Black dress. Clinging in all the right places. Heels that made your legs look impossibly long.

You'd spent an hour on your hair and makeup, and you knew you looked good.

The living room door was ajar, warm light spilling out along with laughter and the clink of glasses. You pushed it open.

The room was crowded—old friends of your dad's, neighbors, a few faces you vaguely recognized. The air smelled of whiskey and perfume.

Your dad was by the fireplace, holding court with Uncle Mark and a few others. He caught your eye and grinned, raising his glass in approval.

And then you saw him.

Leaning against the far wall, near the bookshelf. A tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. He was wearing a dark button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, salt-and-pepper stubble catching the low light.

Jeffrey Morgan.

His gaze swept over you once, slowly. Then his mouth curved into that familiar smirk—the one you remembered from years ago, only now it felt different.