The hands fall away, and I turn to see—

“Isaiah?”

Isaiah Serna grins at me. I haven’t seen him in years, not since my community college days. He’s older (hell, we all are now) but still looks good. His dark hair is shorter now, almost buzzed close to the scalp. He’s still got those ridiculously thick eyebrows, and his dark eyes flash at me. His smile has a hint of teeth behind it.

He’s dressed nicely, a suit coat over an expensive dress shirt, his skinny tie a little loose at the throat. He’s bigger than I remember him being, his arms nicely defined even through the sleeves.

This is not what I was expecting to happen.

“You know,” he says, “I was just thinking about you the other day when I came back into Seafare. I wondered what Derrick McKenna could possibly be up to these days. And then I get here tonight, and I see this man sitting at the bar, and he’s hot, right? And maybe I’m thinking that I should get myself a drink, maybe cruise this guy a little, scope out the situation. See what was what. Imagine my surprise that I see it’s the guy I’d been thinking about only a few days before. Funny how that works out, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I say, thrown a little off-kilter. “Like, funny ha ha.”

“Sure,” he says, taking a step forward so our knees bump together. I’m still seated on the stool, and he’s standing in front of me. We’re almost eye to eye. “Like, funny ha ha.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask, curious. “Last I heard, you’d moved to Seattle.”

His smile widens a little bit. “Checking up on me?” he teases.

I roll my eyes. “Good to know nothing’s changed.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. A friend’s wedding is this weekend. In town for that.” He glances down at my hands for some reason, his smile curving slightly before he looks back up at me. “And what about you? What brings you out on this fine summer evening?”

How do you tell the guy that used to hit on you quite ferociously that you are role-playing stranger danger with your husband because you didn’t want to have a three-way like the internet told you to?

Truth is, you don’t.

So I say, “Um.”

“That right,” he says. “Buy you a drink?”

“That’s not—”

“Maker’s Mark,” he tells the bartender, who has appeared again as if by magic. “No ice. And whatever my friend here is having.”

“Look, I’m here to meet—”

“Fate is a fickle thing,” Isaiah says, obviously posing against the bar, flexing his arms like I’m going to drop trou right then and there and hold my asscheeks apart. “Can bring two people back together after all this time. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

“Wow,” I say. “That was pretty damn smooth. Good job.”

He winks at me. “Thanks. So glad to know it’s working.”