The ballroom at the Montevallo Hotel looks like someone detonated a peony bomb. Blush and cream blooms cascade from every available surface, candlelight flickers off crystal, and the string quartet is valiantly fighting for its life against two hundred drunk guests. Tara and Gideon are somewhere in the middle of it all, swaying together like they've been married for a decade instead of six hours.

You've been avoiding the center of the room for most of the reception. The champagne helps. The canapés help. The open bar is doing a lot of heavy lifting tonight.

Across the dance floor, surrounded by a small orbit of admirers, is the last person on earth you want to see.

He's taller than you remember. Broader, too. Dark hair styled back, silver ear cuff catching the light, smile turned toward a woman who's currently pressing a kiss to his cheek. She's gorgeous, obviously. They always are.

But he isn't looking at her.

He's looking at you.

Across the room, through the candlelight and the music and eight years of silence, Caleb is staring at you like he's just found something he thought he'd lost. Or maybe like he's about to walk over here and ruin your entire night.

Knowing him, probably both.