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Levi jerked his chin and sauntered into my studio just as my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I slid it out as a text message lit up the screen.

Ana: Dropping off Raff’s snorkeling goggles now. Be outside in two.

My chest tightened at the sight of the words; hell, I still ached for her.

I tucked the device away as I caught the sound of a car pulling up.

My heart kicked, and I took a breath.

Prowling to the front door, I opened it before she rang the bell.

I found Ana strolling toward the porch, holding a pair of goggles.

It was hot out, and I broke into a sweat, but the weather wasn’t the only culprit.

She was just as much to blame for raising my freakin’ temperature.

I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned on the jamb, studying her approach with what I hoped was an impassive expression.

It was my only armor against the onslaught of her extraordinary beauty, for her elegant grace always made my heart lurch.

At five-foot-ten, she looked up at me from beneath my six-foot-two frame.

Her dark hair, styled in thick, generous waves, fell past her shoulders.

I recalled the sensation of running my hands through it, and I clenched my fists to keep myself from stepping toward her and sinking my fingers into her silken tresses.

She wore an oversized white vintage tee tucked into high-waisted linen trousers.

All class, head to toe.

The kind of woman who gave chills to every man who set eyes on her.

What her clothes hid were great fuckin’ legs, long and muscled.

Also, her tits, out of this world, rounded and plump, and her ass, tight and freakin’ lush.

My thoughts jumped to how Ana’s hips had often made me groan when she swirled herself on me in the throes of lovemaking as my hand spanned a waist crowned by her floating navel diamond piercing.

Fuck.

Today, she wore kitten heels, and her skin, kissed by the Tennessee sun, was honey-gold, accentuating the faint dusting of freckles across her nose.

Thick lashes framed her rare amber-hued eyes, the same as our son’s.

Ana was the queen of using her stunning gaze to pierce through you, speaking without a single word.

She was my dream girl, my forever leading lady, but she was not mine.

She now belonged to a debonair, Oscar-winning 51-year-old Italian actor who whisked her away and married her, six months after we divorced.

‘De Stella.’

‘Vega.’

We still kept up our ritual of using each other’s surnames whenever we saw each other in person.