“Bridgette?” I hear a male voice say my name as I near the staging door. An extremely familiar voice.
I turn around. “Yes?” I ask, searching through the crowd for the person who’s calling my name. Thinking it couldn’t possibly be him. Not after all this time.
“Bridgette Reynolds?” The voice gets closer. A face comes into focus. My blood starts pumping through my veins at a ridiculous pace.
“Ian?” I say, my eyes bugging out of my head and my stomach twisting into knots instantly. “Ian Davies?” It can’t possibly be him. But, on closer inspection, it is him.
I swallow hard to push back tears that are already on the surface because of Adam. But seeing Ian after all this time pushes those tears to the very edge.
“Bridgette? Oh wow.” He wraps his arms around me, lifting me up and spinning me long enough for me to gather my tears and force them back.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, as he puts me down, gesturing to the catering uniform I’m wearing, which, thank goodness, is a black skirt and a white dress shirt, paired with lovely black no-slip shoes. And by lovely, I mean they are hideous. I can handle this ensemble, though. There are other, much-less-attractive uniforms I’ve had to wear.
“I work for the catering company. What are you doing here?” I gesture to his black suit, white shirt, and black tie. Armani, no doubt.
“I work for the brokerage.” He nods his head toward the party going on behind him. “I can’t believe I’m seeing you. Here, in New York. What’re you doing here? Do you live in the city?” Ian asks.
“I moved in with Gram in Carroll Gardens,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t believe it’s you.”
This is all incredibly hard for me to wrap my brain around. I had honestly given up hope that I would ever see or hear from Ian again. Of course, I had envisioned running into him—many, many times—but it wasn’t like this. Most of the time, I was in a tight dress, wind in my hair . . . not at a party I’m working, in a not-so-flattering uniform, smelling of onion.