Gabriel was amazed at how much he hurt, how he ached and burned, how the thought of Sara made everything in him convulse and squeeze in agony.

But he also knew that if there were no pain, there would never have been pleasure.

That was what living with mortals had taught him. To appreciate the beautiful moments, the joy, the love, the now.

The bartender was wiping down the counter, her thick brown hair falling across her face. She tucked it behind her ear and Gabriel saw a scar on her cheek, running from the right ear to her chin, a jagged white line that was shiny and bright against the rich end-of-summer tan glowing on the rest of her face. She must have sensed his stare because she glanced up at him and smiled, even as her fingertips brushed her scar, like she was conscious of the fact that she had exposed it, that he might be looking at it.

“You going to drink that or just look at it? You’ve been here an hour and you haven’t even taken a sip.” She pulled her hair forward again, covering her imperfection.

He had no intention of drinking his whiskey. It was sitting there to remind him of who he had been and what he was now. To show him that he was a man, master of his own destiny, owner of his actions, and unworthy of pity. He had been granted gifts that he intended to use again.

“I’m here for the company, not the alcohol.”

Her brown eyes went wide. “Are you kidding? Here? Nobody’s good company here, sweetie.”

It was true the clientele was a bit tired and eccentric. Most of the people in the bar seemed to be propped up against the counter, with little conversation or interaction other than that with their glass.

“Do you have a pen and paper?” he asked.

“Here’s a pen.” She tossed one his way, then reached under the counter. “And here’s a paper bag. That’s the best I can do.”

“Thanks. That will work.” While she got someone a beer and emptied ashtrays, Gabriel sketched her, capturing the lushness of her lips, the thickness of her hair, the wide eyes and high cheekbones.

When he was done, he gestured to her.

“You want another one?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at his still-full glass. “Or how about a soft drink or something?”

“I just wanted to show you.” He pushed the bag over to her, wanting her to see her the way he did, as a work of art, a thing of beauty, a woman with a lovely smile, and a cheerful approach to a thankless job.

Her curious gaze turned to shock, then pleasure. “It’s me,” she said in wonder. “I think.”

“Of course it’s you.”

“You made me look . . . sort of pretty.” Her fingers touched the paper.

“That’s how I see you,” he told her.