My name floats from Jake’s lips, and my entire body freezes. I’d forgotten how much I missed his voice. I turn in his direction, suddenly self-conscious about the cane and the dark glasses, but he crushes me against him before I can even take a step. His smell intoxicates me. His battered leather jacket and familiar aftershave give me a visceral reaction, and I let out a surprised cry. My lips smash into his neck, and I hold him tighter than I’ve ever held anyone. City sounds echo around us, but time threatens to stop.

We stay like that for minutes, embracing each other, remembering.

“I’ve missed you so fucking much,” he whispers against my hair.

I finally extricate myself from his arms. “Me too.”

“Haven’t aged a day,” he says.

“Neither have you,” I joke.

“Still a smartass, I see.”

“Would you have it any other way?”

“Never.”

I take Jake’s elbow and he guides us inside to a table by the window.

“Coffee, black?”

“Sure. Let me…” I fish in my purse for my wallet.

“Don’t insult me, Bec.”

His words send a flush of heat to my chest. A few minutes later, he slides my coffee across the table and sits. God, how I want to drink him in and admire every square inch: muscles, tattoos, scruff, piercing eyes that can level me with a cursory glance. I lean forward and do something I never do. I ask to touch his face.

“Of course you can.” He cocks forward in his chair and leans tenderly into my palms. My fingers tremble as they traverse his flesh. I linger around the new web of laugh lines, the slight stubble on his jaw, the inky lashes that tickle my palms and illuminate gorgeous blue-gray eyes. I travel toward his hairline. His head is still buzzed. I run my hands back toward his ears and neck before releasing him.

He sighs and drums his fingers on the table. “I feel like I need a cigarette.”

I laugh. “Still smoking?”

“In case of emergencies only.”

“With your line of work, I’m assuming there are a lot of emergencies.” I take a sip of coffee and burn my tongue. I blow on the brew and twist my paper cup. “Tell me everything.”

“You first.”

“No, really.” I nod at him. “Yours is hopefully far less depressing than mine.”

He tells me CPD had been asking him back for years, but he’d just recently moved home. He lingers on the word home. Does he mean me? Memories of our life together surge to the surface; memories I’ve kept buried for so many years.

“It’s been a grind working homicide, but I love it. They keep me busy.”

I attempt to focus on the current conversation. “Which station?”

“Riverside. Little bit of a haul, but not too bad.”

I falter before asking the next question and intentionally keep my voice light. “Married? Kids?”