“Aurora, always observant and quick-witted.” I throw her an impatient smile. My coat is over her shoulders, because I remember she is always cold. What I never got the chance to tell her is that I’m always so unbearably hot.

We really were quite good together. At least for twenty-four hours.

She takes a step back, looking wary, wide-eyed—a frightened animal who just heard the deadly click of a trigger. She shouldn’t be. I would never hurt her. Physically, anyway. Wasn’t I the only muppet to give her the time of the day when she was in Ireland? Yes, yes, I was.

There’s an elephant in the room, and if she thinks I’ll take mercy on her by addressing it, she’s about to discover New Mal is nothing like the one she left behind.

“Why…how…what are you doing here?” She blinks.

Seeing her like this, confused and disoriented, is not giving me the instant gratification I’d imagined getting all those years, in case we ever met again. And knowing Aurora, it’s not going to last long. She’ll find her footing soon.

I had the luxury of spotting her as soon as I walked through the doors this evening. I needn’t a single glance to recognize her. She is, after all, tattooed in my mind, permanent and painful.

“Work,” I say. “You?”

“Same.” She clears her throat, straightening her back, gaining her composure. “You’re a singer now? That’s great, Mal.”

“I write songs,” I correct, taking a sip of my whiskey. I can tell she’s shocked and hurt by the fact that I’m not hurling myself at her with love declarations. That makes both of us, if you ask twenty-two-year-old Mal.

“You?” I jut my chin in her direction.

“Photographer for Blue Hill Records.” She smiles, trying to break the ice. “Gosh, Mal. I never thought I’d see you again. But I see we’re still as predictable as the places we come from.”

“Speak for yourself.” I run my eyes down her body, making a point not to stop anywhere of previous interest. “You might be predictable. I have a few new tricks up my sleeve.”

Her smile falls. She opens her mouth to say something. Argue, probably—Aurora’s always been feisty, and I doubt that’s changed—when the balcony doors open and Jeff Ryner stumbles out.

Jeff Ryner is what happens when every cliché in the fecking book meets a man with zero personality, deep pockets, and an impressive heritage. It’s like he was Frankensteined in the basements of some low-budget Hollywood studio. The washed-up, coked-up, slimy, record Suit.