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that shit anymore.”
    I lifted my scotch to my lips and immediately regretted it. How could a drink I’d had practically every day since puberty suddenly remind me of a woman I’d seen exactly once?
    I looked up at the sound of a throat clearing.
    “Hey,” Will said. I followed his gaze to where a man was crossing the dining room. “Isn’t that Bennett Ryan?”
    “Well, I’ll be damned,” I said, as the tall shape of my old friend moved across the restaurant.
    “Do you know him?” James asked.
    “Yeah, we went to uni together; he was my flat mate for three years. Called a couple of months ago, wanted to borrow my place in Marseilles to propose to his girlfriend. We talked about Ryan Media’s expansion to the New York office.” We watched as Bennett stopped at a table on the far side of the room, smiling like an idiot before bending to kiss a stunning brunette.
    “I’m guessing France did the trick.” Will laughed.
    But it wasn’t the future Mrs. Bennett Ryan who had my attention. It was the beautiful woman who stood beside her, reaching for her purse. Caramel-honey hair, the same red lips I’d been kissing at the club, the same wide brown eyes.
    It was all I could do to stay in my chair and not go straight to her. She smiled at Bennett, and then he said something that made both women laugh as the three of them left the restaurant and I could do nothing but stare on.
    I supposed it was time to pay my old friend a visit.

    “Max Stella.” Large metal doors separating an inner office from Ryan Media’s outer reception area opened, and The Man Himself walked out to meet me. “How the hell are you?”
    I stepped away from the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Fifth Avenue and shook Bennett’s hand. “Brilliant,” I said, glancing around.
    The space itself was at least two stories high in the atrium, and the polished marble flooring gleamed in the full sun. A small seating area was set off to the side, with leather couches and an enormous glass-bubble chandelier hanging from at least twenty feet up. Behind the broad reception desk, a smooth waterfall was built into the wall, the water cascading over slate-blue stone. A small cluster of employees hurried from the elevators to various offices, throwing Bennett nervous glances.
    “Looks like you’re settling right in.”
    He motioned for me to follow him inside. “We’re slowly getting things rolling. New York is, after all, still New York.”
    He led me into his office, a corner suite with seamless windows and a breathtaking view of the park.
    “And the fiancée?” I asked, nodding to a framed photograph on his desk. “I’m guessing she liked the Mediterranean. Why else would she agree to marry an arrogant twat like you?”
    Bennett laughed. “Chloe is perfect. Thanks for letting me take her there.”
    I shrugged. “Just an empty house most of the time. I’m glad it did the trick.”
    Gesturing for me to sit, Bennett sat himself in a large wingback chair, his back to a wall of windows. “It’s been a while. How are things?”
    “Fantastic.”
    “So I hear.” He scratched his jaw, studying me. “I’d love for you to come over sometime now that we’re moved in. I’ve told Chloe all about you.”
    “I hope that’s a slight exaggeration.” Of anyone in New York, Bennett Ryan probably had the most dirt from my wildest days.
    “Well,” he conceded, “I’ve told her just enough to want to meet you.”
    “I’d love to catch up, any time.” I glanced at the buildings out the window behind him, hesitating. Bennett wasn’t easy to read in these kinds of situations; it was one of the things that made him so good at what he did. “But I’ll admit that I’m here to ask a favor.”
    He leaned forward, smiling. “I figured.”
    I’d comfortably worked with some of the most intimidating people in the world, but Bennett Ryan never failed to make me take the time to choose my words carefully. Particularly when asking about something this