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“I am so happy for you. Now, let go, or the only thing I’ll be ruining is your chance of fatherhood.” Sunny has left the chat, and Gretchen is about to rip him a new asshole.

I know, I know. It’s not his fault. It’s evolution. The way he’s wired. It’s cultural conditioning, the male instinct, and boys will be boys. Meanwhile, the female instinct in me is screaming that I should kick him hard in the balls.

“What’d you just say to me?”

“I think she said fuck you, Ed,” someone mutters. Someone else snickers.

“Let her go, man,” another puts in.

My impulse control hanging on by a thread, I open my mouth to suggest he listen to his friends when a burst of laughter from across the room pulls at my attention. The sound is so warm and buttery, I’d know it anywhere.

Troy?

God, the things I’d say and do just to hear that man laugh because it felt like the biggest prize when he did. It can’t be him, not now, not here, I think as, in front of me, someone steps left and, oh, my heart. There he is in profile. The floor beneath my feet seems to tilt.

He looks the same, and yet not. He’s larger, his shoulders are broader, though his hair is still leonine. In the place of jeans and a tee, he wears a three-piece suit, thunder gray and beautifully cut. The gleaming white of his shirt is such a contrast to his dark-colored tie and matching pocket square. He looks expensive—like one of the people he used to despise. But then, I’m not the girl I once was either.

“Set your sights a little higher, huh?” My stomach is still tied in complicated knots when my attention is dragged back to Shark Man and his audience, their eyes glassy with champagne and a spiteful kind of delight. “Pity for you the boss only dates supermodels, short ass.”

The boss. Well, good for him.

“That shut you up.” The ass gives a malevolent grin.

“Gosh, I love how you don’t let your height get in the way of your confidence.”

“What?”

“A bad attitude and that hairline, yet your delusions of adequacy remain.”

“Fucking bitch.” Spittle flies from Shark Man’s mouth.

“That’s bad fucking bitch.” I yank from his grip, mindful of an expensive Tater Tot spillage. “Just ask your boss,” I add in a mutter. The soles of my cheap shoes squeak against the polished concrete as I pivot and hurry away. You see, Troy Templeton might be the first boy I ever loved, but he’s also the last who’d ever want to set eyes on me.

I make for the exit, my heart hammering against my ribs. God, why have you forsaken me—done me dirty like this? As I reach the door, I know I shouldn’t glance back, but I find myself doing it anyway. I am so unprepared for his tawny-gold eyes meeting mine. They narrow, and I give a little yelp as he makes a preemptive motion, but I’m not hanging around. I hurry across the mezzanine space like the devil is hot on my heels. But there’s no way Troy Templeton would ever chase me. Unless he wants to kill me.

“Oh, thank God.” Spotting Chelsea, I grab her hand.

“Hey, sis. What’s going on? You hustled over here like your tampon string was on fire.”

“There’s someone . . .” I glance over my shoulder, and my stomach dips like a roller coaster ride. Troy’s strides are long, and they may seem unhurried, but there is murder in his eyes. “I need to hide.”

“For real?”

“It’s my ex.” It was so long ago, maybe there ought to be a statute of limitations.

“Here?” Chelsea’s spine straightens. “Which one?” she demands, scanning the room with concern. “Damn.” I see the moment she spots him, and I swear I see dollar signs light up in her eyes. “The blond? Girl. The aura.”

“The what?”

“That man is giving rich villain who ruins your life but pays for your therapy.”

“I don’t want therapy.” I’ve already had plenty. “I want to hide!”

“And I want to be a stay-at-home rich person. That isn’t a boyfriend, Clara. That is a retirement plan.”

I glance back again. I’m pretty sure Troy looks like he’s about to help me skip retirement and move straight to death’s sweet embrace. He moves like a vengeance-seeking missile. But maybe I’m the only one who sees that in his expression as he touches the shoulder of one man, then shakes the hand of someone else. He smiles at a brunette, then says something to make her chuckle.

“You do realize you’re running away from Table’s CEO?”