The low-rise apartment where Megan lived came into view. He was lucky and found a spot just fifty yards from the path leading to her home and right beneath a street lamp. He drew to a halt and killed his lights, turned off the engine. He grabbed the chilled bottle of Moët he’d picked up from his local off-licence and got out of the car.

His stomach was tense, though he was looking forward to their evening. Seeing her smile, hearing her voice, kissing her lips—it was all so good. On top of that he had quite a proposition to put on the table.

He dodged a jogger wearing a flashing headlight strapped to his brow, then strode to apartment six. He started to rehearse in his mind what he’d say. How he’d ask her. Should he show her a picture of his Malibu pad? The views of the Pacific and down towards Santa Monica were stunning—surely that would sell it to her if she had any doubts.

Doubts. Damn it. In his fantasy her face lit up at the suggestion of coming to the States with him. In his fantasy she threw her arms around him telling him what a perfect idea it was and when were they going?

He hoped to hell the reality matched that fantasy. She’d love LA, it would match her sparkly personality, her glittery shoes, her love of glamour.

All she had to do was say yes.

As he walked to the main entrance, he saw movement in Megan’s kitchen window. It was her.

His heart flipped.

His steps faltered.

The window was brightly lit, no curtains or blind drawn, and from the darkness it seemed the room was like a TV screen.

She had company.

He stopped.

She had male company.

A sinking feeling landed like an anchor in his belly. He couldn’t see Megan’s face. Her back was to the window, her hair catching the light from the overhead spots in the kitchen. But the beefy guy she was with clearly knew her well.

It was the expression on his face that told the story. It was full of adoration and longing and he had a softness in his eyes as he looked at her.

This unknown man, who James hated on sight, walked up to Megan and seemingly caressed her cheek.

She didn’t move.

James increased his grip on the neck of the bottle of Moët.

What the hell is going on?

The guy pushed a lock of Megan’s silky hair behind her ear. A smile spread on his face as he spoke, his head lowering to her lips.

James thought he might puke. His stomach churned. Everything he’d thought he had to look forward to, not just for the evening ahead, but for the weeks ahead, beyond, slipped like sand through a timer. Falling from his grasp.