Page 64 of Suite 7

“The kind you can’t file away.”

She goes quiet in the way she does when she’s actually thinking.

“Have I met him?”

The question lands like a hand on a bruise. I keep my face neutral through what feels like considerable effort.

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because you said complicated like you meant it.” She tilts her head. “And because you’re being careful. You’re never careful when it’s someone new. You get excited and you overshare and you pick it apart with me for two hours.” She studies me. “You’re managing this one.”

“I’m being private.”

“You’re never private.”

“Maybe I’m changing.”

Her eyes hold mine for one beat too long. “Vera.”

“Sloane.”

A pause. The café hums around us. She looks at me the way she looked at the tagline that wasn’t working — like she already knows the answer and is giving the problem one last chance to tell her itself.

Then she lets it go. Files it. Moves on, but I have the distinct feeling she’s bookmarked it somewhere I can’t access, and the conversation isn’t over so much as postponed.

My phone buzzes. Kane’s name lights up the screen.

“Is that him?” Sloane’s eyes go wide, her gaze dropping to where my phone sits screen-down against the table.

“It’s work.” Too quick. She’ll know.

“That was the fastest face-flip I’ve ever seen in my entire life. That’s absolutely him.” She leans back in her chair, arms crossed, deeply and completely satisfied with herself. “Vee. Are you actually flustered right now? You never get flustered. Like, genuinely never. This is possibly the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“It’s not⁠⁠—“

“I want to send him a fruit basket.” She raises her latte like she’s making a toast at a wedding. “Whoever he is, wherever he is, he’s clearly doing something very right.”

The guilt twists sharp and immediate before I can stop it.

She means it as a compliment. She has no idea she’s already met him. That he’s sitting somewhere across this city right now, making me wait.

She sets down her cup. “I want details when you’re ready. Real ones. Not the PR-approved version.”

“You’ll be the first,” I say.

And that, at least, is true.

Thursday afternoon, Sloane and I are at Nordstrom when I see him.

Kane.

Walking toward the entrance in dark jeans and a gray henley, looking unfairly good in the late afternoon light.

My entire body reacts before my brain catches up. Heart racing. Skin flushing. Thighs clenching.

Three days. He’s right there.

“Kane!” Sloane waves. “What are you doing here?”