“But you’re not going to chase anyone else.”
“No.”
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Must be nice. Wanting someone that much.” For all the melodrama, there was a very real pain in his voice.
“It is,” I said quietly. “And it isn’t.”
Ezra lifted his glass again, eyes still carrying that old, broken look. “Well,” he said. “Here’s to complicated women and men who don’t know when to quit.”
I clinked my drink against his.
“And to the ones we can’t stop loving,” I added.
He grimaced, eyeing his drink after tossing it back, he said, “We’re going to need more alcohol.”
Ezra disappearedinto a car that he’d called after I turned down the offer of a ride home. It wasn’t that far to my apartment, and I didn’t mind the walk. The city had settled into its late-night rhythm—traffic thinned, lights softer, everything breathing a little slower.
Inside, my place was exactly the way I’d left it. Clean, orderly, faintly impersonal. My mother wanted me to hire a decorator. I just had my assistant order what I needed after I pointed to a couple of pictures in a magazine.
Cynthia was incredibly efficient. I didnotdeserve her.
I kicked off my shoes, loosened my tie, and dropped my jacket over the back of a chair. My phone buzzed as soon as I did.
Speak of the devil.
Three messages from my assistant.
Nothing urgent. Calendar updates. A reminder that there was no court the following day. I made a mental note to catch up on briefs from home. I’d earned that much.
London was looming.
Flights, meetings, contracts that required my presence and attention. And, if I was lucky, maybe a train ride after. Rachel would tell me if she was free enough. If her schedule had a crack I could slip through.
I was going anyway.
Even if all I got was coffee across a small Parisian table, it would be worth it. Seeing her. Hearing her voice without a delay. Watching her hands move when she talked.
I shook my head at myself, a faint smile tugging at my mouth. Pathetic, I thought fondly. Absolutely pathetic.
My phone buzzed again.
Rachel.
This time it was a photo.
It took a second for my brain to catch up to what I was seeing.
Her—tired, intent, utterly herself. Camera in hand, eyes focused on something just out of frame, her head tipped slightly as if she were mid-sentence or giving direction. There was wonder on her face. Not performative. Not posed. Just… real.
The caption beneath it read:
Bleary-eyed photographer at four in the morning. Sexy, huh?
I stared at the image longer than I meant to. She was wildly sexy and devastating to all of my senses.
Not in the way magazines sold. Not in the way I used to chase. She sucked all the oxygen out of a room and left me gasping for air.
I didn’t answer right away.
