Sam and I’d agreed to meet at a restaurant, but I like to keep people guessing.

Which was why I crossed the parking lot to the gallery, my long coat bracing against the wind, fifteen minutes early.

The sign out front said Closed, Opening at Noon. But the door was unlocked.

I stepped inside, expecting warmth. Instead there was only a slight reprieve from the wind.

A man dressed in coveralls was working on the fireplace.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

He cast a look at me over his shoulder before returning to his task. “Just an issue with the venting.”

I wandered around the gallery, taking a moment to appreciate the paintings again. In an empty room in daylight, they were beautiful in a different way than they’d been the other night. The fields and gardens Sam had painted gave the impression the entire gallery was outdoors.

Nearly half the canvases said SOLD in discrete lettering on the plaques. I might’ve taken credit for one of the sales, but the rest had been all Sam.

Pride swelled up in me, though I had no right to feel it.

She was talented as hell. On the surface, it appeared effortless.

It wasn’t.

Mastery of anything wasn’t about the moments of inspiration, but the moments of pushing through when things got hard.

When I reached the far corner by the window, voices in the hallway distracted me. “I can’t, Jonathan. I’m leaving for lunch.”

“With who?” I couldn’t hear her answer. “I’m fronting you the space for this show, Samantha.”

“I’ve told you I’ll pay for it. You refuse to tell me how much it costs.”

I turned as the voices grew nearer.

“It’s not about the money. This is an investment in your career. I thought we understood one another. I’m holding the rest of the paintings as a show of good faith.”

They came into view as they walked down the hallway, stopping short when they saw me and realized they weren’t alone.

In fitted black leggings, a gray sweater that hung off one shoulder and Converse sneakers, Sam looked five years younger than she had the other night. It was like seeing a ghost. Her hair was shorter, brushing her shoulders, but without the makeup her face was fresh.

The eyes I'd spent countless hours reading, assessing, drowning in locked on mine. “I said I’d meet you at the restaurant.”

I shrugged a shoulder under my coat. “I got anxious.”

“Where’s Max?”

“He couldn’t make it.”

With a pointed look at me, she turned back to Jonathan. “We’ll finish this later.”

Jonathan’s mouth tightened into a line. “Mr. McKay.” He looked me over like he wished he had laser vision and could slice me into ribbons with his contempt alone. “It’s finished, Samantha. I’m keeping the rest of the paintings until we work this out. Privately.”

“Hate to intrude, but maybe I can help.” I gestured to the wall nearest to me. “There’re twenty paintings in this exhibit. At five to ten grand a pop. That’s a hundred large.” I inspected the vaulted ceiling of the building. “Rent in this part of town… probably fifteen. This show is two weeks including installation and takedown. So let’s call that another eight.”

I glanced at the bar setup in the corner, where clean wine glasses sat ready for the evening ahead. “I’m no connoisseur, but that wine wasn’t ninety grand. No offence. How’s my math, Sam? We took math together,” I added for Jonathan’s benefit.

“I’m not looking for a mathematician,” Jonathan bit out.

“Good. I’m not one.” I took advantage of my height and build, stepping closer to Jonathan. “But I am an attorney. Which means that if you keep those paintings, I’d not only be capable of suing your ass off on Miss Martinez’ behalf, but delighted to do so.”

Some people are surprised when they meet me for the first time, because I don’t check the boxes on the rich nerd list in their minds.

Partly it’s the fact that I work out at the climbing gym five days a week. The hours of pushing my muscles to physical exhaustion offset the long days and nights at computers, on airplanes, and in meetings.

Plus, it’s fun to know I can drag my body fifty feet up a sheer rock wall.

Jonathan lifted his chin to meet my gaze, hating as he did it. Lines creased around his eyes, but not from smiling.

“You impetuous prick. This is my gallery, and you have no right.”

“It’s true. But if I was Miss Martinez’ attorney—” I spared a glance at Sam, who stood, lips parted in dismay like she was watching a car crash, “—I’d tell you that there are two ways we can do this. You can keep the commissions on the paintings you sold. Which I’m guessing is more than the cost of keeping the lights on and serving cheap wine. Or you can return the commissions, provide an itemized invoice for the costs incurred, and you will be compensated accordingly.

“Now. I’m hoping you got all that. Because I can repeat it, but I have a busy afternoon and a lunch to get to.”

Jonathan’s face went a deeper shade of red.

He turned to Sam. “So you won’t fuck me but you’ll fuck this asshole?”

