Dad’s expression sours. “Well, of course he’s happy. His mother still pays his bills and he’s always stoned.”

Unfortunately, Rhett’s altruistic lifestyle also seems to fit the pot-smoking, responsibility-shirking stereotype my dad still has him pegged for.

I can’t help but laugh, even as I shake my head at him. “He doesn’t smoke pot and Mom doesn’t pay his bills.” She just made sure he got his trust fund, something my dad was adamant about revoking until Rhett passed this “stage” in his life. “He’s coming into town in a few weeks. I’m meeting him for dinner. You should come.”

Dad doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll be away.”

“Maybe some other time, then.” I’m not feeling hopeful.

“Give me an update on the Marquee approvals by end of day.” He’s swiftly moving for his office, a room three times the size of mine and David’s, complete with solid wood walls, its own washroom, and mahogany wet bar.

With a heavy sigh—great, soon I’ll be reporting in to my father hourly—I grab my purse and phone and march out the door, sticking my head into David’s office long enough to tell him that the only thing Mark will be stapling for him is his goddamn tongue.

“So, I have a favor to ask of you . . .” I set the fancy coffee on the security desk in front of Gus.

“Whipped cream, chocolate sprinkles . . .” His brown eyes twinkle. “Must be a big favor.”

It’s quiet in the lobby for the moment, Ivan somewhere else and no one waiting to gain access to the building. Still, I lean in and drop my voice. “I saw a man in the building yesterday around lunchtime and I need his name.”

“A man.” His thick eyebrows arch curiously and I can almost see the wheels churning in his mind. Gus wasn’t impressed with my relationship with David, a truth he’s never shared out loud, but he never had to because the displeasure was plastered on his face every time David and I strolled in together.

“An old friend from summer camp. I don’t know if he works in the building or if he was visiting. Anyway, I was wondering if you could scan your entry log. I’m pretty sure it was him.” I hadn’t even thought of asking Gus until Christa, ever the quick-thinking one, mentioned checking with security.

Gus’s big brown eyes regard me curiously as he lifts the paper coffee cup to his mouth. When he pulls away, there’s a whipped cream mustache left that he doesn’t immediately wipe away.

I press my lips together to stifle my laugh.

“So what’s this friend’s name?”

“Kyle Miller.” Just saying it makes my heart leap.

“Hmm . . . Kyle Miller, from summer camp.” Gus finally wipes a napkin across his upper lip. “What does he look like?”

“Uh . . .” I try to reconcile my memories of the seventeen-year-old boy with the man I saw yesterday who, if it was Kyle, is now thirty. “About six feet tall, really fit, dark brown hair . . . and he has these pretty hazel eyes. Golden, really.”

Gus’s mouth curves in a thoughtful frown. “And was this Kyle Miller a good friend of yours?”

“Yeah.” For a while, anyway.

“Decent guy?”

“He was.” I feel my cheeks turning pink and I’m mortified. I can’t remember the last time just talking about a guy made me blush and it’s happening in front of our security guard. I need to get back upstairs and to work, like the executive I am. “So does that name sound at all familiar? Can you maybe check your computer?”

Gus’s chair creaks as he leans his girth back in it. “Don’t think I need to check the computer.”

“No . . . ?” I hold my breath as I search Gus’s face, looking for a flicker of recognition.

“Nope. ’Cause I just hired a guy named Kyle with dark hair and pretty golden eyes.”

My jaw drops as a wave of shock rushes through me. “You what?” Kyle’s going to be a security guard in my building? I’m going to see him every day?

Gus’s deep laugh carries through the cavernous lobby. “Ivan’s moving to Chicago, so I needed a new guard. Head office gave me a couple guys to choose from. I liked Kyle best. He’s in training now. Starts Monday.” Gus frowns. “Except, his last name isn’t Miller. It’s Stewart.”

Wait. “Stewart?” My frown matches his. “Maybe it’s not the same Kyle, then.” As quickly as the shock flowed through me, a wave of disappointment barrels in.

“Only one way to find out.” Gus juts his chin somewhere behind me.

I whip my head around so fast, a painful snap explodes in my neck. But I barely notice the burn of heat that follows, focused on the two uniformed men strolling side-by-side toward us. Ivan on the left.

And Kyle Stewart.

I inhale sharply.

It is my Kyle.

My stomach clenches as I watch him approach, much like it did that first time so many years ago. He’s changed so much, and yet there’s no mistaking him. He still moves with that casual, unbothered swagger. The punkish two-inch Fauxhawk has been replaced by a more mature and stylish cut, though his thick mane of chestnut-brown hair still has volume on top. He’s grown taller, surpassing me by a few inches, even in my heels.

It’s his body that has changed the most, filled out by weight and muscle in the best possible ways, his shoulders broad and strong but not bulky, his arms corded with muscle but not in an overdone way. His jaw is now hard and chiseled. His lip ring is gone, but the tattoo on his arm has grown, the ink sprawling over his forearm.

Those beautiful golden irises with rings of green, they haven’t changed a bit. And they’re locked on me.

“Oh my God! Kyle!” I burst out in a near-squeal, shocking both myself and Ivan, by the wide-eyed look he gives me. I clear my throat and add with a touch more dignity, “Long time, no see.”

“Hey.” Kyle’s chest lifts with a deep breath as he watches me evenly. He doesn’t make a move forward. Is it just surprise to see me here that holds him back?

“Seems like you already have a friend in the building,” Gus calls out.

“Looks like it . . .” A slight frown pulls his brows together. “Sarah, right?”

“What? Oh, right. Funny.” I laugh, waiting for his face to crack with a smile.

The moment drags on.

“Uh . . . Piper,” I stammer, my excitement deflating instantly. “From Camp Wawa?” You’ve got to be kidding me. I don’t look that different. And there’s no way I meant that little to him that he’s forgotten about me.

Is there?

I pause, waiting for a hint of recognition. “You know . . . turtles?” Really, Piper? Of all the things you could use to try to jog his memory . . . I peer into those eyes of his again, in search of the youthful, curious spark I remember. And realize that it’s missing.

So is the friendliness.

“Right. So . . . you work here?” he finally asks, calm and collected. Sounding every bit the stranger to me.

“Yeah. This is my company. I mean, my dad’s company, but I’ll be taking over one day.” I jab a thumb toward the “Calloway Group” emblem on the wall. Did that sound obnoxious?