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"Dyl, what the hell? This is so fancy," I say, sliding into the booth.

She wiggles her brows as she slips into the other side. "It's not fancy," she says. "It's luxe."

"Well, one thing's for sure… it's out of my league." I spin the bottle in the bucket to read a label I already know I won't recognize. "Who is this Wes guy again?"

"Honestly, I don't know much," she admits. "But he's here somewhere." She stretches her neck, looking around. "He texted and said he's taking care of something in the back real quick. He seems cool, though…"

Dylan keeps going on about how Wes's brother or cousin or uncle maybe—she doesn't remember—is some hotshot athlete around G.C.

I let her talk, scanning the name of the champagne once more for good measure.

I brush my thumb over the raised, gold font on the label, just now noticing how badly chipped my polish is. I laugh to myself at the juxtaposition of it all.

And that's when it happens.

I don't necessarily notice him at first—not really, anyway. Which seems impossible because Jace has always been the kind of person you notice. Even in a room like this.

Especially in a room like this.

But it's the shift that tips me off.

No big scene or movie-like moment. But a subtle change in the energy around us.

In my heart rate.

My stomach drops before I even look over my shoulder.

But I turn anyway.

And there he is.

Across the lounge, just past the bar—leaning against the back wall like he belongs here in a way I never will—is Jace.

He's in a dark shirt and gray bomber jacket with his sleeves pushed up and black denim not quite as tight as mine. His hand—the one I used to hold. The one that recently held a lavender candle like it was a foreign object—is wrapped around a beer. The other is tucked into his pocket making his forearm strain perfectly against his hip.

His head tips slightly, then he laughs—genuine. Effortless. Familiar.

And it's only then that I notice he's talking to someone.

My chest tightens so fast it almost hurts.

Because for a second, I thought this was fate again.

But it isn't kismet. It's cruel.

Because the person he's talking to is a woman. A hot, blonde, probably single girl who is smiling as she drops her hand onto his shoulder like it belongs to her.

"Len?" Dylan taps my arm as I slowly spin back toward the table. Her eyes flick to mine, then behind me again, then once more back and forth. "Oh my God," she says—so calmly somehow. "Is that—"

"Jace Holloway."

His name slips from my mouth, and I instantly want it back. Because just the way I say it tells her everything she needs to know.

"Again?" she asks. "Wait…"

My eyes sink shut.

"No."