She crossed her legs and leaned back against the bar, her spine digging into the metal as the clip began—the part she’d seen. He strolled across the stage talking about ‘that guy’ at a business meeting who gets caught with porn on his screen during a presentation. Then he talked about how he effectively became that guy when he was meeting with the head of a hotel chain.

There was something so surreal about this moment. She was with flesh-and-blood Brent, and she was watching Brent from a year ago, too.

“You’re in two places at once,” she teased, as she glanced at him then back to the screen. She stopped talking as the clip moved past the point where she’d hit stop the first time, when he’d said he Facebook stalked his ex.

The on-screen Brent tapped his chest, the look on his face one of utter disdain for his own antics. “Ever done that to your college girlfriend? Searched for her on Facebook? Looked up her pictures?” he asked, looking at the audience, as the camera swept out to capture several of them nodding.

“Yeah. Me too. I looked up my girl. Spent a ton of hours trying to figure out what she was up to. Translation—is she still hot and gorgeous, and did she marry some other guy?”

A rush of heat spread across Shannon’s chest from those words. Meaningless words, but still the compliment thrilled her.

“And then I forgot to close the browser page before I went into a meeting. And that’s what popped on screen as I was making my business pitch. Her Facebook page. So now all my new business partners know I’m the guy who pines away for his college girlfriend.”

Her breath caught, and she turned to him. He was watching her, cataloguing her reaction to his bit. His eyes searched hers, but she returned her focus to the phone, more interested now in on-screen Brent. Because on-screen Brent wasn’t talking about getting caught watching porn, as she’d once thought. He was talking about her.

“But in my defense, if you saw her, you’d pine too. She was...” He stopped walking, stopped talking, and for the briefest of moments, he was not on stage—he was lost in time, it seemed. The next word seemed to fall from his lips with regret and wistfulness, “…perfection.”

She brought her hand to her mouth, covering her trembling lower lip. She sucked in her breath, holding in all that she felt, the overwhelming rush of emotions. It was just a comedy routine. He was great on stage, even when poking fun at himself. But even so, she was flooded with so much possibility from the way he talked about her.

“So not only was I busted for Facebook stalking my ex, but I’m also the complete asshole who let her get away. She was the one. The one who got away. Let this be your lesson, men of the world. Don’t be me. Don’t be King Schmuck.”

The clip ended.

When she’d originally watched the first half of the video, she’d wanted to reach her hands through the screen and throttle him.

Now, she wanted to squeeze her own heart for the stupid way it dared to beat the tiniest bit faster when he’d said perfection.

Silence cloaked them both. She stared at the screen, not quite ready to meet his eyes, too afraid of what she’d see. She’d only come there to clear the air, and now she was spun back in time, feeling everything again.

Lust. Desire. Sadness. Anger, too.

Without looking up, she asked quietly, “What part?”

“What do you mean—what part?”

“What part did you want me to see?” she asked, keeping her voice steady so she wouldn’t reveal the cascade of emotions waterfalling through her chest. “Because it’s funny. But which part is for me?”

She kept her head down. If she looked in his eyes, she’d lose herself. She’d lose her center. She’d lose every ounce of strength she’d relied on during the last ten years.

His voice was a confession. “She was perfection... she was the one... and I was the complete asshole who let her walk away.” Then his fingertips brushed against her wrist. She held in the hot shiver she felt from his touch. “I’m sorry I didn’t go with you. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you. I’m sorry I gave you an ultimatum. I’m sorry I twisted words around because I was desperate to keep you.”

His words now were a thread that pulled her up. She lifted her face and looked at him. In a second, she knew. He wasn’t performing, he wasn’t acting, and he wasn’t faking a thing. His eyes were serious. She believed him. She wanted to believe her body, too, and her body knew what it wanted.

She’d always listened to her body, had always been deeply in tune with its wishes and wants. Since she was four years old she had wanted nothing more than to dance. She had danced every day, harder, faster, better, until she was at the top of her game, and then tore her ACL one day during a rehearsal. But still, she remained a physical woman. She liked to be one with her body. And just then, her body and her heart wanted the same damn thing.

For Brent to make her feel good again.

As only he could. As only he ever had.

When she and Brent had been together, he’d fucked all her troubles away. Every kiss, every touch, every taste was the antidote to every painful memory. Sex with him was exhilarating. It was the greatest rush, the sweetest high. It was ecstatic amnesia. When he fucked her, she was no longer one of the Paige-Prince kids. She was not the left behind, the whispered about, one of those kids whose mother murdered their father for money.

With Brent she was muscle and bone, and she was solid and strong. She was a woman wanted by a man.

She wanted that man too. With everything inside her. The desire burrowed into her blood. It called out insistently, like a beating drum, like a fire in her veins. She might regret this later. She might regret it in a few minutes. That moment she didn’t feel regret. She felt hungry. She felt greedy.

She felt justified.

“Perfection?” she asked, tilting her head to the side, reeling him in with his own description of her. “I’m perfection?”

He inched closer, nearly inhabiting the same space. “Yes,” he said in a low rumble that sent goosebumps over her skin, a promise of other things he’d say in that wickedly sexy voice. “You are perfection, and everything I said was and is true.”

Her tank strap slid down the slope of her shoulder. “You pine for me?”

“You’re the one who got away. And I can’t stand the thought of that happening again. I will do whatever it takes to keep you,” he said, and the words torched her heart. They started a goddamn bonfire in her belly.

And they scared the living hell out of her.

So she pushed back. “But you don’t even have me.”

“I am well aware of that. And I intend to change it.”

She didn’t know if she was ready to hear these things from him, not when she still had so much to say. She grabbed the collar of his shirt, tugged him between her legs, and practically snarled at him. “I don’t know how to believe you.”

“You don’t have to believe me,” he said, his voice matching hers, sounding furious, too. “Because I’m going to show you.”

The heat in her core shot up. God, he turned her on when he was like this, even as she fumed. She gripped his shirt tighter. “I hated how you left,” she said, airing her grievances like dirty laundry as she spread her hands across his shirt, his firm chest one layer away. “I hated that you picked your career over me. And I hated not seeing you every day.”

His eyes narrowed. He wedged himself between her legs. His dick was hard against her thigh. Rock hard, and it excited her. “I hated not seeing you, too,” he said, his voice rough and hungry. His entire body seemed to vibrate with restraint. She wanted to watch that restraint snap. She wanted to live in that moment when control spiraled away.

He grabbed her hips, his big hands wrapping around her bones, his thumbs digging into her sides. This was their dance. Their foreplay. They knew their steps. “Every day I wanted you,” he said.