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With my priorities now fully in order, I dig my phone out of my coat pocket and dial the one person guaranteed to call me out on my life choices.

It rings twice before Cassie picks up.

“Ivy Dawson,” she drawls, her voice already thick with amusement. “Did you finally decide to stop pretending you were too busy saving the world to talk to your best friend?”

I swallow a bite of pastry, unbothered. “I was busy. You know, eating fried dough and contemplating my life choices.”

“As you should,” she says approvingly. “So? How’s it feel to be back in the land of overpriced brunch and generational wealth?”

“I’m already regretting it.”

“Sounds about right. Are we celebrating your inevitable breakdown tonight or tomorrow?”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Tonight. Let’s meet at Harlow’s. I need you to make fun of me in person.”

Cassie snorts. “Figures. Guess that means we’ll be dissecting the ex… and a certain someone who’s definitely still on your mind. Alright, see you in a few hours.”

She hangs up before I can respond, and I pocket my phone, fully prepared to enjoy the rest of my beignet in peace.

That is—until my subconscious decides to betray me.

Because just as I’m licking sugar off my fingers, a very specific name lingers in my brain.

Ethan Cross.

I hadn’t meant to think about him. But Cassie, of course, brought him up without bringing him up. Because she knows. She has always known.

I was twelve the first time I realized I had a crush on my brother’s best friend. Seventeen when I finally understood it wouldn’t matter. Twenty-four when I caught myself watching him too long at a dinner party and decided I needed to stop.

And now?

Now I’m back, and I shouldn’t be thinking about him.

So, naturally, I turn around and walk straight into him.

One second, I’m finishing the last bite of my pastry, and the next, there’s a solid, six-foot-three wall of muscle and arrogance directly in front of me.

The universe is a cold, vindictive bitch.

Ethan looks down, his expression unreadable. It takes my brain a solid two seconds to catch up, to recognize the man in front of me—not just as Ethan Cross, but as Ethan Cross standing in themiddle of a bakery, dressed in a dark coat and rolled-up sleeves, looking like every brooding leading man in a novel I would absolutely throw across the room.

I freeze.

His gaze flicks to mine, sharp and assessing. Then, down to the smear of powdered sugar on my sweater. His brow lifts slightly.

“Dawson.”

The sound of my last name in his voice does something stupid to my stomach.

Abort. Abort.

I spin on my heel and run.

Not a graceful run, not the kind that might be mistaken for a casual jog, but the kind of frantic, mortifying escape that suggests I might actually be guilty of something.

Behind me, I swear I hear a low, amused chuckle.

I don’t stop running until I’m a full two blocks away from the bakery, heart pounding, sugar still clinging to my fingers. Of all the people in this city—of all the wrong place, wrong time scenarios—I had to walk straight into him.