Christmas piano music filled the reception hall with its tinkly joy. Smiling, glittering people moved around one another, talking animatedly. But Thorne sat by himself. He’d talked no more that evening than social obligation dictated. More than once he’d been asked if he was feeling okay. After dismissing Peggy’s concerns with a flippant answer about possibly coming down with something, he’d given his speech, hoping it didn’t sound as flat as he felt. Then he’d wandered the room, halfheartedly looking for Kathryn in the crowd. When he couldn’t locate her, he settled on a bench near the spot where he and Dash had stood after he’d punched the shit out of Collins; that had felt so good. The painting Dash had picked out had arrived a few days after he’d left, and it still sat in Thorne’s guest room, wrapped up, waiting.

I want him back.

The thought startled Thorne, not the sentiment—he’d wanted Dash back since the moment he’d walked out the door—but the fact that for the first time, he considered actually fighting for him.

Kathryn found him a few moments later. He patted the space beside him, and she sat. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. No. If you had to win Derek back, what would you do?”

“Win him back?”

Thorne’s mind was moving too fast to stop for a long explanation. “Just say, God forbid, something happened and you split up.”

“Are you finally ready to fight for Dash?”

“Maybe. Yes.”

“Hmm.” Kathryn pondered the question. “I’d recreate some important memory, like our first date or the trip we took on our tenth anniversary.”

“We didn’t have a first date or really any dates but…special moments. We had plenty of those.” Thorne thought about the time he’d spent with Dash. It was only a few months, but it felt like so much longer. Sailing together. That had been special. “It’s too cold to go sailing,” he mused.

Kathryn nodded in agreement.

They hadn’t been out that many times. They’d spent much more time inside, lying around, watching movies.

Suddenly, he knew exactly what he should do. Please let this work.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Marc gave Riley a confused look. “Is that…”

“Peter Gabriel,” Riley and Marc said in unison.

They raced to the window, and Marc jerked the cord to raise the blinds, tangling them as they rushed upward.

Thorne stood beside his sleek Mercedes, wearing a dark suit and a beard that looked damn good on him. He was also holding his phone and Bluetooth speakers in the air, blasting “In Your Eyes” louder than speakers that small should go. Of course he’d have the best tech.

Why am I thinking about tech? My former lover—former client—is re-enacting Say Anything in front of my apartment.

“Oh my fucking God!” Marc said, never taking his eyes from Thorne.