Beside I could even channel the liquid contempt that rose up in me, Sam stepped into him. Fire flashed in eyes turned copper with passion, her stubborn chin tilted up like a shield against all men who might try to tame her.

“You know what, Jonathan? I will fuck whoever the hell I want. And no matter how long the list gets, it will never include you.

“I’ll pick up the paintings when the show’s over. Send me a bill.”

With a swish of dark hair, she turned on her heel and stalked toward the door.

She was the Sam I’d grown up with, and some new creature I didn’t recognize. The shy, sarcastic girl replaced by a warrior woman.

And my entire fucking body vibrated in response to her.

I lifted a shoulder at Jonathan. “Women,” I offered before turning to follow her out.

“This is really good,” Sam murmured.

“Best in Boston. Definitely celebration worthy.”

Sam speared another bite of the whole cherry pie between us and popped it into her mouth, making a sound low in her throat.

I’d nabbed us a booth at my favorite lunch spot. It was peak time, but they didn’t care. I’d be buying a second pie to take back to the office like I did most weeks.

She turned to look around the tiny café as I stabbed a bite for myself.

Damn, these people did magical things with cherries. The flaky pastry and rich filling melted on my tongue and I closed my eyes on a groan. “Is it possible to have an orgasm that starts in your mouth?”

Before Sam could answer, our waitress, a grandmother of six named Thelma, bustled up to the table. “How can you eat that and not gain a pound?”

“Rock climbing.”

She stuck her hands on her wide hips. “Why on God’s Earth would you want to do that.”

“I have this recurring dream I’m being chased up Mount Everest. I want to be prepared.”

“Well, honey,” Thelma started. “I have this recurring dream you stand in that window naked eating pie. I’m more than prepared for that,” she offered with a chuckle before she sashayed away.

Sam raised an eyebrow and I grinned. “What?”

“You love the attention that comes with being famous.”

I lifted my fork at her. “I’m not famous. Thelma has no idea what I do for a living. So whatever attention she gives me? It’s all about this.” I waved a hand down my body.

She rolled her eyes. “So where’s Max.”

It was my turn to shift in my seat. “How mad would you be if I told you he was never coming?”

She started to get up and I grabbed her arm. “I’m sorry. But he did sanction this meeting. It was practically his idea.”

What’d I tell you. Moral ambiguity.

She sat, a warning expression on her face. “Okay, hit me.”

Deciding she wasn’t a flight risk, I relaxed into the booth, stretching my arms across the back. “Tell me one thing first. How’d you end up doing art for a living? Last I saw you, you were bound for pre-med at Northeastern.”

“I went.” Her fingers played with the end of the fork as she lifted it, inspected it. “But in third year I couldn’t do it. I was seeing this guy who happened to be my chem TA, and—”

“Wait, when did you get this thing for older guys?” I interrupted, thinking of Jonathan.

She folded her arms over her chest and shot me a look. “Not the point. He was in grad school. He’d worked his ass off, got the lab placement he wanted, and all he got was more work.”

“You dropped out.”

“My dad wasn’t impressed.” Sam reached for a sip of water, and I wondered if she was stalling. “I thought about it and realized… when was it going to stop? If I made it through med school, all I’d be is some shitty doctor to people who deserved better.”

“When did you start painting?”

“After leaving school, I worked at a coffee shop for awhile and took a watercolor painting class. Started spending more and more time painting. Eventually I applied for art school.”

“In Boston?”

The faint smile on her face had me fascinated. “Paris.”

“Wow. Bougie.”

“Hardly. My dad was still pissed at me for dropping out, so I scraped together the money I had and shared this little apartment with a girl from Turkey.”

“What about your comics?”

The smile fell away. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“Since when.”

“Since a long time ago.” Sam’s hesitation made me wonder if there was more she wasn’t saying. “I want to make it as an artist. There’s no way anyone would take me seriously if they knew about that. The art world is exclusive. Discreet. And bordered by high walls. In order to be in demand, someone who matters needs to decide you matter.”

“Someone like Jonathan?”

She narrowed her gaze on mine. “I met Jonathan last year. He’d bought this gallery after moving from Chicago and was in the process of fixing it up. He liked my work, followed me for a while before offering to do this show. I should’ve known he wanted something from me, but everyone does in this industry. As an artist you have to break in, pay your dues.”

“And you guys never…”

“No,” she said emphatically. “It was professional. Plus, I had other priorities.” She took a drink from the coffee in front of her. “Six months ago, my dad was diagnosed with renal cell carcinoma. Kidney cancer,” she went on at my blank look.

