Now we were less than ten feet from the check-in desk, and as we neared the group that was gathered there, he stalled just the tiniest bit. I squeezed his hand, and his eyes met mine. Those sapphires were bright tonight.

“Come on, Wallbanger, show me off,” I teased, and he grinned.

We moved toward the desk, and when he told the lady his name, I heard a gasp behind us in line.

“No f**king way. Simon Parker’s here? He came?”

Word quickly spread, and by the time I had his name tag affixed to the front of his jacket, everyone was buzzing. Walking inside, I suddenly could appreciate the feeling movie stars must have when they get out of a limo at a premiere.

Everyone was staring at us.

chapter twelve

We walked into the ballroom amid whispers and darting glances. The place was packed, young professionals decked out in their finest junior partner/corporate raider/banking magnate’s kid check-me-out clothes. And the guys were impressive too.

High schools were the same across the country. This one happened to be set down in one of the wealthiest towns in America, but there are still universal truths. Every single one of the Breakfast Club archetypes was represented here, and a few hybrids as well. And they all had their eyes on Simon.

Who was oddly relaxed. Once we hit the room, his shoulders went back, his stride lengthened, and he cruised. Along the walls were blown-up pictures from yearbooks: cheerleaders, football players, someone in a wig from a play, and someone in a wig streaking the soccer field. And there was Simon, up on the wall with a crown on his head and a hottie on his arm. Homecoming king.

“I just got it,” I said, looking up at him a little starry-eyed.

“You just got what?”

“You were the shit in high school!”

His eyes crinkled, and he blushed the tiniest bit.

“Well, I’ll be goddamned. I wondered if you’d show,” I heard behind us, and as we turned, a strange look appeared on Simon’s face. Johnny Wall Street stood there, backed by the Billionaire Boys Club. All of them great looking. All of them bigger than life.

Simon looked at them all, narrowing down on the guy in the middle. “Henderson.”

“Parker.”

I watched the testosterone spark. If it had been a Western, tumbleweeds would have blown through. But since it was Wall Street . . .

Cue cocaine.

The tension only lasted as long as a chorus of Usher’s “Yeah” before—

“What the f**k, dude! I can’t believe you’re really here! Fucking A, man— Parker’s back in town!”

Wall Street backslapped a now-grinning Simon and pulled him into a giant, swarming man hug amid calls of, “Now, that’s what I’m talking about” and “So f**king stoked that you’re here, man” and “Dude, Tammy Watkins got new tits and they’re f**king huge, you gotta see ’em!”

I stood back and watched as he was swallowed whole by this group of guys. I’d never met them, never heard him mention any of them before, but they knew Simon in a way that I never could.

These guys were there when Simon was growing up, when his entire world was midterms and Jackass and getting some girl to take her sweater off. My money was on Tammy Watkins.

And into this privileged enclave of white-bread preppies came the death of Simon’s family. And Simon retreated, taking the first opportunity he had to remove himself entirely, moving as far across the country as one can for college, short of Hawaii. He went into a profession that took him all over the world, and chose to live in his adopted city of San Francisco. The only tie that he had to anyone in this world was Benjamin, for whom I was more grateful than ever.

But he’d come home, and this family was ready to make sure he knew he’d been missed.

Simon grinned big, shaking hands and high-fiving with his crew, and then he spotted me out of the corner of his eye. “Caroline, c’mere—you gotta meet these guys.”

The penis sea parted, and I walked to the center, where he stood. “This is Caroline,” he started, and I heard at least one wolf whistle. Glad I wore the boots. “And this is Trevor Henderson.” Wall Street stuck his hand out and I shook it, looking up into his handsome face. Warm brown eyes twinkled down at me, not letting go when I was also introduced to Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.

I’m not kidding. The apostles were all around us. Was it blasphemous that they were all hot? No matter, Trevor was still holding my hand.

“Seriously, dude, she’s smoking,” he said.

Simon removed my hand from his, laughing. “Cut it out, dick.” This guy was harmless. And had good taste.

“Come on, they’re serving dinner soon. You can sit at our table. You remember Megan Littlefield?” Trevor asked as the group moved together into the dining room.

“Um, maybe. Littlefield sounds familiar,” Simon puzzled as we walked.

“It’s Henderson now; she’s my wife.”

“You’re married? Wow,” Simon exclaimed, shaking his head.

“Yep, this past summer,” he said proudly, waggling his ring finger in Simon’s face.

“Wow,” he repeated, and looked at me.

I just laughed and crooked my arm through his. “Come on, Homecoming King.”

We grabbed a drink at the bar, said hello to a few more people, and sat down with his friends. And I say that broadly, because everyone here seemed to have been friends with him at one time or another. As I sipped my cocktail, I watched some of the girls begin to circle. Simon had obviously been a big swinging dick around here, and I wondered how many of them had taken a turn on that swing . . .

I met Trevor’s wife before they started serving dinner, and as Simon left me to go say hello to an old teacher, I chatted with her. Megan had gone to school with them, two years younger.

“Didn’t matter, though; everyone knew Simon. He was the guy every girl wanted.” She sighed, a dreamy look on her face. Then she caught herself, and looked guiltily at me. “Sorry, is that weird?”

“Nope, I totally get it.” I smiled, maybe smirking a little bit. He was shaking hands with an older gentleman, the teacher, I assumed. “So you just got married, huh? Congratulations.”

“Thanks! It was great. We had it here, even though we live in New York now. It was just easier with the families being here.”

“New York? State or city?”

“City. So both, right?” She laughed.

“And what do you do there?” I asked.

“I’m not working anymore. I worked until we got engaged, for the Food Network? I was a food stylist. Anyway, once we started planning the wedding, it was just too hard, commuting here to organize everything, so I quit. We got married at—”