“Red Bull.”

“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have Red Bull. Can I get you something else?”

I stared at the bartender.

The idea of operating for an evening without the friendly caffeine kick in the ass was incomprehensible.

Like failing to go to work in the morning.

Or hating Star Wars.

I nodded to the bottle of red wine on the pop-up bar between us and turned to take in the space around me.

The contemporary art gallery was two stories high with a loft. Soaring windows made it almost see-through—a glass box lit from the inside set against the dark night. Most of the bright canvases covering the white interior walls were nearly as tall as I was.

The place was humming with activity. It was the kind of elegant that meant no one bumped elbows unless they wanted to.

I was suddenly glad I’d passed my coat and scarf to the attendant near the door. The heat hit me, and as I scanned the room, I noticed the giant slate fireplace taking up one wall.

The bartender poured, then set the glass in front of me.

“I’m looking for the owner.”

He nodded to the other side of the room.

The man talking to buyers was shorter than me but equally well-dressed. The gray in his hair was starting to dominate the dark brown underneath.

“Jonathan,” I said as I approached.

He turned and a smile snapped into place. “Yes.”

I pulled the check from my pocket and held it out. “From Max Donovan.”

“You work for him?”

“With him,” I corrected as he took the check and tucked it away. “He couldn’t make it tonight.”

He gave me a nod, and I wondered if everything he did had the same smooth motion. “I’ll have the painting shipped tomorrow. I wanted it up for our opening this evening.”

“It’s one of these?” I asked.

“Of course.” He crossed to a canvas in the center of one wall. It was a set of rolling hills, speckled with houses at twilight. It could’ve been something from one of our games.

I don’t know why it still surprised me Max had tricks up his sleeves after twenty years. Buying art wasn’t something I’d have pegged him as doing, and as beautiful as the picture was, I couldn’t see my best friend’s tastes in the shifting oranges and mauves of the sun-drenched sky.

“Do you know why he chose this?” I asked.

“Couldn't say. But it's a wonderful example of the artist’s range.”

My gaze fell on the tag.

Sunset. Samantha Martinez.

The hairs on my neck and arms stood up despite the heat.

I stood, frozen on the spot as words like “negative space” and “organic” and “saturation” wafted around me like the scent of upper-class posturing.

“Are you alright, Mr…?”

“McKay. Fine.” I turned, scanning the room. All I saw were groups of adults in twos and threes, well-dressed and clustered around paintings.

In one corner was a boy dressed like he was doing a reading for church was sitting on the hardwood floor playing on a tablet. But it was the woman approaching him that caught my attention.

The dress skimmed her body, following each slow curve in a way that was discrete yet sensual at once. The red fabric came high around her neck, but left her arms bare and ended midway down her thighs. Her hair was a shining curtain that fell straight to her shoulder blades.

I don’t believe in God. I do believe the universe, or quantum physics, or something else entirely derives a supernatural joy from fucking with us.

Dear universe. You sure as hell don’t do things halfway.

The woman waited until the kid looked up, then offered a hand.

The boy followed her to the largest painting, and I strained to hear them as she murmured to him, stretching out a hand to touch the canvas. He reluctantly did the same.

“Aiden!” Anther woman bustled up to the child, grabbing his arm and yanking him away.

“There's the artist now.” Jonathan's voice cut into my study. “Would you like to meet her?”

I sipped my wine, the darker notes dancing over my tongue and down my throat. “Yes. I think I would.”

We crossed to the woman in red, her gaze still in the direction of the kid and his mom as she played absently with the neckline of her dress.

“Whatever was that child doing?” Jonathan scoffed.

“Daring to interact with art instead of playing on a screen.” Her voice was low, tinged with disappointment and mirth in equal measure.

“I'll have him removed.”

“The one person under thirty in this gallery is grounded,” I commented under my breath. “He's doing his penance.”

The woman turned, and the face that greeted me when she turned didn’t need firelight. She was lit from the inside.

Her face was oval, her nose a bit too small. Her full lips were painted red to match her dress. My favorite part of her had always been her eyes, framed by dark lashes so thick it was a wonder she could lift her eyelids.

As they landed on me, those eyes were huge and hazel and brimming with incredulity.

“Samantha. This is Mr. McKay. He's an admirer,” Jonathan said, half-distracted by something across the room. Probably looking for the would-be felon. “Excuse me a moment.” He darted off through the crowd.

“An admirer?” She raised a brow. “I find that hard to believe.”

The feeling started in my chest. An impossible expanding, like a helium balloon. Her gaze pulled down my body and I ducked my head to catch her eye. “What—my fly’s down?”

“No. I never thought I’d see you without a chain wallet.”

“I never thought I’d see you in a dress.” I stepped closer to her, allowing a group of patrons to pass by on the way to the exit. “I like it.”

“Apparently buy more art when the artist isn't wearing Converse sneakers.” She shot me a look. “It's my first gallery show. Figure I'd learn the rules before breaking them.”

I glanced back up at the canvas. The landscape was a field of flowers watched over by moody clouds. The painting was done with a skilled hand. One that knew how to evoke emotions from the audience. Grab them, play with them, twist them.

“Well, the people suck,” I commented, thinking of the woman who'd dragged her son away. “But the art’s pretty fucking great.”

