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“Pet names,” Hugh crows. “How fucking adorbs!”

“You okay?” she whispers.

I look down to find her dainty fingers on my chest. I nod. “Yeah, great.” I take her hand before she pulls away as she turns her attention to my friends without showing an ounce of surprise.

“So lovely to see you both again.” She’s all friendly smiles and open expression. She would’ve made the perfect diplomat’s wife. Too bad she had to settle for a CEO.

There’s always next time, a little voice whispers in my head.

I feel like hitting myself.

The guys return her greeting as Clara takes her seat, her black coat revealing a flash of green velvet and a whole lot of smooth thigh.

My pee + nuts are having very sudden and very real regrets for extending the invitation suddenly.

Clara opens the conversation by telling Hannah how amazing she looked in the society pages after the Stanley Ball.

“She scrubs up well.” Hugo offers her a grin with his backhanded compliment.

“At least I brushed my hair,” Hannah retorts.

Hugo’s hand goes there. “Girls love my hair, Hansy.”

“Can’t think why.”

“They love to run their fingers through it,” he says, bowing to offer her the chance, though she playfully pushes him away. “You’re missing out. What about you, Clara? Ever dated a man with long hair?”

“Troy had longer hair once upon a time.” She slides a fond smile my way.

“I forgot about that,” Hugo replies. “It’s so weird that you two knew each other when we knew each other. But we never knew about you.”

“Summer romance.” Clara deftly sidesteps the topic.

“We’d kind of orbited the same space for a few summers before.” One summer doesn’t feel like it was enough to encapsulate the experience.

“How was your day?” Clara turns the casual question my way.

“Productive.”

“Like a cough.” Hugh gives a laugh.

We order another round of drinks, and the conversation is easy. One drink becomes two before the hostess arrives to take us to our table. Good timing, because the bar area is getting rowdy.

Stepping into the dining area, we’re immediately insulated from the noise of the bar when hip is exchanged for understated in terms of ambience. There’s a definite Rat Pack vibe about the place.

The hostess offers to take Clara’s coat, and I want to bite my knuckle at the sight of her. Black heeled ankle boots and a thigh-skimming green velvet dress with tiny capped sleeves and cut so low at the front, I expect to see her navel. But it’s not so revealing on second glance, thanks to the low V being kept the right side of modest by a row of tiny gold buckles. But the boots, the hair, the color make her look more than ever like a woodland fairy.

A red-hot woodland fairy, I think, as I stare down the attention of a guy or two. I keep my hand at the small of her back, the placement proprietary—don’t look, all mine—as we’re led to a huge corner booth with a view over the rest of the place. We order wine, and Clara joins Hannah in a martini served from a tableside cart while we inspect the menu.

“Look.” I point at an item. “Lobster rolls topped with caviar.” Clara and I exchange a fond look.

“I’m sensing a story,” Hugo sings. “Share with the class, Troy Boy.”

“Troy Boy?” Clara is amused.

“Troy Boy the man toy,” he says, completely oblivious to the piercing look Hannah serves him.

“I know you spend your day dreaming up code, but maybe you should engage your brain elsewhere,” Hannah mutters.