I lick my lips, unable to tear my eyes away from the man standing in front of me. I can’t believe it’s him. After all these years. Him. A flurry of memories windmill through me, stunning me with their sudden intensity, buckling my knees.

Kyla elbows me, forcing me back into the present. I shake my head, trying to clear it.

“Nice to see you,” I force myself to say, though my throat feels thick. “Um. This is my business partner, Kyla Zhang. Kyla, this is Wes Lake. We … went to high school together.”

There’s more to the story than that, of course, but I leave it at that. Wes seems untroubled by this oversimplified characterization of our relationship because he reaches out and shakes Kyla’s hand. As he turns his attention to her, I use the opportunity to scrutinize his face. The light crow’s feet that have started to form along the corners of his eyes. The neat scruff that covers his jaw. The deep blue of his eyes, which hasn’t dimmed at all. He seems taller now, though, and more filled out, and for one red hot second I let myself imagine the cut body that’s lurking beneath that suit. I swallow.

“Wes is a partner at GoldLake Developments,” I tell Kyla, wondering if she’ll recognize the name. I can tell when her eyes widen that she does. GoldLake is one of the pre-eminent real estate development companies in the city. In fact, I’m pretty sure Wes owns, or has at least invested in, half the city’s new builds over the last few years. He is the new Manhattan.

“You’ve been keeping up with me,” Wes says, a note of genuine surprise in his voice.

“Alumni newsletter,” I say casually, even though the truth is more like occasional drunken social media stalking.

“Ah, right.”

I fold my arms. The action reminds me that just a few minutes ago, Wes caught me with my chest hanging out. I flush at the thought.

“What can I do for you?” I ask, trying to keep my tone professional, if not curt.

Instead of answering, Wes takes a few more steps into the office. He looks around, and for the first time, I view the office from his eyes. From the eyes of the real estate king.

The walls are all white, except one, where Kyla has painted a huge mural of a field of marigolds. The floor is black-and-white checkered laminate tile, the only thing we could afford after we ripped out all the mildewy old carpet. Our desks are mismatched hand-me-downs from Kyla’s parents, and our chairs are cheap vinyl, 70s chic in harvest gold. Wes stops in front of our poker-slash-conference table, absently fingering the groove from the bullet hole. I cringe in embarrassment. Wes Lake is one of the wealthiest men in this city — I can only imagine what he thinks of our dinky little start-up.

But when he turns around to face me, he’s grinning. “Cute place you got here, Roar.”

Roar. My stomach clenches. No one has called me that since high school. Actually, no one has called me that since Wes. It was his little nickname for me. He used to say I was like a lion when it came to the people I loved and the causes I believed in. I force myself to swallow and put on a polite smile.

“Thanks. We like it.”

His hand goes to the knot of his tie and he wriggles it, adjusting it even though it was perfectly straight.

“Is it always so hot in here, though?” His eyes are teasing.

“Yes.” I purse my lips, trying not to smile.

“And so noisy?”

“Yes.”

“And so … Summer Breeze Fresh?”

“One of the few perks of working here,” I tell him, my lips twisting up. “The smell of clean laundry.”

“Could be worse, I suppose.”

“We looked at a place out in Jersey that was above a taxidermy shop.”

He nods solemnly. “That would be worse, yes.”

Silence descends over us, and Kyla squints at me. I try to tell her with my eyes that her guess is as good as mine right now. That I have no idea why Wes is here. That he’s the absolute last person I ever expected to see walk through the door of our office. I’m pretty sure my efforts at telepathy fail, though, because she’s still squinting at me when I turn back to Wes.

“So, Wes, what can I do for you?” I repeat. He owes me an explanation, at least.

For a second I think he’s going to avoid the question, but then he looks me square in the face. His blue eyes pierce straight through me.

“You’re in marketing, right? Well, I find myself in need of some marketing assistance.”

That is definitely not the answer I was expecting. GoldLake is a full-service development firm. They no doubt have their own in-house PR specialists, and when they do big media pushes they use huge global agencies. I can’t believe a tiny little firm like Marigold would even be on his radar.

“I’m not sure we can help you,” I say, pressing my lips together.

“Well, now, let’s not be hasty,” Kyla interjects. I shoot her a look and she widens her eyes, as if to say why are you turning down work? She doesn’t know Wes the way I do, though.

“Yes, Rori, let’s not be hasty.” Wes grins. “Why not hear me out?”

I refuse to let him get the upper hand here. “You should have called,” I tell him. “Make an appointment and maybe we can talk.”

“I know I should have.” He actually seems a tad contrite, or as contrite as a man like Wes can be. “But I’m here now. Let’s go for coffee, and I’ll fill you in.”

“It’s too hot for coffee.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize how childish and petulant they sound. But Wes keeps grinning.

“Fine. Iced coffee. Smoothie. Juice. Beer. Just let me give you my pitch.”

I look at Kyla for support, but she’s nodding at me. I turn back to Wes, feeling helpless in his presence.

“Fine,” I say, as I throw my hands up in the air. “But I make no promises beyond hearing you out.”

“That’s all I ask,” he says, but he wears the smug smile of someone who knows they’ve already won.

* * *

Ten minutes later we find ourselves down the street at Zing Juices. It’s a tiny little juice bar with lime green walls and baristas in brightly-colored beanies. I order a fruity blend, while Wes asks for a Spinach Supreme and a shot of wheatgrass on the side. He grins when he sees me wrinkle my nose.

