Page 39 of The Sweetest Return

“Because friendship requires preparation.”

I turned.

Milan Carr stood near the middle of the room in a fitted black dress with one hand resting on Dre’s arm like she had paid property taxes on it.

Of course.

Eight years, several tax brackets, and whatever personal growth I had collected since graduation disappeared long enough for me to think, Why is this bitch touching him?

Then I almost laughed at myself.

Almost.

“I see some things have survived the test of time,” I murmured.

Camille sipped her champagne. “I hate consistency.”

“Stop.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Your face has.”

Milan leaned closer and stroked his arm, and I had to take a sip of champagne before my thoughts got too honest. The first thought was foolish. The second was violent. The third involved yanking something synthetic out of her big ass head and taking that man to the nearest hard surface.

So, clearly, healing was a process.

Camille said something about a development deal or a woman in our class marrying a man with bad veneers. I heard almost none of it. She needed to keep the topic on real estate if she wanted to stay safe, because addressing why my eyes kept shooting across the room was dangerous for both of us.

Then Dre shifted, and for the first time, I saw all of him.

Jesus.

Whatever I had prepared for during the last four days had been insufficient.

The charcoal suit fit him like it had been made by somebody who knew exactly what kind of body it had to honor. The fabric moved softly when he did, clean through the shoulders, easy at the waist, trousers tailored over thighs I remembered with an accuracy that felt unfair. His white shirt was open at the throat, revealing a diamond chain that caught the light every time he moved. A diamond flashed at his ear. Another winked from the pinky ring on his right hand when he lifted his glass.

NFL players really did have the best diamonds.

My professional mind noticed the quality.

The rest of me noticed the man.

Dre’s beard was fuller than it had ever been in college, trimmed close enough to show the strong line of his jaw. His hair was cut low, waves subtle beneath the light. Deep-brown skin, smooth and rich against the white of his shirt. He had gotten broader, thicker through the chest and shoulders, still strong, still him, but grown into a body that did not need to prove every ounce of power it carried.

I took another drink because my mouth had gone dry.

“You all right?” Camille murmured.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

She wisely chose not to answer.

Dre shifted his weight, and my eyes dropped before I could stop them. Most of him rested over his right leg. Subtle. Brief. Probably nothing anybody else in the room would notice.

But I noticed.

My gaze touched his left knee, then returned to his face before concern could steal too much space from the fact that the man looked good enough to ruin my evening and improve it at the same time.