August Came?

Paul called me at eleven-thirty that morning.

I let it ring.

He called again at eleven-forty-two.

I let that one ring too.

At twelve-oh-seven, a text appeared on my phone.

Paul: Dinner tonight. Let me make up for six years ago.

I stared at the message while sipping my coffee. Six years ago, I would have answered before the first ring finished. Apparently, personal growth looked a lot like leaving Paul Belcourt on read.

Unfortunately, revenge required participation.

Me: I have plans.

His response came almost immediately.

Paul: The Harlow Arts Foundation gala?

I frowned. Of course he knew. Half the city's old money would be there tonight, along with donors, critics, gallery owners, and anyone else wealthy enough to spend five thousand dollars on dinner and call it philanthropy.

Me: Maybe.

Three dots appeared.

Paul: Have a drink with me there.

I waited four minutes. Not because I was counting, but because I was absolutely counting.

Me: One drink.

The response was instant.

Paul: Looking forward to it, Mel.

My smile disappeared. Mel. God, I hated that. Six years ago, I had loved it. Tonight, I could tolerate it for one drink. Maybe two, if he was particularly easy to manipulate.

The Harlow Museum looked like someone had poured champagne over a marble palace. Crystal chandeliers glittered above hundreds of guests in black tie, a string quartet playing near the grand staircase.

Six years ago, I had attended events like this on Paul's arm. Tonight, my name was printed directly on the program:

MELODY BROOKS

OWNER, AINSLEY THEATER

PLAYWRIGHT, THE WOMAN HE CHOSE

I had stared at those three lines longer than I cared to admit before closing the program and ordering champagne.

"Melody."

I knew the voice before I turned. Paul stood behind me in a black tuxedo, blond hair perfectly styled, pale blue eyes fixed on me. Exactly the kind of man my mother once thought I should thank God for choosing me.

I couldn't believe I'd ever agreed with her.

"Paul."

His gaze moved slowly over my dress. Emerald green tonight. Silk, fitted, low-backed, expensive enough that my twenty-four-year-old self would have had a small heart attack over the price.

"You look incredible."

I lifted my champagne. "You said that last night."

"I meant it last night." His eyes dipped again. "I mean it more tonight."

There it was. That effortless Belcourt charm. Once, it had made my stomach flutter. Tonight it mostly made me wonder how many women he'd practiced it on.

Paul stepped closer. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

"To an event I've been scheduled to attend for three months?"

His smile widened. "I meant the drink."

"Ah."

A waiter passed, and Paul took two fresh glasses, handing one to me. "To second chances."

I looked at the champagne, then at him. "That's ambitious."

"You always liked ambitious."

I tapped my glass against his anyway. Paul's smile told me he'd already counted it as a victory.

Excellent.

We moved toward the edge of the ballroom, where the noise softened.

"So," Paul said, "six years."

"I can count."

He laughed. "You always did have a mouth on you."

"No. I developed one."

Something flickered across his face, but he recovered. "I deserved that."

"You did."

"I've thought about you."

I nearly choked on my champagne. "Have you?"

"More than you probably think."

"That must have been exhausting."

"Mel..."

I smiled pleasantly. "Call me Melody."

His eyebrows lifted. "Seriously?"

"Very."

For the first time, Paul's confidence slipped. Only for a second, then he smiled again. "Melody."

"Much better."

He studied me. "You've changed."

"People do."

"Not this much."

"What does that mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"I'd love to hear you explain it."

His gaze swept over me again, something almost hungry in it. "You're different."

"I certainly hope so."

"Confident."

"I was always confident." A lie, and we both knew it.

"Come on. You barely spoke at events like this."

"Maybe I didn't have anything worth saying to the people I was standing beside."

That landed. His smile tightened before a short laugh. "God, I forgot how stubborn you could be."

No, I thought. He hadn't forgotten. He had simply never noticed.

Paul leaned one shoulder against the marble column. "We were young."

"You were twenty-seven."

"That's young."

"For a tortoise, maybe."

He laughed again, but I didn't, and his amusement faded.

"What happened between us was complicated," he said.

"No, it wasn't."

"Melody..."

"You cheated."

"I made mistakes."

"Repeatedly."

His jaw tightened. "I was under a lot of pressure. The wedding. My father. The company. Everyone had expectations."

"Did those expectations force your pants off?"

His eyes widened as I took another sip of champagne.

"Because that would be an interesting medical condition."

"Jesus, Melody."

"What?"

"I'm trying to apologize."

"No, you're explaining."

He exhaled. "Fine. I fucked up."

"Spectacularly."

"I fucked up spectacularly. But you disappeared! You left before I could explain anything."

"I'd seen enough."

"You didn't even give me a chance to fix it."

