CHAPTER TWO

Annalise hadn’t been in Las Vegas since she was a foreign exchange student during her junior year of high school, living with a host family and perfecting her English on American soil.

Odd, in some ways, that her job hadn’t taken her back to this town even once in all the years—but perhaps that wasn’t so strange, considering business was plentiful in Europe. For now, for a few days at least, business was here, and so was the man she’d fallen madly in love with as that teenage foreign exchange student.

He was more handsome than ever.

Imagine that.

The prettiest boy in America was now the hottest man she’d laid eyes on in a long, long time. But lusty admiration wasn’t all she felt as she drank in the sight of Michael Sloan. A myriad of emotions she wasn’t prepared for swam through her, and it was as if she’d become a host for a chemical concoction of regret, loneliness, and wistfulness, topped with excitement.

She zeroed in on that one, shoving all the others aside.

She stood¸ set down the cup, and dusted a barely-there kiss on his right cheek. His five-o’clock shadow stubble—even though it was only one o’clock on a Sunday—scratched her in a whiskery, sandpaper way. She pressed a kiss to his left cheek. The slightest whoosh of air escaped his lips.

Lips she’d known well. Lips she had spent years wanting to touch again.

“Cheek kisses. You haven’t forgotten how the French do it.” She sounded breathless, even to her own ears.

“How could I forget?” He said it lightly, as if he were talking only about the kisses, but there was so much more she hadn’t forgotten. Was it that way for him, too?

“You look…” She let her voice trail off as a lump rose in her throat, and that storm of emotions stirred up again, churning inside her. It wasn’t his looks that had knocked the wind out of her. Though seriously, there was nothing whatsoever to complain about in that regard, as she surveyed him in his black pants and crisp gray shirt, taking in his trim waist, strong shoulders, and tall frame. Nor was it his dark black hair, his cool blue eyes, or the cut of his jaw, dusted with that faint stubble.

The tumult was courtesy of the past, hurtling itself headfirst into her present. Yes, it was her choice to be here. Still, she hadn’t expected to be walloped by the mere sight of him. She swallowed harshly, trying to dislodge that hitch, wanting to feel some semblance of cool and calm. Her shoulders rose and fell, and she tried desperately to breathe in such a way that didn’t require her to relearn how to take in oxygen. She dug her four-inch black stilettos into the plush carpet, seeking purchase as she attempted to reconnect with her ability to form words.

“You look good,” she said, the understatement of the year. Wait. Make that a lifetime.

“And you look…lovely.”

Lovely.

That was so him.

He’d never been one for hot, smoking, gorgeous, babe, or any of those sayings of the moment. There was something in him that spiraled deeper, and leaned on words that had more heft. Like lovely.

What to say next? She should have scripted this rendezvous. Wrote out talking points. But she didn’t know which direction in the conversational path to turn, so she went for the obvious.

“We finally made it to the Bellagio,” she said, gesturing to the crowds clicking by outside the bar. God, this was hard. How do you just have a drink with someone you once thought you’d marry? Someone who was your everything? She’d been his rock; he’d been her hope.

“Yeah. We finally did,” he echoed.

It had only taken eighteen years, an ocean, countless letters, two broken hearts, and a lengthy online search for him, which had taken time and research, since he’d changed his name and was absent from social media. The Bellagio was the symbol of all their promises. Young, foolish, and wildly in love, they’d been together when this hotel was under construction nearly two decades ago. They’d said they would check it out when it opened, even though they’d both known at the time it was an empty promise.

The hotel was slated to be finished months after she left town. By the time the doors finally opened, Michael’s life had shattered, and she’d been thousands of miles away.

But the promise had been made anyway. It was a promise to reunite. One of many promises they’d made.

Some kept.

Some impossible to keep.

“Join me. S’il vous plait.” She patted the back of the sofa as she sat down again.

“Merci.” He took a seat next to her, and at last she felt like she could breathe. Her warring emotions settled, and now she was simply out with this man. Someone she’d been thinking about more and more lately.

“So,” she said.

“So…” He rubbed his palms against his thighs.

