Come Again (Big Rock)

Fine, many are beautiful too.

A pack of women in short, slinky dresses enters, and I greet them all by name.

“Hello, Allison.”

“Good to see you, Lena.”

“Lovely dress, Priya.”

The men come next.

“How’s it going, Mateo?”

“You still owe me a hundred bucks from the hockey game, Sam.”

“Is that truly you in the flesh, Pieter?”

Soon, the plush living room teems with a sea of gorgeous humanity, and my hosts and hostesses start their jobs. I look around at the crowd, satisfied with the mingling, then I open the door again, greeted by two beautiful women. One redhead, one brunette. The auburn-haired beauty is Hazel Valentine.

Next to her is a woman who makes me do a double take. Chestnut hair falls in silky waves, curling over her shoulders. Skinny jeans hug her toned legs, burgundy heels make her taller, and a black top slopes off one creamy shoulder, inviting a kiss.

I can’t quite place her. But as my gaze zooms in on her mouth—red, lush, shiny—I wonder if Hazel’s plus one is someone I already know.

Perhaps someone I met a few weeks ago. Someone who slipped away.

Tonight, I vow to find out.

* * *

Easton and Bellamy’s romance continues in the full-length novel COME AGAIN. Turn the page . . .

Part I

Come Again

8

Maybe I Like Playing with My Food Too

But I have to set aside the quest for the identity of the party crasher. I’ve got an event to host and guests to mingle with.

I have introductions to lubricate.

That’s what I do for the next hour, though I don’t let my gaze stray long from the woman in black.

Not as I talk to Priya and Sam, or Pieter and Lena, and now Mateo and Allison. Not as I lean against a mantel and share a self-deprecating tale with them in the corner of the living room.

“And that’s why it’s always a good idea to carry a Leatherman. You never know when you might need to MacGyver your way out of a situation,” I say, clapping Mateo on the shoulder, his cue that it’s time for him to take over the conversation.

“Yes, never leave home without it,” he says to the lovely Allison, who laughs and lifts her champagne glass.

“Words to live by,” she declares, and I slip away from the pair now that I’ve greased the wheel.

As I weave through the crowd, my eyes hunt once again, quickly acquiring the target. She’s at the bar, almost like she’s waiting for me.

How about that?

I thread a path through the room, headed for where the party crasher perches on a bar stool, tall and elegant. She’s mouthing something as she taps her foot on the floor—maybe she’s rehearsing what to say.

“You’re Hazel’s friend, aren’t you? If you’re practicing meeting someone, I can make it easier for you,” I offer in my warmest host voice.

She turns to me, and I’m almost certain she’s my Daisy.

But why would my Daisy show up at my party? Does she regret walking out the door at Spencer’s bar? Is she here for me? Or is she looking to meet some other man? Better not be the latter. Not if she’s who I think she is. I need to know for sure.

“Yes,” she says. “There’s someone in particular I was hoping to speak to.” Her voice is slightly different. Less purr . . . more personable.

“I know everyone here,” I say, studying the cut of her jaw, the angles of her face. Do they line up with the image in my memory?

I’m almost positive that they do.

She lifts her chin, her eyes full of challenge. “Do you, now?”

“Yes. Except for a certain party crasher.” I motion to the bartender, raising two fingers.

The mustached man who holds the keys to the liquor slides over. “What can I get for you, Mister Ford?”

I meet the woman’s gaze. Those brown eyes take me back to two weeks ago. They were all I had to go on that night.

Her eyes and her lips.

I gaze up, down, up, down, returning again and again to those lips.

Pretty sure I’d recognize them anywhere.

Yeah, she’s my Daisy. Now, why’s she here?

Since she busted me with my favorite drink before, I turn to Cal and change it up. “A martini please, Cal. Dry.” Then I gesture to the beauty. “And for you?”

She swallows instead of answering right away, and I can’t resist. “Perhaps a Macallan?” I suggest.

Her face is stony; she doesn’t break. “Prosecco would be great,” she says.

So that’s how we’re doing it. Fine by me. “And is that your favorite drink?” I ask.

“I don’t have favorites.”

“Surely, you must. A woman who has strong opinions must have favorites.”

“Not when it comes to drinks, at least.” She tucks a strand of that wavy hair behind one ear. She hardly wears any jewelry. No earrings either. There’s a simplicity to her style that’s intriguing but also hard to read. “I like to keep an open mind,” she adds.