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So no, I hadn’t sold the house. I liked having somewhere I could be myself.

“I fucking knew it,” Jerry said, pulling me back to the conversation. “Let’s meet there first, have a few drinks, then go to the club. You can have your fancy driver take us so neither of us has to worry about driving.”

“Seems like you have the whole night planned.”

“Yup.” Jerry laughed. “You still drink bourbon?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll bring a bottle. We can drink at the house and on the way over. Just like old times.”

I glanced at the clock. “Eight-thirty.”

“I was thinking eight.”

“You were never on time for anything. I’m saving us both the trouble.”

“I’ll be there at eight-thirty, asshole.”

“I’ll see you tonight.”

Jerry hung up.

I returned the receiver to its cradle and looked down at the contract in front of me. For some reason, I was no longer interested in reading it.

Jerry had known Samantha longer than I had. Jerry liked to talk, especially after a few drinks, and his ego made it ridiculously easy to get information out of him without making him realize he was giving it away.

If Samantha wouldn’t tell me everything about herself yet, Jerry could fill in some of the blanks.

I drove out toward Preston after six and let myself into the house while there was still light in the windows. I turned on a few lamps and checked the bar to make sure I had enough bourbon. Jerry would drink whatever I put in front of him, and after two or three glasses, he’d probably tell me everything I wanted to know without me having to ask directly.

I loosened my tie and tossed my keys onto the table beside the door.

I’d given Samantha my number and waited four fucking days for her to call me.

She never did.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d given a woman my number and wondered whether she’d use it. Usually, the question was how quickly she’d call, not whether she would. Samantha had decided that ignoring me altogether was a perfectly reasonable option.

So I decided to make myself impossible to ignore.

She was surprised to see me, but she was also flattered. Samantha tried to hide that part behind questions and sarcasm, but she wasn’t nearly as difficult to read as she seemed to think she was.

I poured myself a bourbon and carried it into the living room.

Samantha wanted to see the world. Not resorts or expensive hotels. She wanted galleries and crowded streets and places she’d only ever experienced through somebody else’s photographs.

I could give her that.

Florence. Paris. London. Whatever came after those. She wanted her paintings in galleries. I knew people who owned galleries. She wanted to travel. I could put her on a plane tomorrow. She wanted a life bigger than California. There was no reason she couldn’t have one.

The doorbell rang. I glanced toward the foyer.

For a moment, I considered letting Jerry stand there like the idiot he is, but I had other plans.

I finished my drink and opened the door. Jerry was standing on the porch with a bottle in one hand and a grin on his face.

“Don’t fucking say it.”