Halfway across the window, he’s paused to look at something on his phone. As I watch on in shock, I feel my heart start to beat a little faster.
It’s definitely him.
Max. Max Gardner.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, pushing back my stool with a scrape, so hard it almost falls over. I abandon Caleb and my drink, elbowing my way through the crowd and finally out onto the street. The coldness of the air after the warmth of the pub draws a gasp from my mouth that feels like my heart leaping to my throat.
“Max” is all I say.
He looks up, and I take him in—black woolen coat, pinstriped suit, same gleam to his gaze, same sharp jawline, no trace of aging on his handsome face. Tall, fair, gravitas just standing still. Briefly, he is motionless. The moment has cast its spell.
I rummage in my stomach for my voice. “Hi.”
He smiles gently, steps toward me. “Oh my God. It’s really you.Hi.”
Two
We air-kiss, which is ridiculous, because Max and I used to laugh at people who did that, and then stand back to take each other in. For the second time tonight, I curse the fact I’m looking decidedly less than sharp, that particular kind of frazzled you become when you’ve had way too much on your mind.
Max and I aren’t connected on social media, and like any good lawyer, he keeps his Facebook and Instagram private. I’ve never been able to bring myself to friend or follow him, but I do check his LinkedIn from time to time. It never changes: Real Estate Litigation Lawyer at Heyford West White, or HWW if you’re into acronyms, an American law firm with its UK offices in the City.
His profile picture—professionally shot and classic Max—matches up pretty well to the man standing in front of me. Killer jawline, sandy hair, devilish gaze. The kind of expression that confirms he’ll take your case seriously, but with a glint that hints he’ll be celebrating hard when he wins.
The person you were meant to be with, my heart whispers without permission.The one that got away.
“What...” I say eventually, because one of us has got to start speaking. “What are you doing here?”
“Work. Well, sort of.” He rubs his jaw, looks uncharacteristically sheepish. “I had a meeting just off the M2, then I thought... might as well carry on, take a trip down memory lane.”
Memory lane. You were thinking about me.
“I was actually debating trying to get in touch with you, but...” He trails off. “Wasn’t sure if you lived here anymore, or if you’d even want to see me, or...”
“No, it’s... Of course I’d want to see you.” I smile, emotions quick-stepping around inside me. “What was the work thing? Anything fun?”
He laughs. “Not even slightly. Just a site visit. High-rise office development. Allegedly stealing light from neighboring buildings. All very dull.”
I smile at theallegedly. “You achieved your dream, then. To be a lawyer.”
As he smiles and nods, I catch a glimmer of pride in his eyes, which is more than merited. I feel oddly gratified by the sight of lawyer Max, in his smooth white shirt and charcoal-gray tie, thriving and smart, everything he ever wanted to be.
We catch up for a few minutes, about his life in London, and the strange turn my professional life has taken today, before it starts to feel a bit ridiculous that we’re having this conversation standing out on the pavement, a Friday-night tide of people forced to part around us.
I clear my throat. “Listen, do you fancy getting a drink, or...?”
“Actually,” he says, checking his watch and grimacing gently, “I have to get back to London. I’ve got a flight at stupid o’clock tomorrow, and I’ve not even packed. This was all a bit... spur-of-the-moment.”
The thrill in my chest subsides. Maybe his old urge to escape me still lingers. But I make myself smile. “Lucky you. Anywhere nice?”
“Seychelles. Two weeks.”
“By yourself?” It’s out of my mouth before I can help it.
He shakes his head. “Diving. It’s a group thing.”
“That sounds amazing,” I say, privately relieved—though of course it’s not my right to be—that it’s not a romantic getaway for two. “Well, maybe when you get back we can—”
“Definitely,” he says, looking right into my eyes, making my stomach twitch with pleasure. “We’ve got nearly ten years to catch up on.”
