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Not annoyingly like some people who love to hear themselves and blather on about nothing. She holds my complete attention, covering topics from a star-less Manhattan night to Quokkas smiles not reaching their souls.

I’m not even sure what she’s talking about on the latter, but I could listen to her all night. As if I reminded the universe, Natalie checks the time on her phone. “I’ve been talking so much I haven’t heard anything about you.”

“I prefer listening to you.”

Her lighthearted smile disappears. “But we’re running out of time.”

Glancing around, I hadn’t noticed how the staff had cleared away so many tables. Although I hate being the one to suggest it, I guess the night has to end sometime. “And I’m not really the nightclub type.”

“I don’t want the night to end.”

“They’re not kicking us out yet.”

Soft laughter escapes her as she reaches for the wineglass, the silky material of her shirt slipping enough to expose her collarbone. I lick my lips and trace a line up to her eyes. She sips, and when she lowers the glass to the table, she spins it by the stem. “I’m rambling because you make it so easy to feel free to say anything.”

I wish I were closer, wanting to inhale her scent that I only caught a waft of on the street. “Like old friends.” Teasing her, I say, “Remember when we were strangers?”

“We weren’t for long, only long enough for me to want to know you better,” she says, laughing a little fuller. “But we were kind of forced together?—”

“I don’t remember it that way. I readily admit that I took advantage of the opportunity to get to know you.”

Angling her chin down, she raises an eyebrow. “Confession time. Did you let the air out of our tire?”

She doesn’t sound upset but looks at me in anticipation. Although I was about to take a pull from my glass, I chuckle, lowering the glass down again. “What do you think?” I’m not sure what she thinks of me, good or bad, but she gives me more credit on the conniving side than I feel is warranted.

Despite the dim glow of the candles on the table and the soft, golden light from above, I can’t take my eyes off her. Back in Catalina, I tried to memorize everything about her—the curve of her waist to her hips, the way she touched me tentatively at first and then with purpose soon after.

I have relived that moment in the bar many times over the past year or so.

“How are you so hot?” She closes her eyes, and then whispers, “Dear Lord, please don’t let him be a mirage.” I chuckle. Who is this girl? And why is she so sure she’s dreaming. Should I burst her bubble and miss out on the fun?

“I’m real.”

I nearly moan when she bites her bottom lip. “Mm, so real,” she purrs. Good God, that’s sexy.

But it was the way she looked at me with her ocean eyes later that night in my room—like she saw the man I wanted to be—that had me missing her the moment she left that hotel room.

Seeing her again, even though by chance, has me believing that maybe we were meant to meet again. I’m not normally a destiny kind of guy, despite being from the New Age capital of the United States, but Natalie has me wanting to believe that some things aren’t left to chance.

“Not that I’m appreciative of that suit on you, but what kind of business are you doing in the city?”

I don’t think I’ll ever understand her train of thought, but I won’t complain about it either. She keeps things interesting. “I’m an attorney.”

Her palm sways out as if I’m evidence of this conclusion. She quirks a cunning grin, and then replies, “Lawyers aren’t capable of being dangerous.”

“Is that so?”

She nods. “Assholes, yes. Dangerous, no.”

I balk with laughter. “Just like that, I’m lumped in with all the other assholes? That’s disappointing.” I take a drink, the scotch going down smoother with every sip. “What do you have against lawyers, anyway? A relationship gone bad?”

“No, they’re not my type.”

“That doesn’t bode well for me.”

Resting back, I relax in the leather wingback, watching as she tucks her legs under her, seeming to settle in for a little while longer despite the subdued atmosphere on the verge of changing. “You don’t have to worry. You’re boding well.” I’m glad to see she’s not in a hurry. Folded into a matching chair like mine, she asks, “Have you thought about me, Nick?”

“How honest are we being, Natalie?”