“It’s good for virility,” he says with a wink.

My cheeks flush. Wes smirks and I realize he was trying to get a rise out of me. I force my lips into a straight line. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing that his presence affects me. In any way. This meeting is strictly professional.

Even if my insides are buzzing like a swarm of cicadas.

When our juices are ready, we take them over to one of the small round tables near the window.

I take a sip of my Freesia Fruit Cocktail and wait for Wes to speak first. Instead, he grabs the small glass of wheatgrass juice and throws back the shot of green sludge. I watch his throat bob as he swallows, then for a second I let my eyes travel down to his broad shoulders, his well-muscled arms, his perfect masculine hands. How many times did I feel those same hands caress my skin, push my hair away from my face, cup my chin, tilting my lips up to kiss …

I shake my head. Jesus, Rori, keep it together here. I take another sip of my juice. I still refuse to be the first to speak, but this waiting game is killing me, one silent second at a time.

Wes, on the other hand, looks completely unfazed as he sets his shot glass down and turns to his spinach concoction.

I frown at him, hoping he’ll take the hint and hurry up, but he remains irritatingly, devastatingly composed.

I’ve sucked back almost my entire drink by the time the silence finally wears down my last nerve.

“I don’t have all day, you know,” I spit. “What do you want?”

Wes smiles, and I curse myself for letting him win. I know he was waiting for me to speak first, for my curiosity to get the better of me. I try to comfort myself with the fact that negotiating is what Wes does for a living — how can I compete with that?

“I’m so glad you asked that, Rori,” he says, as I choke back a silent scream of frustration. “As you know, at GoldLake, we’re always looking for ways to give back to the community.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. GoldLake is not known for their community efforts. In fact, if anything, they’re known for going in and bulldozing over existing communities. Both literally and figuratively. But I’ve committed to hearing him out, so I just raise my eyebrows and let him continue.

“We’re in the process of launching a bold new hiring initiative that will provide opportunities for immigrant women and women living in poverty. The right candidates will have an opportunity to work at GoldLake, on cutting edge projects, and be mentored by some of the brightest minds in the business.”

I squint at Wes. His face gives nothing away. I have to admit, it sounds like a good program — too good. And Wes’s words are too practiced.

“What’s the catch?”

He chuckles. “No catch.”

“Let me guess — they have to work for free?”

He shakes his head. “All the women we end up hiring will be paid fair salaries. Above industry average. Health benefits and everything.”

“Huh.” In what is becoming a theme today, I’m shocked into silence. “It sounds … great.”

He grins. “I’m glad you think so. Because we want you to run the publicity for it.”

My jaw drops. “Me?”

“Marigold,” he says. “I’ve looked into your work in the non-profit and charitable sector, and I think you — your company — would be perfect for the job.”

I have no idea what to say. The program sounds like it would be right up our alley, but this is GoldLake we’re talking about. Their budget for something like this must be astronomical. We build websites for animal rescue groups — we don’t run multi-million dollar ad campaigns.

“I’m flattered, Wes,” I start. “But I don’t think we’re right for the job.”

His face falls. I can tell by his expression of incredulity that he wasn’t expecting me to turn him down. Then again, I doubt Wes Lake is used to women turning him down for anything.

And if I’m being completely honest with myself, that’s part of why I’m saying no right now. Even though it’s true that Marigold isn’t really equipped for the kind of work he’s describing, that’s only half the reason I can’t accept the job. The other half is that I don’t think I can work that closely with Wes. Not without dredging up all those old feelings again. The ones I worked long and hard to bury. Seeing him today is already doing a number on my heart. Working in close proximity with him would be a death sentence.

“I’m not sure you know what I’m offering you here, Rori,” he says. I can tell that he’s attempting to keep his voice level.

“Oh, I do,” I assure him, trying to sound cheerful. “I just don’t think we’re who you need for such a big project.”

“I think you’re exactly who I need,” he says. I suck in a breath. The words hang there between us for a moment. I wrap my hands around my empty plastic cup. Those words … coming out of Wes’s mouth … how long had I dreamed of hearing them? Once upon a time, when I was a naïve high-schooler, those words would have been everything.

Wes recovers. His face returns to its default neutral setting.

“I’ve gone about this all wrong,” he says. “Let me pitch you for real. Over dinner. I’ll present the program to you — we have some compelling research on the benefits of a program like this — and on our proposed budget and timelines. If you’re still not interested, I’ll accept your decision.”

His request seems so reasonable that my resolve weakens. Wes must read my hesitation, because he leans in. Like a wolf with a sheep it’s finally isolated from the herd.

“Friday night. Jasmine Thai, on 12th. Do you know it? Best duck curry in the whole city.”

“Wes...” I push my cup back and forth between my hands. Dinner at a restaurant sounds more like a date than a meeting.

“Strictly business, Rori,” he promises, as if he senses the true source of my reluctance. “A pitch meeting. Friday night happens to be the next time I’m free, that’s all.”

He looks so earnest. My shoulders slump in defeat.

“Fine.”

“Excellent.” His face immediately lifts, and the abrupt change makes me wonder if the earnestness I saw was all an act. I push the thought away for now, but a part of me can’t help but wonder — what the hell did I get myself into?