Present Day
I stand at the window in the living area of the hotel suite, sipping my coffee as I take in the view of the southeast corner of Central Park. I can see across The Pond to the Nature Sanctuary, and beyond that, the buildings of the Upper West Side rising above the opposite edge of Central Park.
When my coffee is half gone, I hear the sound I’ve been waiting for—the rustling of the sheets. I pick up the second cup of coffee off the windowsill and head back into the hotel bedroom.
He’s propped up on one elbow and his muscles bunch up in ripples across his abdomen. Yep, he’s as fit as he felt in the dark last night.
“Wow,” he says, sleep clinging to his voice as he looks me up and down. I’m in nothing but a T-shirt, and I’ve spent the past twenty minutes fixing my curls from their post-sex messiness.
“I made you coffee,” I tell him as I hold up the to-go cup. “To have on your way home.”
“Ouch. I was ready for round two. You kicking me out already?” His voice is teasing, like he thinks I’m going to say Oh, round two? Yeah, let’s go for that.
“I don’t do this whole next-day thing,” I say, picking up his dress shirt off the floor and tossing it to him. The only reason I didn’t kick him out last night was because I fell asleep, exhausted from a day of travel between Park City, Utah and New York, combined with some pretty decent sex. It wasn’t a terrible way to end my day, but waking up with a stranger in my bed is never my favorite way to start a new one.
His face is screwed up into a mask of confusion as he catches the shirt, but he slips it on. As his fingers work at the buttons, he says, “Just so you know, usually I’m the one gently ushering someone out the door the next morning.”
I hold in my Not this time comment, because there’s no reason to rub salt in the wound. Instead, I say, “I had fun last night.”
“Me too,” he says, swiping his pants off the floor at the edge of the bed. He slides his legs into them as he stands and looks at me while he zips and buttons them. “Maybe we can do it again tonight.”
“I’ve already got plans tonight,” I lie.
“It was worth a shot,” he says. I wait while he gets his socks and shoes on, then I head to the hotel room door, which I hold open for him to indicate it’s time to go. I hand him the to-go cup of coffee on his way out, shut the door behind me, and lean against it, relieved to have the space to myself. I have a lot to do to get ready for this meeting today.
With a courtesy smile for the doorman, I step out the hotel doors and let the crisp, April air wrap itself around me. The bright midday sun hits the buildings and reflects off the windows and limestone, making it feel like the city is lit by a spotlight. People stream past me, muttering their frustration as I stand on the wide sidewalk and take in my favorite city. As much as I’ve tried to ignore and deny it, I have missed New York more than I imagined I would.
I walk along the concrete, my heels pounding the pavement as I head toward the restaurant Emily picked out. It’s only four blocks from my hotel, a luxurious building on Fifth Avenue. I’ll have to figure out who booked my hotel room and thank them.
Emily is waiting outside the restaurant when I arrive, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and the loose pieces framing her face blow freely in the breeze. With her perfectly peachy skin and matte pink lips, she looks like she’s shooting a makeup ad—which makes sense given that she’s currently the face of one of the leading makeup brands in the country. Every single person who passes gives her a second glance, like they’re trying to figure out how they know her.
She opens her arms wide when she sees me and gives me a kiss on the cheek as she pulls me close. “I’ve missed you. It’s been way too long.”
“I know,” I sigh, pulling back and getting a good look at her. I promised I wouldn’t be that girl who moved away and never visited. “It’s just harder to get back here as often as I planned.”
“I know, and I understand.” She pulls open the restaurant door and ushers me inside.
As soon as the waiter has taken our drink order, Emily says, “So tell me everything. Why are you here? And how long are you staying?”
“I don’t actually know,” I tell her as I slide my cream wool jacket off and hang it over the back of my chair.
Her brows furrow. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“My assistant, Morgan, got a call about a week ago from a lawyer here. His client is interested in hiring me for a big event, and wanted to meet with me privately to discuss it. But I don’t know who the client is.”
“You flew across the country for this meeting and you don’t even know who it’s with? That doesn’t sound like you.” Emily furrows her brows as she takes a sip of her water.
She’s right on a hundred different levels. Walking into any situation where I don’t have control of all the moving parts is akin to walking into a pit of snakes.
“According to Morgan, what they’re willing to pay will make it worth it. Besides, a trip to New York was long overdue. It’s all on them, and I get to see you. Win-win. So, I’m headed to that meeting this afternoon.”
“I thought events planned by Petra Volkova were booked a year or more in advance.”
