CHAPTER THREE

The dealer slapped a card on the table.

“Wait. I want to write this down.” Mindy shook her head in amusement as she reached for the card. “I want to record this moment. You, asking me for dating advice.”

Michael narrowed his eyes. “I know how to date,” he grumbled.

She held up a finger. “Correction. You know how to date women you just met. You don’t know how to date the woman you were—”

“Do I see if she wants to meet for a drink?”

He cut her off because he didn’t want the reminder. He knew how he felt.

As Mindy checked out her cards at the poker table at the Luxe, her favorite gambling spot, she said, “Yes, you want to have a drink with her, because you definitely need some lubricant.”

He laughed. Mindy was unfiltered, and that was one of the reasons he enjoyed their friendship. The woman didn’t mince words. “Noted. Use liquor for lube. Any other advice?”

She slid some chips to the center of the green felt, staying in. “Yes. You used to like music? Went to concerts together, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah, we did. Lots of local and indie bands. That was one of our things.”

She shrugged, as if to say duh. “There you go. Brent said there’s some new band at his nightclub tonight. A hot young indie-rock band. Take her to that. It’ll be like old times.”

“Is that what I want? Old times?”

“Yes. That’s what you want,” she said as she set down her cards, winning the hand with a trio of sixes.

“Nice,” he said, with a low whistle of admiration.

She dragged a handful of chips closer. “So what was it like? Seeing her?”

That was the question of the day, one he’d been weighing since leaving the Petrossian Bar a few hours ago.

How could he even begin to describe seeing Annalise? It was like resistance meets infatuation. The whole time, he’d reined in his desire to kiss her, touch her, taste her lips. Because, well, that would be wholly inappropriate, and he had no fucking clue if she wanted it. A wild, delirious thought popped into his brain. Had she looked him up for the same reason he’d tried to find her ten years ago?

Ah, hell. No. He couldn’t go there. Couldn’t linger on the biggest heartbreak of his life. On the absolutely epic shellacking he’d walked right into, like a fool who thought the past could be resurrected. The past was best left buried. Tonight would just be…fun.

“It was awkward, but easy at the same time,” he said, after much consideration. “If that makes sense.”

Mindy nodded thoughtfully, her blue eyes serious. “Yeah, it does.”

“We sort of slid right back into conversation about work and memories. It was good, even though I still feel like there are a million things I want to ask her.”

Mindy patted his arm. “I know. But perhaps it’s best to save ‘Do you ever think about me?’ for another time.”

“Yeah. Good point.”

“Keep it light and fun,” she advised, then tipped her chin to his phone. “And maybe let her know the plan for tonight.”

He texted Annalise the details, lingering to appreciate the ease with which he communicated with the woman he’d once had the hardest time in the world staying in touch with. So much had changed over the years. Even things like…text messaging. They hadn’t had this luxury when they were younger.

When Mindy finished the round ahead, she thanked the dealer, collected her winnings, and walked away from the table. She was a measured player, always knowing when to stop. They wandered through the casino, then down the hall toward the restrooms, stopping outside the ladies room where it was quiet so they could catch up on other matters.

“Did you see the report from Morris?” she asked, mentioning the private detective he’d hired. Mindy had worked with the guy, so when Michael was looking for a solid recommendation, he’d taken hers.

“Yeah. Not much there. The guy goes to the grocery store, and to buy sheet music at the piano shop. Doesn’t even take his girls to school. I swear I don’t get it. How can he be head of a street gang?” Michael dragged a hand through his hair in frustration. He’d hired the detective to gather some intel on Luke Carlton, the mild-mannered local piano teacher by day, leader of the notorious street gang the Royal Sinners by night. The cops were trying to gather enough evidence to bring him in, and Michael wanted to do everything he could to help take down the fucker he was sure had played a role in plotting his father’s death.

“But that’s how it’s always been,” Mindy said. “This guy has supposedly been running the Royal Sinners for years, so he damn well knows how to be inconspicuous.”

“That’s the trouble,” Michael said, as his phone buzzed.

Annalise.

A concert! Sounds great. I will be there.

He promptly forgot about Luke and zoned in on those last four words. She would be there.

His Annalise.

* * *

She peered in the mirror, considering the skinny jeans and boots she wore as the phone trilled in her ear and she waited for her sister to pick up.

“It’s two in the morning,” Noelle grumbled, sleep thick in her voice.

“I know,” Annalise said, checking out the side view. Not bad. “But you instructed me to call you the second I had a report.”

Her older sister groaned, then Annalise heard sheets rustle, and she assumed Noelle was dragging herself out of her tiny bed in her tiny flat in the Fifteenth Arrondissement. “Fine. Report.”

“I’m seeing him again. Tonight,” she said, a grin tugging at her lips.

“You’ve already seen him once?”

“Yes. This afternoon.”

“And you didn’t think to give me a report then?”

“I wanted to wait until I knew for certain another time would be happening. He just texted me details a few minutes ago.”

“Mon petite papillon,” Noelle said in a playful huff, using the nickname she’d bestowed on Annalise many moons ago. Annalise froze, not because it bothered her, but because it reminded her of what Michael used to call her. Not a butterfly, but he had given her an affectionate little name, and she hadn’t thought about it in ages. She thought about it now, though, and how much she’d liked it. “Tell me more about tonight.”

Annalise gave her the details of their coffee conversation, because it was Noelle who had encouraged her to see him in the first place. “Time to move on, mon petite papillon. No more crying in the croissants,” Noelle had said a few months ago.

Annalise wasn’t crying in the croissants, or her pillow, anymore, thank you very much. She hadn’t for many months. Still, was she truly ready? And ready for what?

“To love again,” Noelle had said, and Annalise had scoffed and shaken her head.

“That won’t happen.”

“Then just go on a date.”

Fine, a date seemed reasonable, if she could call it that. Finding Michael had been no easy task, but persistence had paid off, and she’d tracked him down, then sent the letter to his office.

He’d seemed a safe bet for her first time out with a man in two years. Comforting, even. High school sweethearts, and all that.

Falling for Michael Sloan—back when he was Michael Paige-Prince—had been the easiest thing in the world when she was sixteen and living far, far away from home. He ran the radio station at their school, and played guitar in a band with some friends in the afternoons. He was laidback, easy-going, and quick with a joke. She was the arty French girl who liked the same indie music, and who took pictures of him and the other guys playing their instruments in the garage. They were late-90s teens in love, bonding over Pearl Jam and Nirvana, grunge and flannel, American jargon, and kisses that lasted well past midnight. Endless kisses, the kind that made her feel like her skin was humming.

“Call me when you’re done with the concert,” Noelle said from the other end of the line.

“So you do like my report at any time of day,” Annalise teased.

“I’m a glutton for punishment when it comes to you. Just make sure it’s a good report.”

“What would make for a good report?”

“You know precisely what would make for a good report.”

Yes. Yes, she did. Was it so wrong to hope he’d kiss her tonight? The flutter in her chest said a kiss would only be right; the spate of nerves flying across her skin told her the opposite.

She inched closer to the mirror, pursing her lips, studying them, wondering what it would feel like…. It had been so long since she’d felt anything. She ran her index finger over her top lip, both wanting something desperately from Michael, and terrified of how she’d feel if anything happened.

Anything at all.

A few hours later, she entered the dark, pulsing nightclub and found him at the far end of the steel bar, his eyes on her the whole time she walked toward him.

The way he looked at her told her this night had the potential to take her breath away.