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“Evan, I’m sure you have a stylist.”

“Nope. For the galas, I have tuxedos that Derek got for me. But I doubt a tuxedo is appropriate either.”

I rub my forehead. “No, not really. You don’t have dress pants. How about modern slacks, no jeans, a shirt, and a cardigan?”

Evans’s brow furrows. “Um.”

“What didn’t you understand?” I can’t help but smile.

“Pretty much all of it. I mean, I’m wearing this right now.” He peers at me, tilting his head.

Grumbling, I slide my hand over my laptop and open it. “I’ll show you what I mean.”

He waves it off and walks toward me. “I have another suggestion.”

“Oh, is that so?”

Evan leans on my desk. “Come by my place today.”

A tiny sigh escapes me. “You can pick out your own clothes. We’ll order something new and have it delivered straight to you. You have to get dressed on your own.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Right. I should be able to manage that. But I’d prefer it if you observed my efforts.” His expression turns serious again. “I don’t want to mess this up. It’s important. Derek isn’t the easiest person to deal with, but he’s right. For me, this would be a disaster.”

At that moment, I want to say many things. Are you sure about this? Don’t you see that you have options? Why are you doing this to yourself? But I don’t say any of that. I don’t have this problem with my self-control when it comes to other clients. But I mustn’t forget that Evan is a stranger to me, too. A client who needs our help. The fact that I want more for him is completely irrelevant.

“Okay, if it makes you feel better, I can stop by. Only for a little while.”

Evans’s expression brightens again. “Thanks. That means a lot to me. And maybe we can talk a bit. I can’t believe we ran into each other like this. I’m curious about what you’ve been up to these past eight years.”

“Well, I guess we’ve got to talk about something while we’re picking out clothes for you. So, okay.” I know I’m lying to myself. Sharing more than just the same air in a room with Evan is becoming a problem for me.

He places a key card on my desk. “This will get you from the lobby to my apartment easily by elevator.”

The answer should be simple. No.

And yet, ten hours later, I’m standing in front of an apartment building on Central Park West, still convincing myself that my visit to Evan is purely professional. The doorman nods at me, and with Evan’s card, I get into the elevator. I’ve packed a few outfits that are ideal for tonight and should fit.

Without a sound, the elevator doors open, and I find myself in a small hallway or foyer. There’s only one door leading off it, and I check the number pad next to it.

I hesitate, unsure what to do. There’s no doorbell. Should I knock or call?

I decide to use my phone.

I’m here.

Less than three seconds later, the door opens and an almost relaxed Evan turns to me. His shoulders and cheeks still seem tense as if he’s carrying a heavy burden.

“Come in.” With a sweeping gesture, he motions toward the interior of the apartment.

“Thanks.” I step into Evan Sinclair’s apartment. Not his dorm room. Not the small apartment he shared with a few hockey buddies during his last year in college.

His high-rise apartment overlooking the trees of Central Park.

From the small entryway, you get to the huge living room. To the right is a kitchen separated from the rest of the space by a large island.

On the left, the oversized couch, with its back to the kitchen, serves as a room divider. Elegant furniture complements the living area. But my gaze is drawn to something else.

Without thinking, I walk toward the massive window wall that spans the entire room, behind which the park’s greenery glows.