Locke was pulling up outside the bookstore when his phone rang.

His father.

He hesitated and let it go to voice mail. He didn’t want the specter of his parents anywhere in the vicinity of this night.

Anywhere in the vicinity of Elle.

He turned off the car. There was a reason his father was listed by his given name in Locke's phone. Locke spoke only sporadically to his parents, and while he hadn’t gone as far as to disown them after what they’d done — for them it had been just another day in the life of real estate magnates — their relationship was strained at best. He saw them briefly for the holidays when he wasn’t out of the country, called on their birthdays to engage in stilted, tense conversation for the required ten minutes.

He pushed aside his guilt for not answering the phone. His parents had spent their lives doing what was best for them. Had put countless people out of business by purchasing property and raising the rent. It’s what they did.

Who they were.

He didn’t owe them any more than what he could give. This is what he could give.

He slipped the phone in his pocket and looked through the window at Matheson and Matheson. He’d been surprised when Elle had called to take him up on his offer of dinner. He’d made the suggestion on a whim, had forced himself to hand the card to the florist before he could change his mind.

The possibility that she would reply had been a pipe dream in the back of his mind, and he’d forced himself to discount it as soon as he left the florist. He’d spent eight years pining for Elle Matheson. There had to be some kind of statute of limitations on unrequited love.

But then she’d called, her voice soft and uncertain through the phone, and he had been lost all over again. Had been able to picture her, phone pressed to her delicate shell-shaped ears, long hair falling across her shoulders.

He’d barely been able to get the details out of his mouth. Had barely been able to breathe every moment since, half-expecting her to call and cancel.

She hadn’t. And here he was.

Fuck.

He ran a hand through his hair and forced himself to breathe. He wasn't a teenager, for christ’s sake. Not the college boy he’d been back when she’d taken his breath away. When he’d been unable to figure out what she’d seen in him. She’d been a goddess, fit for classical portraiture with her nearly translucent skin, her copper hair and deep green eyes.

It had taken him nearly a year to realize she didn’t know it. That she really didn’t know how magnificent she was in mind, body, and soul. And yet she was the first fully-realized person he'd ever met, someone who knew herself intimately. Who didn't make apologies for who she was.

The character trait had worked against him when she’d found out about his lie of omission, but even then he had nothing but admiration for her. For the way she told him the truth about her feelings, about the impossibility of every forgetting what his family had done to hers, what he had done by lying to her. She’d nearly choked on her sobs, but her voice was firm, her expression resolute. It was something he loved about her — her willingness to do the hard thing even when it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.

The clock on the dash of the Acura NSX changed from 6:59 to 7:00.

“Get out of the fucking car, asshole,” he muttered under his breath, reaching for the door.

He moved slowly around the car, not wanting to seem as nervous as he felt, suddenly nineteen again. He hesitated when he reached the shop’s glass door, then raised his hand to knock. He was beginning to worry that he might actually have to go inside when she pulled open the door, a look of surprise on her face.

Her smile was hesitant. “You didn't have to knock. Even strangers walk right in.”

I’m not a stranger. I've done things to you — hurt you — like no stranger has ever done.

He avoided the statement by drinking her in. “You look beautiful.”

It wasn’t enough for how looking at her made him feel. Not enough to explain the way her graceful neck made him wish he was a painter, the way her sea-green eyes made him wish he could write her a song.

She wore a pink dress almost the exact color as the flowers he’d sent her, the thin straps seeming to cling to her by a thread. He had to resist the urge to run his hands along the slope of her shoulders, slide off the straps until the dress pooled on the floor, scoop her naked body into his arms. He knew exactly how the heat of her flesh would feel against his. Exactly how her arms would slide around his neck as she leaned her head against his chest.

“Thank you,” she said. “You look pretty great yourself.”

He forced himself not to double-check the gray trousers he had custom-tailored when he was in London, the blazer her had made when he was in New York. It had been a long time since he’d cared about his clothes, and he was suddenly glad he’d been in the habit of buying nice things even when they hung unworn in his closet most of the time.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

“Let me just get my sweater.” She tipped her head. “You sure you don’t want to come inside?”

“It's nice out. I’ll wait here.”

“Be right back.”

She disappeared into the store and he looked across the street at Bolton’s. The stream of people was still steady, and while it was hard to know how many of the customers were actually buying at the bookstore, he had to guess a majority would at least browse for the novelty. He thought of Elle surrounded by her beloved books, forced to watch as customers bypassed Matheson and Matheson in favor of the superstore, and silently cursed Glover and everyone like him.

“All set,” she said, stepping onto the pavement and turning to lock the door.

She was facing away from him, her hair falling in waves against her alabaster back. He wanted to pull the glossy locks aside, lower his head to her neck, press his lips to her skin.

Did she still smell like ocean air and sandalwood?

She turned around and he gestured to his car at the curb, opening the passenger door so she could slide in. He caught a glimpse of her bare legs as she pulled them into the car and was hit with a powerful memory: Elle naked on the bed in his off-campus apartment, the glow of candles flickering across her skin as he spread her legs, her breath like a prayer as he flicked his tongue against her inner thigh.

His cock was hard in seconds, and he willed his body to stop being such an animal as he made his way around to the driver’s side. The fact that she was still a goddess was no excuse, for fuck’s sake.

This was Elle. His Elle.

She had the heart of a lion, the soul of an earth mother, the mind of a philosopher.

Knowing all of those things were true didn’t lessen the impact of her physical presence on him. The desire raging through his body.

He slid into the driver’s seat and started the car, then pulled away from the curb. He was surprised when she didn’t ask questions as he made his way out of the city. Her typically Zen nature hadn’t extended to making plans, and she’d always liked to know the details upfront — where they were going, what they were doing, how long they’d be gone.

It had been her one nod to the kind of control most people tried to exert over every aspect of their life, and he’d indulged her willingly, laughingly calling her his little planner.

Now she looked out the window, watched as they made their way closer to the beach. By the time he pulled into a parking lot near the water, the sun had disappeared below the horizon, leaving traces of orange in its wake, the indigo sky quickly swallowing the remaining light.

He pulled into a spot and got out of the car, hurrying to her side to open the door. His heart lurched when he took her hand to help her out, and he made a point of pulling away when she was on her feet.

Dinner didn’t mean she could forgive him.

Didn't mean she could forget.

They made their way up wooden steps to a deck facing the water and went inside to the counter where they ordered beers and plates of fish, rice, clams, and shrimp. Then they stepped back onto the deck, strung with white lights, and chose a picnic table at the edge.

He watched her take a drink of beer, her throat rippling as she swallowed. When she set the bottle back on the table, she met his eyes, smiled.

“What’s been keeping you busy, Locke?” she asked.

He shrugged. "This and that."

Her laugh was so sexy it sent a shiver up his spine. “It's going to be a different kind of date if you don’t want to talk about anything.”

“I’d rather listen.” He meant it. He wanted to know everything that had happened to her since they'd been apart, but he also wanted to see where their date led before he issued the ultimate confession.

The corners of her mouth turned up into a wry smile. “So you prefer to save the personal details for the second date?”

“It depends,” he said. “Am I getting a second date?”

She held his gaze. “Time will tell.”

The promise in her words and the desire he thought he saw reflected in her eyes made him brave enough to reach across the table and take her hand.

“I can live with that,” he said. “We have all the time in the world.”