“Usually that’s true. But I had a high-profile society wedding in Park City planned in a month, and the whole thing fell through. I have other smaller events scheduled here and there, but that was the big thing we were working on, and so now I have some room in my schedule.” I consider this a win because I kept the deposit money so if I fill that time with another event, it’ll be like getting paid twice.
“I’m not at all surprised that event planning has turned out to be the right fit for you.” Emily’s smile is the small, private kind—not the dazzling one she flashes for the camera. “If you ever did want to get back into modeling though, let me know. My agent is taking on new clients.”
I shake my head immediately. “There is no way that will happen.”
“She’s not like Ryan,” Emily assures me. The sound of that man’s name is like someone dragging a razor blade down my spine. “She’s wonderful. Supportive of her clients, tough as nails when it comes to negotiating a contract.”
“I’m so happy for you,” I assure her. “But my modeling days are long past. It’s been five years. No one gets back into modeling when they’re thirty.”
“Things have changed,” Emily says. “There are so many more avenues into modeling now. It’s not all catwalks and photoshoots. I make as much money on social media as I do in my official modeling gigs—I only do those to stay relevant.”
“I prefer working behind the scenes. Give me a big fashion show to plan, and I’m your girl. Walking in that show, however . . . those days are over.”
“You belong in front of the camera,” Emily says, shaking her head. “A face and a body like yours? They deserve to be seen.”
“And they are. But only by the people I choose to see them.” Since leaving New York, I’ve built myself a small army of supporters—friends who are like family, employees who would protect and defend me at any cost. However, that small security blanket will get ripped off when I report to LA in a month. But I can’t tell her that because the show I’ll be hosting won’t be announced until we’re well into filming, and according to my contract, I can’t tell anyone about it other than immediate family. In other words, I can’t tell anyone.
After the waiter delivers our drinks and takes our lunch order, Emily holds up her glass. “Well, here’s to you building a new life you love.”
I raise my glass to her toast, even though it’s odd to hear her refer to this as my “new life.” I only modeled for a couple years, then left to do event planning here in New York. After visiting my friend Jackson in Park City during the Sundance Film Festival, I started looking into the event planning market there and recognized a good business opportunity when I saw one. I moved there four years ago to start my own company and have never looked back. It wasn’t the first time I’d reinvented myself, and it won’t be the last.
“And to you,” I tell her. “For sticking with the thing you love, and being even more successful at thirty than you were in your twenties!”
Emily blushes, her cheeks pinking just the perfect amount. “Sometimes it still doesn’t feel real. I thought I’d be irrelevant by now. A suburban housewife looking back on the glory days, you know?”
I laugh. “No. I’ve never even pictured myself married, much less as a suburban housewife.” I tilt my glass to hers. “Here’s to not letting men define us.”
She tilts her glass toward mine before we both take a sip of our drinks, but her lips pull down at the sides.
“What is that look?”
“Hmm?” she asks, looking up at me as if she’s not really seeing me.
“Why do you look sad?”
“How could I be sad, Petra? I have everything I’ve ever wanted.”
I pause and take in her expertly highlighted brown hair; the big brown eyes, thickly arched eyebrows, long lashes, and the high cheekbones that have made her face perfect for modeling; the elegant column of her neck and the slope of her slim shoulders. “What’s missing?” I ask.
The quick intake of breath flares her nostrils—the only indication that I’ve hit on something she doesn’t want to talk about. She doesn’t reply.
“I’m here if you want to talk, okay?” I tell her.
“Everything is fine.” She shrugs and gives me a small smile. “But thank you.”
I wonder what she’s not telling me, but then I think of all the things I haven’t told her about. This woman I lived with for years when I first moved here, someone who was like a sister to me, is almost a stranger now. And that’s mostly my fault.
“I’m here for at least a few more days,” I tell her. “One lunch is not going to be enough time for us to catch up. What other plans are we making?”
Her face lights up, and I realize she’s missed me more than she’s let me know. And given that I’ve always prioritized my friendships with my girlfriends over everything else, I wonder how I let her down so badly—and what I can do to make it up to her.
“I’m Petra Volkova,” I tell the receptionist as I step up to the desk in the lobby of the lawyer’s office. “I’m here to see Tom Shepherd.”
“Oh, yes,” the receptionist says. She stands at the wooden desk she shares with the two other receptionists. I glance behind her where Callahan, MacDonald, Reardon & Shepherd is written across the frosted glass wall in gold lettering. “Mr. Shepherd is expecting you. Follow me.”
