Blair shrugs. Is he jealous? My thoughts are scrambled. I still can’t believe he’s sitting in front of me. Then I think of G, who is expecting me to join them at Red Door. Since returning from Ushuaia, I’ve slipped back into an almost single-minded obsession, counting the minutes until I see him again, fiending for the physical rush of his touch.

“Will you come meet my friends?” I ask Blair as we’re finishing up dinner. “We’re having drinks at the bar where my friend Cali works.”

“It’s not like I have other plans, Cleary.” He smiles. He’s as easygoing as he’s always been—so unlike his pigheaded brother.

When we arrive, Cali is leaning over the bar, chatting with Gemma, who sits with a glass of red wine in front of her. Unbeknownst to the two of them, they’ve become the focal point of the men in the bar: the beautiful bartender and the boisterous blonde. I call out a hello and feel the energy of the room taking Blair and me in. My arm is looped in his; I haven’t wanted to let go of him since he arrived, as though he might disappear if I do.

“Blair, these are my friends Cali and Gemma, Cali, Gem, this is Blair.”

Gemma startles and nearly knocks over her wineglass. “Blair, Blair?”

Cali cracks up. “Smooth.”

“The one and only,” I say, looking over at him as he shakes their hands.

“Been talking lots of trash about me, I see?” He glances back and winks at me.

“Oh, so much trash.”

“Of course you’re him,” Gemma says. “My god, look at you, you Viking!”

“Nice to meet you. Glad you’ve been looking after . . . our girl.” He catches himself before he says Katie. With him in the room, the alias feels preposterous.

“Tiger, there you are,” Gianluca says in Spanish, appearing from nowhere, curling his arm around my neck, and kissing me on the cheek in a way that feels proprietary. “Who’s this?” He nods his head at Blair.

“Blair,” I say in English, trying and failing to ease myself out from under G’s arm. “This is Gianluca, my friend and our tango instructor.”

“Mucho gusto,” G says reaching out his free hand, which Blair regards and, I imagine, considers removing from his body before shaking. “And how do you know my dear friend Liz?”

“We go way back,” he says simply.

“Blair’s a skier too,” I say, removing myself to grab the drink from the bar that Cali has set down for me, staking a more neutral territory between the two men. “An Olympic silver medalist, actually,” I say, and barely meaning to, I reach over and squeeze his elbow. I’m so proud of him.

“Silver,” G repeats, nodding. Dick, I think.

“If K . . . if Liz had been there, she would have gotten the gold,” Blair says. “But next time.”