Sam expelled a breath, glancing past me. “I told myself if I sold five paintings by the end of opening night, I'd celebrate.”

“Oh yeah? How?”

“Buying myself a pie. The biggest one I can find. And I'm eating the whole thing myself.” I barked out a laugh that had a few heads turning. I could've cared less.

Sam’s mouth curved at the corner, and when that tiny movement blossomed into a full-blown smile, nostalgia hit me like a damned anvil.

Some people are meant to be in your life forever. Others make graceful exits into the night.

Now, standing close enough to touch her…

I remembered why it’d taken so long to let go.

“What's your excuse?” she asked, nodding to my suit.

“Lawyer.”

“I see,” she murmured.

“I own cufflinks. And, technically, half a gaming company.”

She lifted a shoulder, dragging my attention to her curves under the dress. “I’m surprised.”

“That I clean up so well?”

“That you're Max Donovan’s guard dog. The Riley I knew wouldn't have settled for that.”

Before I could respond, Jonathan descended from nowhere. “Samantha, there's someone else who would like to meet you.”

I wondered if he was pimping her out by the minute. At least until I noticed his hand on the small of her back.

Maybe I'd gotten too close and the graying wolf had come to defend his territory.

With a last look, she turned to follow him.

The Riley I knew wouldn't have settled for that.

The words rang in my ears, a dull buzzing I couldn't shake.

By every objective standard I was successful. Had an Ivy League law degree, made my first million by twenty-five.

I couldn't remember the last time someone had given me a dressing down like that. Outside of a negotiation, at least.

It took a second before I noticed my phone vibrating in my pocket.

I reached to switch it off, noticing the LA number. Probably some contract we were working on.

I sized up the room, forcing my gaze past Jonathan and Sam and saw a man and woman discussing whether to buy a painting.

I crossed to them, glancing at the discreet tag on the wall.

“This one’s no longer for sale,” I offered, pleasant.

The man blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m buying it.”

“But… We were here first.”

“You were looking. I’m taking action. My girlfriend will love this. Coco loves art.” I winked at the woman on his arm as I reached into my pocket.

He held up a hand. “Now hold on a second. I want this painting.”

I shook my head. “No. I get this for my woman, it’s going to be worth my while. If you know what I mean.” The man frowned. “But I’ll tell you what. I’ll outbid you for it. The lady can be our auctioneer.”

She grinned, happy to assume her new role. “Fine. We’ll start the bidding at… twelve thousand?”

“Twelve.” I said it without hesitating.

“Thirteen,” the impromptu auctioneer said, gaining confidence.

With a swallow, the other man said, “Done.”

“Fourteen.” I nodded.

“Fifteen thousand.” His forehead beaded with sweat. I turned back to the painting, a grin on my face.

“I’m going to get so lucky tonight,” I told him in my most earnest voice. “The things Coco is going to let me do to her—”

“Fifteen.” He spat the word, and I lifted my hands, graciously conceding defeat.

“Well done. I suggest you have this wrapped up before I think of being less than a gentleman and going back on my word.”

I watched the proud winner cross to Jonathan, who was still talking with Sam.

The man said something that caused them both to look in my direction.

I turned back to the painting I’d had no intention of buying and counted in my head.

One.

Two.

Though now that I looked at it, there was a wall in my spare—

“What the hell was that.” Sam was beside me, a beacon of red in a bustling, twinkling room.

“I made you an extra five thousand on the list price,” I murmured into my wine glass.

“Meaning?”

I grinned. “Meaning you'd better make it a great fucking pie.”

Her chin lifted, and the overhead lights found new angles on her cheeks, her lips.

Her gaze sparked. “I take it back,” she said under her breath. “Even without the chain wallet, you haven’t changed a bit, Lee.”

An innocent syllable shouldn’t have the power to suck the breath from your lungs, or make your body clench.

But she faltered too. Once the nickname came out, she looked every bit as surprised to say it as I was to hear it.

In that instant, memories rushed at me in a wave. Colliding, competing, drowning me with the sheer force and feel of them.

The decade that'd passed was gone.

She was the old Sam.

My Sam.

The one I’d had a million inside jokes with.

The one who’d drawn tattoos on my arm with a Bic pen.

The one who taught me how to be a rock when someone was being thrown around by the waves.

Despite every part of my body saying it was a bad idea, I stepped closer. Her scent flooded my nose, familiar and new at once.

“Max and his girlfriend had a baby tonight.”

“Give them my congratulations.” But her eyes widened, like she wasn't sure how she felt about the fact that we were inches apart, that she had to angle her head to hold my gaze.

I set my empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. “Did you know Max bought one of these?”

Her fingers found the seam of her dress as she nodded. “I ran into him at an event recently, and sent him the link to the show. He asked which one I thought his girlfriend would like.” He gaze softened. “Max Donovan in love, and a dad. Never thought I’d see that.”

“What about you?”

Her eyes darkened from caramel to chocolate. “You mean what about love? I’m in love with my art.”

My phone buzzed again, and for once I wished I didn't have to leave.

Even though I shouldn't have, I said, “There’s one problem with loving art.”

“What's that?”

I pulled out my coat claim ticket, allowing myself one last look at her face before I turned for the exit. “It can’t love you back.”