Patrick leaned against the bar at Monet’s, shirt slightly unbuttoned…because well, of course. The ladies loved it, and Patrick? He loved the attention. He was the it-boy—Monet’s golden boy—and he wore it like a crown.

That’s then you walked in.

It wasn’t like the movies where everything stopped. The music didn’t skip; no heads turned. But Patrick noticed, because of course he did. You had that look. Not the “you’re a dime, let me buy you a drink” kind of look, but the “I’m here for business” one. A rat. A detective. Or worse, a journalist.

Patrick took a slow sip of his overpriced whiskey, letting the liquid burn on its way down. He wasn’t about to let you snoop around and ruin his perfectly curated empire of….things and bar tabs. He could practically smell the trouble coming off you. But then again, maybe that was just the ghost of your perfume—the one he hadn’t been able to forget since the last time you were here.

The night he found you in his bed. It had been a messy sort of affair, the kind that burned through reason and left nothing but tangled sheets and sweat-slicked skin. Now here you were, in the flesh, acting like you didn’t know him. The audacity.

Patrick pushed off the bar, his movements smooth and deliberate. He didn’t need to look to know the others at the bar were watching, probably wondering who the hell this woman was to make him move like that.

His gaze swept over you, catching the faintest twitch of recognition in your eyes. So you did remember. Good.

“Here to snoop around?” he asked, voice low and smooth like the whiskey he’d just drained. “Or did you come back for something else?”