One to Chase (One to Hold 7)

“What the hell did you just say?”

We both laugh, and my flashy friend emits a kitten sigh. “I’ve changed since you left. I’m tragically encyclopedic in my linguistics.”

“I’m not sure you’re even making sense,” I reply. “How did this happen? I checked in pretty regularly with you.”

“You missed the day to day struggle living under an Orwellian regime.”

My brows knit. “Propagated by... whom?”

“Karen, of course. Once you left, Pill-butt installed herself at the top of the ladder, and all the drones fell in line. It was ghastly.” The sound of sliding doors is in the background, and C.J.’s voice loses the tragi-comedy. “But enough of that. Let’s go out. Studio Orleans is tres chic—although you’ll think it’s too fou just in from Paris and all.”

“Tonight?” Mentally, I’d already prepared to cuddle on the couch with a good book and another Chardonnay.

“Tonight.” His tone is firm. “Everyone goes to Studio O. You can get the jump on Karen and remind her who’s the baddest bitch in town.”

“Oh, good god, we’re not starting all that again.”

“Of course not. I was only teasing.” More sounds of movement behind him. “The p

ast is the past, darling.”

My lips tighten as the memories try to come back. “Perhaps, but it seems the players are all still in place.”

“Either way, I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

With a sigh, I concede defeat. I’d come back to Chicago for Sylvia, but if I planned to stay, I’d have to own my past and be the woman I’ve become, stronger than my mistakes, better than social snobbery.

Studio Orleans sits atop an interesting-looking French bistro, and it’s anything but fou. It’s actually modern and geometric. Black triangular couches with white leather cushions are dotted around square metal chairs. The marble-tiled floor is deep black, and a set of tables is reserved for bottle-service only.

By the time I arrive on C.J.’s arm, it’s crowded, and he drags me straight to the bar. Techno is playing in the background, and I pick up the strains of “Dangerous” by my favorite French DJ.

He places a cosmopolitan in my hand, and I wink. “You know me so well.”

I watch C.J. take a long sip of mojito, holding up a slim index finger before he answers. “I know after two of those, you’ll be ready to dance.”

Grinning, I shake my head. “I’ve changed my game. I’m much more sophisticated now.”

My friend removes his tan fedora and passes a hand over his glossy black hair. “You mean you’re a heavyweight?”

“Exactly.” Taking another sip of martini, I assess his boyish face sprinkled with the lightest scruff of a beard. Ice-blue eyes behind hot-pink glasses. “I don’t remember you wearing glasses. Are those real?”

“Of course not. My vision is 20-20.” He shakes his hand in a theatrical maneuver and takes another sip. “It’s my curse.”

“I seem to remember Karen frowns upon flamboyance.”

“I don’t give a shit what Pill-butt thinks. You’re back.” Another long hit of mojito. “She’s probably in her condo bathroom right now wailing and scrubbing her hair. Full-on Faye Dunaway freak-out.”

I can’t stop laughing at the ridiculous image, but his expression changes. Brows up, his posture straightens, and I feel the warmth of a body behind me. My first thought is Karen is right behind me. Turning, I almost wish she were.

Green-hazel eyes sparkle from under light-brown brows, and my body floods with heat. Marcus Merritt is standing in front of me looking as sexy as ever and wearing that same grin that snared me in Wilmington.

“Marcus.” The word escapes my lips on a hot whisper.

“Hello, Amalie.” His low voice sizzles across my skin. Shit. I can’t believe how I respond to him.

C.J. clears his throat softly and shoves a hand in his front pocket.

“Oh—” It breaks the spell. “Marcus, meet one of my oldest friends, Carlton... C.J. Berman.”