Over the years?

My heart flutters as I close the distance slowly to accept his warm, callused fingers. “Likewise. I mean, I heard a lot about you over that summer.”

“I can imagine.” Jeremy’s lips curl into a secretive smirk and it reminds me so much of the younger, playful version of Kyle from camp, I’m left gaping at him.

He turns to Kyle. “What time are you off tonight?”

“Eleven.” Kyle gives his brother a tense look. A warning. For what, though?

“ ’Kay, I’ll text to let you know where we’re at so we can meet up.”

“Sounds good.”

Jeremy takes a step backward. And grins. “Unless you want to swing by and meet Kyle when he gets off, Piper? ’Cause I know he wants you to.”

“I . . . uh . . .” I stammer a moment, caught off guard. My gaze flips between Jeremy and Kyle, who looks ready to leap over the counter and strangle his brother. “I have a charity gala thing.”

“No worries. Come by our place sometime. We’re at Seventeen Cherry Lane. Number Seven-one-seven. Easy to remember. Seventeen cherries. Seven-one-seven.”

“You’re kidding me.” My memory begins churning. “Kyle was in Cabin Seventeen at Wawa.” And the cherries . . .

“Must be a sign.” Jeremy laughs at the daggers Kyle shoots from his eyes. “Have fun at your charity gala thing, Piper.”

“I will. Thank you,” I murmur, my gaze following him out. He doesn’t have Kyle’s sleek walk; his gait is more bouncy. Still . . . “I can’t get over how much you two look alike.”

“We take after our mom. So does Max. Ricky is more like my dad,” Kyle says calmly, as if his brother’s gentle ribbing hasn’t fazed him.

I glimpse the waiting black sedan outside, reminding me that I have somewhere to be. “I guess I should grab those shoes.”

His gaze drifts over me, much like his little brother’s did. “You look . . . good,” Kyle finally offers in a stilted voice, his throat bobbing with a hard swallow.

And for a moment there, I remember what it felt like to be sixteen, to have my heart flutter from Kyle’s undivided attention. His adoration.

“Thank you.” A satisfied smile touches my lips as I swipe through the security gate. Suddenly the hours of primping with hair and makeup appointments don’t feel like a waste of my time, if it means leaving Kyle nearly speechless.

“Really good!” he hollers just as the elevator doors are closing on me, as if finally finding his tongue and his courage.

I rush upstairs to my office, kicking off my heels and sliding on the silver Manolos, excitement coursing through my veins where there was only dread before. This feels like kismet. That’s what Ashley would say. It’s kismet that we’ve crossed paths. Kismet that we can’t seem to stay away from each other. The universe wants us to pick up where we left off, to erase the damage my father inflicted upon our young hearts.

Clearly, I’ve been spending too much time with Ashley. Yet, I can’t deny that any excuse I can find to ditch this benefit altogether and linger in the lobby for the rest of Kyle’s shift is tempting.

When I head back downstairs, Kyle is exactly where I left him.

He watches me approach and, I swear, his chest sinks in a long, slow exhale, as if taking a calming breath. “Find what you were looking for?”

I hook a finger along the split of my dress and pull the skirt back to model the crystals on my toes, knowing damn well that the move is flirtatious. My heart races with the thought of flirting with Kyle again. “Better, right?”

His lips part as if to answer, but stall as his eyes drift over my bare leg. He swallows. “So much better.”

“You can’t tell the difference, can you—”

“Not if my life depended on it,” he admits, dipping his head with his smile.

“So you’re working until eleven tonight?”

“Yeah.” His steady gaze lifts to meet mine again. “Why?”

I shrug nonchalantly. “I might have to stop by again later. You know . . . to grab another pair of shoes.”

His lips twitch with amusement at my pathetic lie.

Is what Jeremy said true? Does Kyle want to see me later tonight?

It’s a long moment before he gives me an almost imperceptible nod. “I’ll be here.”

“Have fun.”

“You, too.” A tiny, crooked smile answers me.

With that, I turn and head for the exit.

“You look really good,” he calls after me.

“You already said that.”

I’m grinning as I climb into the town car.

“You’re not yourself, Piper.” My dad nods at Roy Molson, a hedge fund exec who we’ve met with on more than one occasion in our hunt for investors. “You’ve barely said five words to me. You ignored Larry Muntt—”

“Don’t worry, he was too busy staring at my breasts to notice,” I throw back. That’s what the slimy old man—another Wall Street type—does every time we cross paths at these things.

Dad grunts. He knows as much. “And I don’t think you’ve smiled once in the last half hour.”

I turn to give him a wide closed-lip smile that is forced and not at all friendly.

His brow tightens. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing. Tired,” I mutter, taking a long sip from my flute of champagne.

“Learn to put on a good front.” He waves down a passing server to pluck a shrimp cocktail from the silver platter, before dismissing him entirely. There are times when my father’s high-pedigree upbringing translates into shockingly poor basic manners—such as when he fails to acknowledge wait staff as human beings.

The older gentleman holds the platter in front of me. “No, but thank you,” I make a point of saying, and then let my gaze wander over the chic art gallery and sea of faces—most familiar, if only by sight—as an excuse to avoid further eye contact with my father.

“You haven’t eaten anything tonight,” Dad notes with more displeasure.

“I never eat at these things. Only men eat at these things.” I used to, until I spent thirty minutes smiling and staring into the eyes of a prominent city council member while we talked, acutely aware of the piece of spinach stuck between his front teeth and doing my best not to let my gaze veer downward. He took it as a sign that I was interested and invited me back to his hotel room. Since then I’ve drawn the line at food and deep talks with politicians.