I stared at him. Paul actually looked sincere, which was the frightening part. Six years later, he still believed there had been something left to fix.

"We both made mistakes," he added.

I almost laughed. Same Paul. Better tuxedo, same man. "My mistake was catching you?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what was mine?"

"You ran. You shut everyone out. Nobody could reach you."

"Nobody tried very hard."

"I tried."

"You were blocked."

"Exactly."

Somehow, in Paul's mind, my refusal to speak to him after catching him cheating had become evidence against me. Amazing.

"I was angry too," he said. "You humiliated me at our engagement party. In front of everyone."

"You were fucking another woman upstairs."

His eyes darted around us nervously, making me smile. "Careful, Paul. Someone might hear."

His jaw clenched as he stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You're still angry."

"No."

"Yes, you are." He looked almost pleased by it. "You wrote an entire play about us."

"About me."

"Come on." His smile returned, warm, confident, infuriating. "Nobody spends six years thinking about a man she doesn't still have feelings for."

I could only stare at him. Then I smiled, and Paul smiled back, convinced he'd won something. How adorable.

"Maybe you're right," I said softly.

Interest sharpened in his eyes instantly. I reached out and smoothed an imaginary piece of lint from his lapel. Paul went completely still.

Hook. Line. Idiot.

Across the ballroom, someone laughed. I glanced toward the sound and spotted August near the grand staircase, speaking with two older men in tuxedos. He wore black tonight, his dark hair swept neatly back. He looked expensive, severe, and completely uninterested in me.

August glanced over, his eyes landing briefly on my hand against Paul's chest before looking away.

I frowned, and Paul caught the movement. "What?"

"Nothing." I removed my hand.

"Who are you looking at?"

"No one."

Paul followed my gaze anyway, his expression shifting when he spotted his brother. I knew every version of Paul's smile. The one on his face now was the one he wore when someone else had something he wanted.

Interesting.

"August came?" I asked casually.

"My family supports the Harlow Foundation."

"How charitable."

"Don't start."

"I didn't say anything."

"You never have to."

A few minutes later, August crossed the ballroom toward us, like a man walking toward a meeting he'd rather cancel.

"Paul."

"August."

His gaze moved to me. "Miss Brooks."

I lifted my glass. "Mr. Belcourt."

Paul looked between us. "You two seem formal."

"Your brother threatened me with litigation this morning," I said.

Paul's head snapped toward August. "You did what?"

"I made Miss Brooks an offer to purchase the production."

"To buy my silence," I corrected. "Same thing."

Paul stared at his brother. "You went to see her this morning?"

There it was again. That tiny, competitive flash. August noticed it too. "Nine o'clock."

Paul looked at me. "You didn't mention that."

"I wasn't aware I needed to submit my schedule for approval."

"You don't."

August sighed. "I'm going to get a drink."

"Your brother and I were discussing second chances," I noted.

August stopped. Paul looked pleased. August looked at Paul, then at me. "That sounds like a terrible idea."

"For who?"

"Everyone."

I smiled into my champagne. Someone called Paul's name from across the ballroom. He glanced over, then back at me. "Don't disappear."

"I'll try to control myself."

Paul hesitated before walking away. August watched him go.

"So," I said.

"No."

"I haven't said anything."

"I've discovered that's rarely necessary."

Asshole. He reached for a glass of champagne from a passing tray. "You seem to be enjoying yourself."

"Immensely."

"Your brother wants me back."

August took a sip. "I noticed."

"Does that bother you?"

"No."

The answer came far too quickly. Not because he was lying, but because he genuinely didn't care. I hated that.

I stepped closer into his space. "You're very difficult to provoke."

"I manage a corporation. People try every day."

"And here I thought I was special."

"I didn't say you weren't."

My pulse gave one irritating little jump. August looked past me toward Paul, and I followed his gaze. Paul was watching us, looking away the second I caught him.

A thought clicked into place: Paul wanted me, but more than that, Paul wanted to win. And August had probably been the measuring stick Paul had been trying to beat his entire life.

This could be useful. Very useful.

I smiled, and August's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Nothing."

"I don't believe you."

"Smart man."

I reached up and adjusted the lapel of his tuxedo jacket. It didn't need adjusting, but I left my hand there a second longer than necessary. August looked down at my hand, then at me. Nothing. No sharp inhale, no widening eyes, not even a twitch.

"What are you doing?"

"Fixing your jacket."

"There was nothing wrong with my jacket."

"You're welcome."

August glanced over my shoulder, then back at me, his expression hardening. "You're using me to make my brother jealous."

I widened my eyes innocently. "Is it working?"

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

He leaned down, close enough that I caught the clean, expensive scent of his cologne. My pulse jumped.

His voice dropped low. "Play games with me, Miss Brooks."

I smiled up at him. "Who said I was playing?"