“How are you?” she asked, stepping into the shallow end. “Are you well?”

“Good, good,” he answered quickly. “And you?”

“Great. Everything is great,” she said, as chipper as she could be, even though she’d hardly use great to describe the tundra that her heart had become during the last two years. “I’m glad you made it,” she said to keep going, lest any silence turn this reunion more awkward.

“And I’m glad you asked me to meet you,” he said, as if he were waiting for her to tell him why she’d wanted to meet. She didn’t, though, because when he looked at her like that, the breath fled her lungs. He was so handsome, and his eyes were soulful, something she’d rarely use to describe blue eyes. His seemed to reveal a depth, forged by years of heartache and tragedy.

She parted her lips to speak, but she wasn’t even sure what to say next. Did she go for lightness? For more catching-up-with-you chit-chat? Or plunge straight into the heart of why she’d wanted to see him? She was so accustomed to charging into situations fearlessly, to chasing after what she wanted, but all those skills escaped her in this moment, and she was a teabag steeping in a pot of awkward.

Fortunately, the waitress arrived and asked Michael if he wanted anything. “Club soda,” he said, and when the woman left Annalise tilted her head.

“So, you still detest coffee?” she asked, because that was a far easier conversation entrée than all the other things they could talk about.

“Evidently, I still do.”

“I never understood that about you,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. Funny that she and Michael had gotten on so well when they were younger—except on this. Their one bone of contention was over her passionate love of the deliciously addictive substance, and his disdain of it.

“It vexed you, I know.”

“I tried to get you to like coffee. I even tried to make espresso for you.”

“You were relentless,” he said, and the corners of his lips quirked up. That smile, that lopsided grin she’d loved... Okay, this was better. This was a slow and steady slide back into the zone.

“Remember when I hunted all over Vegas trying to find something like what they’d serve in a café in Paris?” she said, reminiscing, slipping back into the time they were together years ago.

Like it was yesterday, he picked up the conversational baton. “You even used your babysitting money to buy an old espresso machine at a garage sale,” he said, and the memory of her determination and his resistance made her laugh. “Remember that?”

Her eyes widened. “I do! It was a Saturday morning. I scoured the papers for garage sales, and hunted all around the neighborhood till I located the only one I could afford.”

“Found one for ten dollars.”

Annalise held up an index finger. “Ten dollars and twenty-five cents.”

“Ah, well. The quarter made all the difference,” he said, as the waitress brought his drink and he thanked her.

“I took it back to Becky and Sanders’s home that afternoon, and I thought I’d win you over. That if you had a proper coffee, made like we do back home, you’d be converted.” It was only coffee, but it was a thread that connected them to the distant past, when their lives were so much simpler. It was a far easier topic than the present, and certainly less painful than the words said the last time they saw each other, on that heartbreaking day in Marseilles after he’d sent her that letter that had torn her to pieces.

“Alas, I was non-convertible.” He took a swallow of the club soda. “So what brings you to town?”

“Work.”

He frowned and glanced from side to side, like he was sweeping the bar for trouble. “There’s a war in Vegas I’m not aware of?”

She laughed and shook her head. “I’m not a photojournalist any longer. Now I shoot fashion—lingerie and boudoir. I’m here doing the high-end catalogue for Veronica’s,” she said, naming the famous lingerie chain with which she’d nabbed a plum gig. “Some of the shoots are at the Cosmopolitan and around town. We did the Venetian Canals earlier today. Caesars Palace is tomorrow.”

“So this is you now,” he said, waving a hand at her. “Shooting barely dressed women in silk and lace instead of racing across the desert in a Humvee?”

She nodded. “From shrapnel to strapless.”

“What happened to make you leave?”

“Death happened.”

So did heartbreak and unfinished love.

He nodded in agreement, his expression turning somber. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to hear about Julien.”

Her throat hitched, but she fought past that goddamn lump. She’d cried enough to end California’s drought. “Thank you.”

More quickly than she’d expected—and she was eminently grateful not to linger on talk of Julien with this man—Michael led them out of this conversation, returning to safer ground. “You like fashion better?”

