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after a few minutes of silence. 
    “Right here.” She forced one foot in front of the other and walked to the kitchen. “Want a beer?  I've got an open bottle of wine upstairs, I can get it.”
    "That would be good, thank you." He tossed his jacket onto the chair full of her belongings. He strolled around the living room as if taking inventory; gaze scanned everything from the books on the mantel to the paintings on the walls to the scattered photographs on the tables. 
    Music from the upstairs studio drifted down to them. He held an 8 x 10 photograph of herself as a twenty- seven year old, hair falling past her shoulders, laughing from pure happiness, leaning against his motorcycle, arms outstretched against the backdrop of the Florence skyline. He placed it back without comment. 
    She had no idea what to say, why he was here, or how he had her address. Beer bottles in each hand, she walked to him.
    He smiled over his shoulder. His dimples appeared, reminding of her why she had fallen so hard for him in the first place. The man simply had a way about him...a natural charm that almost hypnotized a woman into submission. “You did these paintings, didn’t you? Are you showing them?”
    “ You’re looking at the gallery.” Careful not to touch him, she handed him a beer.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Art’s a hobby, that’s all.”
    “So you gave that up, too?”
    “I didn’t give it up. Look at me, I’m covered with it.” She stared at his mouth and wondered who had the right to kiss him, who made him laugh, who wrapped her fingers in the thickness of his hair.
    “Miranda mentioned you have a horde of paintings stashed away here, said she would like to show them.  Why don’t—”
    “You mentioned me to Miranda?”  The symphony returned for an encore performance beneath her ribcage. 
    “Yes. I told her that you and I lived together in Florence.” 
    She stopped pacing.  “You told her we lived together?” 
    “Is that a secret?” His eyes narrowed as he watched her response. 
    “No, I just…I don’t talk about that summer to anyone.” She flattened her back against the opposite wall from him, needing the space.
    He stared at her from across the room for several long minutes before speaking. “You shouldn’t hide your work . It's meant to be shown, shared.”
    “You were my biggest fan.” A small smile touched her lips. “My only fan.”
    “I’m confused.” He mirrored her action from across the room, beer bottle dangled from his fingertips. “Earlier I thought you had turned into a stranger, now I come here and you look almost the same as I remembered.  Who is the real you?”
    “The real me?  Seriously?  You sound like a New Age workshop leader.” Every inch of her quivered beneath his gaze. “You need to go.”  
    “Why are you afraid of me? You look terrified.”
    She stroked her throat with trembling fingers, closed her eyes and remembered the trapped feeling from the office. Once again, a silent scream welled in her throat and demanded escape. Instead, she opened her eyes and looked at the floor.
    “You need to go,” she managed to whisper. 
    “You’re the one who wanted to play catch up.”
    She met his gaze with all the fire and frustration of the day . “And you’re the one who put my picture on the cover of your book and came to Boston for a gallery exhibit. You had to know I would find out somehow. Now here you are pacing around my home like you’re some avant-garde artist when you’re just as much a sell-out as I am. Gallery openings and book signings for the elusive Jacques Sinclair. I don’t remember you talking about those dreams while we played pretend in Florence.”
    “Played pretend? Is that how you remember it?” 
    Confused at the anger she felt when all she truly wanted was to know him again…she had missed him so desperately…missed his friendship, missed his face, missed his voice…yet now she ached to smash this beer bottle against the