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By the time I’m done with drinks here, Bryce will be in bed.
Usually I don’t work this much. My wife, Rebecca, passed away not long after Bryce was born. Greyson took the reins at the company so I could be with her as much as possible over the past few years.
But now it’s Greyson’s turn to focus on family—he has a baby coming in a couple weeks. I’m stepping up my involvement at Montgomery Partners so he can take his paternity leave and regain some semblance of balance in his life.
I’m determined to prove I’m still worthy of my seat at the helm of the company after my years-long hiatus. Which means being out with investors, partners, contractors, and city council members as often as not.
I don’t mind entertaining. But I do mind being away from my baby. It’s been just the two of us for so long. I miss her. If I’m being honest, it hurts a little that she doesn’t miss me more—Hannah has quickly become Bryce’s favorite new person.
At the same time, I wish I had more time to myself. I was ready to get back in the office and take on a full workload. I was not at all prepared, however, for how difficult juggling work and family is.
Difficult, and exhausting. Being a single parent is not for the faint of heart. I feel like I’m constantly on the run. Constantly tackling a rolling, never-ending to-do list. Meetings. Making breakfast. Financial models. Grocery lists. Contracts. Pediatrician appointments.
I do my best to clear my mind of all that clutter, and I sell the shit out of Montgomery Partners. The potential investor is a solid, if gruff, guy named Mason Yates who made a fortune back in the early 2000s developing commercial property out in Mt. Pleasant, among other things.
I only scan the crowd two more times.
Fine. Three.
I still manage to close the deal. By the end of our second round, Mason and I are shaking hands. He shoots an email to his banker to arrange a wire transfer for an obscene amount of money—Christ have the numbers gotten bigger since I was closing these deals years ago—and he heads out after declining my offer of another drink.
I glance at my watch. Eight o’clock on the dot.
Bryce was asleep half an hour ago. Damn it.
Still, if I get home now, I can get a head start on our Saturday morning pancakes—they turn out fluffier if I let the batter sit overnight—and answer that handful of important emails I didn’t get to over the course of the day.
I lift my hand for the bill and push off the bar.
Push right into someone behind me.
I turn around to apologize and lock gazes with a familiar pair of gorgeous dark brown eyes.
Oh God.
It’s happening. My half-baked plan actually worked.
“Eva!” I say, my heart skidding to a momentary stop inside my chest. “Hey.”
She smiles, this big, genuine, unguarded thing, and fu-uck my heart is skidding again.
Damn she’s a stunner. It’s not just her looks, although she’s a knockout, her brown hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders, full lips done up in pink gloss. She’s got long, dark eyelashes, and a small, Cindy-Crawford like mole above her upper right lip.
It’s her confidence that catches my eye, same as it did more than a decade ago. The honest, certain way she carries herself. She’s totally at home in her own skin, and it shows.
I feel a swift kick low in my gut.
Arousal.
Regret, too. Part of me always felt like a schmuck for breaking up with Eva, and for saying the things I did. But now that I’m with her again, that regret has intensified tenfold.
“Two times in two weeks,” she replies. “And both times you’ve been in a suit.”
Eva lifts her arm, inviting me into a hug. I expect it to be awkward, but it isn’t.
Nothing with Eva ever was.
The embrace is quick but warm. My body perks up at the press of her breasts to my chest. The scent of her perfume. Not floral, not sweet. Decidedly sexy.
“You were never one for suits,” I say, smoothing my tie after I reluctantly let her go.
Her eyes spark. “I don’t hate them. Not on you. Just takes some getting used to. Although I have to admit that I’m missing the tats.”
“Tats are still there.” I pull back my sleeve, revealing the lines of script that cover my left forearm. A line from a favorite poem. A block of text from the Dave Matthews Band song we were both obsessed with back in college, if only because it captured the poignancy of our marathon make-out sessions so beautifully.
Eva turns around so that her back is to me.
“Mine are, too.” She gathers the thick mass of her hair in her hand and pulls it over her shoulder. Revealing a back that’s almost bare, save for the teeny tiny straps of her silky white tank top. My eyes rove over her skin, smooth. Soft, if memory serves.