She glanced up at the ceiling, considering. That was a tough question. She’d loved the adrenaline rush of photojournalism, the thrill of chasing a story that didn’t want to be found, the chance to capture an image that would show her nation the truth of what was happening in the world, whether during her days in the Middle East, or covering breaking news across Europe for a French news agency. But the job became too risky and the costs too high, so she’d pivoted.

She had no regrets.

She met his eyes to answer. “Yes. I like fashion better now. I love what I do.”

They chatted more as she told him tales of the models and their over-the-top requests at shoots—from the imperious blonde who required celery sticks chilled to a crisp 65 degrees, to the willowy brunette who would only drink artesian water—and how it compared to the bare-bones style of hunting images in her combat boots, cargo pants, and photographer’s vest, in one of the most dangerous areas of the world.

“What about you, Michael? You’re not fronting a band. I didn’t see your guitar in any of your company photos,” she said, nudging his arm gently. His strong, toned arm. So firm. She was going to need a reason to nudge him again.

He shrugged. “That was high school. I was just messing around in the garage with friends. I don’t play much anymore.”

“What happened to going to Seattle and becoming the next Eddie Vedder?” she asked, then her stomach dropped. “Merde. I’m sorry,” she said, heat flaming across her cheeks. How could she have been so foolish? She knew the answer. She brought her hand to her face, embarrassed, and lowered her chin.

His hand touched hers. Her breath caught the instant he made contact. “It’s okay. It was just a teenage dream.”

Just a teenage dream. They’d had so many. They’d felt so real at the time.

“We had a lot of those,” she said, softly.

“We did.” He looked away. His jaw was set hard, but when he returned his gaze to her, he simply said, “I barely think about all those crazy dreams. I like my life now. I like running the security business. That’s why I work on a Sunday. Speaking of work, how long are you in town for?”

“A few days,” she said, and her voice rose higher, as it did when she was nervous. Because the first thing she’d thought when she landed this assignment was—Michael. Like a big, blaring sign. Like a flashing light at the end of a road. She had to see him, had to find him, had to connect with him. “I’m glad you’re happy now…Michael Sloan.” She paused, his new last name rolling around strangely on her tongue. “I’m trying to get used to it. Sloan.”

“Took me a while, too.”

“When did you change it?”

His eyes darkened. She’d touched a nerve. “Ten years ago,” he said, his tone gruff.

The journalist in her didn’t want to back down. “After I saw you in Marseilles?” she asked, nerves tightening her throat as she mentioned that day. That wonderful, horrible day.

He stared up at the ceiling, his brow knit together. “I suppose that’d be about right. But that wasn’t the reason,” he added.

“Why, then?” she pressed. “It made it harder to find you. I had to ask Becky.”

He heaved a sigh. “Made it easier for me to live.”

Unsure how to respond, she swallowed, then reached for her cup. Her fingers felt slippery. She gripped the ceramic more tightly as she brought it to her lips and took a sip.

He rubbed a hand across his jawline, silence sneaking between them, but not for long. “Tell me. Why did you look me up?”

“Because I was coming to town,” she said, stating the simplest answer first, avoiding the tougher topic.

He stared at her, his blue eyes hooked into hers, telling her he didn’t buy it.

“Because I was seeing Sanders and Becky,” she said, mentioning her host family from when she was an exchange student.

“Did you see them?”

“I’m going to. Tomorrow.”

“So then this,” he said, pointing from her to him, “This is…?”

She looked at his mouth, blinked her eyes back up to his, and dropped her voice even more. They were surrounded by noise, the clink of silverware, the slip of ice cubes against glass, and the chatter of nearby patrons ordering smoked salmon and vodka samplers. She spoke the truest words. “This is because I wanted to.”

* * *

There were things he wanted, as well. More time with her. More talking. Mostly, he didn’t want for this to end. She was like sugary sand crystals in his hand, slipping through. He wanted to clutch his fist closed, hold them tight for just a few more moments. A few more days.

He went for it. “What are you doing tonight?”