She waits for me to step up next to her before she turns and leads me around the glass wall that separates the reception area and the rest of the office. I tower above her as we walk down the aisle between desks. My goal with high-profile clients is to give off the vibe of professional power, and nothing makes me feel more powerful than a well-fitted dress and sky high heels.
Leaning toward me with a conspiratorial grin, she tells me, “I’m probably not supposed to say this, but I’ve just been temping here, so whatever,” she waves her hand in the air like she’s brushing away the stigma around whatever it is she’s about to say. “All the girls in the office are in quite a tizzy today. We always are when he comes in. We’ve all been dying to see who he and Mr. Shepherd are meeting with.”
This type of inane chatter is exactly why I could never work in an office. And though I’m still not sure who he is, I’m guessing that whoever Tom Shepherd called me here to meet is extraordinary in his own right.
“I can’t say that I see what the big deal is,” I shrug, feigning nonchalance while hoping she tells me who I’m meeting with.
She gasps. “Okay, maybe you’re not a hockey fan, but you’re clearly a woman. You can’t possibly be immune to a guy that looks like he does.”
I’m sure my face conveys exactly how unimpressed I am. I know next to nothing about US hockey and care about it even less. I’ve never loved the sport, and Sasha ruined it for me like he ruined so many other things.
“Hockey players don’t impress me,” I tell her as we come to the end of the rows of desks that sit outside the offices lining the wide hallway we just traversed. In front of us is a wall of glass windows looking out over Midtown Manhattan. “There’s something very—” I pause as I search for the word. “—brutal about the sport . . . and the men who play it.”
I’ve actively avoided hockey for the past fourteen years so it’s not like, even if she’d told me his name, I’d have ever heard of this mystery man.
“Brutal, sure.” She shrugs and adds, “But he’s hot as hell.”
She takes a left and I follow her down a hallway of conference rooms with frosted glass doors. When we come to the end of the hallway, an executive assistant sits alone at a desk with her back to another bank of windows. Across from her is a small but elegant waiting area with comfortable chairs, a marble table with a variety of magazines, and an elegantly simple chandelier lighting the space. It feels cozy and graceful and not at all like the waiting area of a high-rise office building.
The assistant stands when we approach. Her light brown hair is coiled on top of her head in a loose but tidy bun, and her tortoiseshell glasses are a brand I wouldn’t think she could afford on an admin’s salary. A smattering of freckles across the tops of her cheeks and the bridge of her nose make her look even younger than she probably is. She nods to the receptionist, dismissing her, then reaches her hand across her desk toward me. “Hello, Ms. Volkova. I’m Avery Parker, Mr. Shepherd’s assistant.”
“Hi, Avery,” I say, shaking her hand. “Please, call me Petra.”
“Right this way, Petra.” She steps around her desk and walks toward the door where the hallway ends. Thomas Shepherd is written across that door in modern raised letters reminiscent of the lettering on the glass wall in the reception area. Inside the office, we can hear raised voices.
She glances at me, obviously not expecting arguing behind the door. She knocks twice and there’s dead silence in there as she pushes the door open for me.
My stomach gives a small lurch as the door swings in, but I make sure I exude confidence on the outside as I take in the imposing space. Natural light from the two adjoining walls of floor-to-ceiling windows floods the far end of this corner office, with dark finishes everywhere else—navy walls, and a sitting area immediately off to the side.
Past that sits a dark walnut desk, the man behind it is presumably Mr. Shepherd. He stands as I walk toward him, saying, “Ms. Volkova, welcome. Please, have a seat.” He gestures to one of the two mid-century modern walnut chairs with leather seats that face his desk. The one that’s empty.
The man in the other chair hasn’t moved since the door opened. He sits there like a hulking beast, his tall and muscular frame barely fitting in the seat. I can tell by the tense lines of his thick neck that there’s raw power beneath an otherwise calm exterior. As I come up behind him, I feel like I’m approaching an animal who could turn and overpower me with no effort at all. Despite my own stature, I feel uncommonly vulnerable as I step up behind that empty chair.
I pull it out and as I prepare to take my seat, and glance down at the man in question right as he glances up at me. Those eyes, the color of steel. That razor sharp jawline, apparent even under the facial hair. Those cheekbones that run along the top edge of the neatly trimmed beard. The permanent scowl. His dark hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it and the lines at the corner of his eyes are new, but I’d still recognize him anywhere.
“Sasha?” My voice is full of wonder, because I’m not sure how he is here after all this time. Fourteen years of no contact has that sense of wonder turning to anger in the pit of my stomach.
His deep voice is a husky growl, achingly familiar even as the man who sits in front of me is so different from the one who left me years ago. “Hello, Petra.”
