, and she wanted to work through her plans for the renovation, this time thinking about it in terms of which design elements to focus on during each of the six episodes.

"You sure?" Shelby pulled her into a one-armed hug. "Because it's really so awesome to see you."

"You, too," Brooke said, catching Hannah's eye and laughing. "Come on. I'll walk out with you, at least."

"We should get back," Hannah said. "That cute bartender said he was making us pitchers of Pinot Punch, and those bitches will snarf it all down if we don't hurry back. Our friends are a cut-throat group," she said to Brooke, her eyes dancing.

Brooke tagged along as they headed back into the main bar area. There was no question where they were headed—straight toward the gaggle of laughing, drinking girls taking up the three tables in the front alcove. It was a primo spot, with the tables tucked in between a massive Austin wall mural and the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the hustle and bustle of Sixth Street.

The girls were talking among themselves, their attention mostly on the pretty blonde in the tacky tiara with BRIDE spelled out in fake gemstones. But a few of the women were looking back at the polished wooden bar, where several guys were seated on stools—and were looking right back at them.

"He's still there," Shelby whispered, bumping into Brooke as she reached for Hannah. "Do you think he's—oh, shit. He's looking this way."

"Just go talk to him," Hannah urged. "He's obviously noticed you. And you have so noticed him."

"Who?" Brooke asked. She wasn't part of the group, and she didn't even really know Shelby. But she couldn't contain her curiosity.

"Him," Hannah said. She started to lift a finger, but Shelby clutched her hand, holding it down.

"Don't point! The cute guy right there, with the short hair and the The best mornings have Wood T-shirt. Oh my God," she hissed at Brooke. "Why are you waving at him?"

"He's a friend," Brooke explained. "His name's Nolan Wood. And the tacky shirt is the name of his morning show. Mornings With Wood. He does crazy ass commentary for one of the local radio stations."

"You know him?" From the awe in Shelby's voice, you'd think Brooke had announced that he was royalty.

"Casually. He used to date a friend."

"Oh."

"He's single now," Brooke said, hearing the disappointment in Shel's voice. "I think."

"Just go," Hannah said, then turned to Brooke. "I keep telling her to go introduce herself and say hi."

"I can introduce you. His show is all about being snarky and crass and chatty between songs during morning drive time. I wanted to run something by him." Free publicity, actually, but she didn't need to get into that with the girls.

"Yes," Hannah said. "Perfect. Go."

"But—"

"Go."

"We'll all go," Brooke said. It felt very junior high, but what the hell? She could chat with Nolan about giving her show and The Fix a few shout-outs, and she could introduce him to her normally very shy and reserved accountant. Seriously, was this really Shelby Drake?

They weaved their way across most of the bar, but right as Brooke reached Nolan, she realized that she'd lost both Shelby and Hannah. She glanced over her shoulder to see Shel hanging back and Hannah looking exasperated. Brooke rolled her eyes, amused but not surprised. Somehow she didn't think that flirting with guys was a normal thing for Shelby. And neither, for that matter, was getting drunk.

At least she looked like she was having a good time.

"I can't believe you were going to walk right over to him," Shelby said once Brooke had abandoned her mission and navigated her way back. The band that had been on a break was about to start a new set, and the crowd around the bar and the stage was getting thicker.

"Well, I thought I was going with you," Brooke said. "Didn't y'all say he noticed you earlier? Besides, he doesn't bite."

"At least not unless you ask him to," Hannah quipped, making Shelby blush.

"I really can't," Shelby said. "I mean isn't it..." She trailed off with a shake of her head. "I'm not usually so bold. Are you?" She turned to Brooke, whose eyes went wide.

"Me?"

"Yeah. Would you ever throw caution to the wind like that?"

Brooke thought of Spencer. Of the way she'd met him in a dark street beside a useless car. He'd pulled up on that fabulous motorcycle, all tats and beard and leather, and everything she’d ever been taught had urged her to run like hell.

But she'd seen something in his eyes, and so she’d stayed. And for better or worse, her life had never been the same.

"I have," she whispered. "I did."

"Oh." Shelby and Hannah exchanged glances. "What happened?"

Brooke forced a smile and blinked back the tears that threatened. "I fell in love," she said, then felt the tug of a bittersweet smile as the lump of unshed tears tightened in her chest.

"Careful," Hannah said lightly, obviously not noticing the shift in Brooke's mood. "You might scare her off."

Brooke thought about how things turned out for her. Maybe that would be a good thing.

But, no. Shelby deserved her shot, too.

"Go talk to him," she urged, then started to raise her hand to catch Nolan's attention. But at that moment, a group of men at the bar moved away—and there he stood in the gap.

Spencer.

He leaned against the polished bar, a highball glass in his hand. Glenmorangie, neat. She didn't need to taste the liquor to know, because she knew the man. He didn't do cocktails, just Scotch or beer. And Glenmorangie was his favorite label.

From where she stood, she could see his profile, and she was certain that he hadn't noticed her. He'd let his beard grow out a little, so that it looked more like it had the first time they'd met, and she had to admit she liked it. Once they’d started dating, it had been neatly trimmed, and she'd always felt like he was playing a role. Hell, maybe he was. Trying to be the clean-cut, middle class guy that her father would approve of.

Now, the beard was a little unkempt. A little wild. And for one fleeting moment, she wanted to feel those dark whiskers on her cheeks again. Her lips. Her thighs.

He cocked his head, as if he'd heard someone call him. As if, she thought, he'd picked up on all the decadent images running wild through her head.

She froze, and Hannah looked back at her curiously.

"I—I forgot something in the ladies' room. Y'all go on ahead. Nolan's a really nice guy. Just introduce yourself."

"What—"

But Brooke turned away, cutting off Shelby's words, because Spencer had turned toward them, and like a coward, Brooke was going to bolt.

She had no idea if he'd seen her, and she wasn't going to hang around to find out. She knew she couldn't put off talking to him forever—especially if they were doing a show together—but she needed time to prepare. And one minute wasn't nearly enough.

She slipped back into the hallway that led to the restrooms and office space. She assumed there would be an emergency exit down there, but after she passed the closed office door and turned the corner, she realized the space was little more than an alcove with some shelving for paper supplies. Napkins, paper towels, toilet paper, rolls of receipts. Damn.

The exit to the alley must have been the other direction, back toward the kitchen.

She turned, took one step, then squealed as Spencer pushed her back into the dark corner, his palm firm on her shoulder.

"Brooke," he murmured in that familiar, rough voice. "I think it's time we had a little talk."