“He had surgery to remove the entire kidney. It went well, but the recovery is long. So I moved home to take care of him. It was rocky at first, but we got through it.”

“Living together or the cancer?”

“Both. Now he’s cancer free and grumpy as fuck, because he still can’t cook for himself.”

Now, thinking of her dad, she did smile, and it had my gut twisting.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that, Sam.”

“Thanks. Me too.” She played with her napkin, twisting it in her fingers. “Anyway. What'd you want to talk about.”

I pulled my phone from my pocket and set it in front of her, flicking through the pictures one at a time so she could see them.

A flush crept up her throat. “Why do you have those?”

“Because you gave them to me.”

“I mean why do you still have them?”

“I saved them. All of them.” I plowed on, refusing to get caught in the way she was looking at me. “Epic Films optioned Phoenix from Titan, our company, last year. It’s in pre-production. If everything goes right, it’ll be released in less than two years.”

“You're making a movie?” Her eyes shone.

“Technically Epic is making a movie. I sold them the rights. But they have a script, and they're working on the concept art.”

“That’s incredible.”

I held her gaze a moment too long before grabbing the phone from between us and tucking it away. “The point is, Epic’s art direction sucks. I—we,” I amended, including Max, “—need someone to help them interpret Phoenix for the big screen. To make it stand out. Take the vision and elevate it. In the game, the graphics are an important part of the experience. But on the big screen, it matters a thousand times more.” I cleared my throat. “I need concept art. Drawings, based on the game and the characters. Two weeks’ work. I’ll pay you, whatever your going rate is.”

The excitement fell away, replaced by guardedness as she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “I don’t have a going rate. I don’t even do that kind of work. Plus, I should be focusing on my gallery show, and on making more art.”

“Why’s that?”

“Why?” Surprise crossed her features.

“It's not a difficult question.”

Sam sighed. “Okay fine. Because when I went into art full-time, when I rejected whatever I would've done as a doctor? I decided it needed to mean something.

“I want to touch a million people with my art. To show them the world through my eyes. Maybe it's not the same as saving a life, but art can take you on a journey. It can fill a void you never thought would be filled. You probably think that's stupid.”

“I think it sounds like you're speaking from experience.”

“I am.” She tilted her head, studying me. “And If I want to reach a million people, I need to do a lot of gallery shows to make that happen.”

“Or you could do a few drawings for a major studio and inspire a film that’ll be seen by millions. Two weeks, Sam. Mission accomplished.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “You’re negotiating.”

“I’m trying to make you see what’s perfectly obvious. That this is a win for both of us.”

She looked past me, lost in thought, and I studied her face. The smooth lines were familiar but I'd been wrong at the gallery, thinking she was the same girl I'd known. This was a grown-up Sam. Her eyes had new depth. She was slower to smile, and to frown, like she’d seen more of life.

She was still pretty as fuck.

“Two weeks.”

I blinked at her, realizing she’d caught me staring.

“Yes. You might finish sooner.” I pulled the napkin over, grabbed a pen from my jacket pocket and wrote a number on it. “Since you don't have a rate, here's my offer.”

Her brows shot up. “How bad was the stuff the studio came up with?”

“Egregious.” Sam’s mouth twitched, and I couldn't help responding in kind. “That’d buy you a lot of time to build your art career.”

She sighed. “I’ll do it. On one condition.”

“What.”

“I don’t want my name on it.”

I blinked. “Are you joking?” It was an opportunity for her.

She shook her head.

I wanted to argue, but I’d already won and I needed to get back to work. “Fine. What’s your email.”

Sam told me. “Are you sending me some materials to work from?”

“Yeah. Plus the money.”

Her jaw dropped. “You can’t send that now. I haven’t done anything.”

I tucked my phone away. “Then you’d better get to work.” I grinned wolfishly and her eyes narrowed.

“Fine. I’ll get you a couple of sketches in the next forty-eight hours. Just mockups. To ensure we’re on the same page.” She reached for something in the booth, coming up empty. “I guess I forgot to grab my coat.”

“Would’ve ruined your exit.” We shifted out of the booth, standing toe-to-toe.

I had the random urge to pull her into my arms and hug her. Strange how the impulse that’d been automatic a decade ago didn’t seem to have faded at all.

Her gaze flicked from my eyes to my chest and back. “Thank you for the pie. And for having my back with Jonathan.”

“Didn't look like you needed my help. I hope I didn't cause you more trouble.”

She cocked her head, eyes shining with reluctant humor. “Seriously?”

“What.”

“You've never brought me anything but trouble.”