Black clouds gather on the horizon, threatening rain. But that didn't stop TJ from breaking out the tackle box. He's made himself quite at home on the Dive's shoddy dock, a fishing pole in one hand and a beer in the other.

He tosses me a grin over his shoulder as I approach, wooden planks creaking underfoot. "I come bearing gifts," I tell him, indicating the pack of beer tucked under my arm.

"That'll do."

I lower myself down next to him and dangle my legs over the edge of the dock.

"Long time, no see," TJ jokes, bumping his shoulder against mine.

I shift, a hundred miniscule splinters digging into my bare skin. "I just saw you last night." I yawn, emphasizing the point. "You think ole Ronda's ever gonna give it a rest?"

"As long as the men are young and the beer is cheap...no." TJ grins and gives the fishing pole a flick, sending another line out into the bay. I watch the cork bob against the waves, disappearing and reappearing with the tide.

"So." TJ casts me a sidelong look as he brings a bottle to his lips. "This deal of yours. How's it going?"

I shrug, staring down at my toes. "It's going."

"You'd tell me if you needed help. Right?"

This is the part where I say why yes, of course. Instead, I say, "You worry too much."

"I worry just enough, thank you," he insists, affronted. I grin, gazing out over the water. His next words are softer. Uncertain. "Gabby misses you."

Guilt worms its way into my chest. "I owe her a girl's night. This deal...it isn't forever, you know. I just have to survive the summer."

"Emphasis on survive," TJ mutters.

I elbow him in the ribs. "Hey."

"Kidding." He puts down his beer and twists a strand of my hair around his index finger. "Sort of."

He doesn't push further. Doesn't prod. And really, that's why I love him. I lean back on my hands, lifting my face skyward to soak in the sunshine. Soon enough, the clouds overhead will chase us inside. And this moment—this simple, perfect moment—will end.

But not yet. Not yet.

# # #

The car pulling up to the curb is unfamiliar to me, with its tinted windows and sleek black wheels, but I know who it belongs to immediately.

The passenger door opens, and I slip out from underneath the shelter of the bus stop. Water instantly pelts my skin, my dress. I duck inside the car, cursing.

The rain has come.

"You're late," I accuse, turning to find Nicholai gazing at me with that insufferable smile.

"You're soaking," he murmurs suggestively.

"And your innuendos are getting less and less subtle. Drive."

I relax against the leather seat as he merges into traffic, thoroughly soaked through—just as he observed. Goosebumps erupt along my arms and thighs as the air conditioning kicks into overdrive. I shiver.

"Cold?" He presses a button and hot air blasts against my toes.

"Thanks." I cross my arms. It's too late to regret leaving the blazer at the apartment. An extra layer would've been nice in this downpour. "What's on the agenda today?"

He makes a face, a crease forming between his eyes. "Apartment hunting."

"Hold on." I blink, stupefied. "You're telling me you don't have an apartment."

"No. I've never had a reason to."

"Uh. I can list at least five reasons."

He flicks his fingers. Inviting me to continue.

"Privacy, for one. You can't bring bitches home to your dad's."

He looks utterly perplexed. "Why not? It's a lovely home."

"Christ on a stick." I wiggle my fingers. "Give me that list."

"Why?" He's suspicious now. Ridiculous.

I sigh, exasperated. "I want to see what else you haven't done."

With a sour roll of his eyes, he reaches inside his jacket—the tweed suit is a new look, and one he manages to pull off flawlessly—and presents the list with a flourish. "Don't," he warns me, holding the paper just out of reach, "tear it."

"Chill." I take it from him as gingerly as possible. "See? I can play nice."

"Shocking."

Ignoring him, I turn my attention to the list and read it in full.

THE BUCKET LIST

1. Step out of your comfort zone, d'yavolenok. Volunteer @ the Hilltop Animal Shelter. May 26. 9:00 AM.

2. Don't be an asshole. Help a stranger.

3. Happy birthday, Alexei. Throw a party @ The Iron Lady. June 7. 5:00 PM.

4. Watch the sunrise @ Hermosa Beach (you know the place). June 8. 6:00 AM.

5. Stop being a loser. Get your own place!

6. Use your new kitchen (and learn to cook something other than canned ravioli). Try the recipe on page 263.

7. Enjoy the day, and don't forget to hit on the lifeguards. Hang out @ Hermosa Beach. June 24. 12:00 PM.

8. Be a bartender for the night.

9. Become a morning person and take a jog @ Manhattan Beach. June 27. 7:00 AM. Suggested route on the back.

10. Congrats on the exercise. Enjoy those extra calories and order my signature drink @ Bailey's, the "spisok vedra". June 27. 9:00 AM.

11. Buy a new suit for the gala.

12. Learn how to fish @ the Manhattan Beach Pier. July 2. 10:30 AM.

13. Weed out the toxic people in your life...emphasis on "weed".

14. Order a specialty drink at the Rainy Cafe. July 7. 10:00 AM.

15. Get a tattoo @ The Pain and Wonder Emporium. July 11. 6:45 PM.

16. Find "the book" at the Los Angeles Central Library.

17. Grab a bite to eat @ The Place. July 15. 9:00 PM.

18. Let go of your worldly belongings, d'yavolenok. Burn half your closet.

19. Make some memories. Buy a polaroid and take it out for a spin @ the Manhattan Beach Pier. Keep going until you get the perfect shot. 7:00 PM.

20. Take back the new suit (you don't need it, jackass).

21. Watch the sunset @ Longfellow Beach. July 23. 8:36 PM.

22. Enjoy the fireworks @ the Firefly Festival. July 25. 3:00 PM.

23. Run your own errands, for once. Make a stop @ the post office.

24. Catch a flight to London.

25. Be happy. To infinity.

I read and reread each item, trying to make sense of it all. "When did your brother make this?" I finally ask.

Nicholai shrugs. "The police held his belongings for a few days after the accident. I got that delivered to my office in an envelope, along with a few other personal items."

My fingers trace over the words at the bottom of the page. Be happy. To infinity.

Nicholai's voice is low and sad when he says, "A saying of ours. We were obsessed with the cartoon as children."

I think for a moment. "You mean Toy Story?"

"That's the one."

I stare at the road ahead, trying to imagine what the man beside me might have been like as a child. Full of laughter. Reckless. The type of kid to lace up his new shoes and then go find the nearest mud puddle, just because he could. The thought makes me smile.

"What?"

I look at him, startled. "Sorry?"

"Stop that." His eyes are darting between my face and the road. "Stop answering questions with more questions. It's maddening."

"Sorry," I say again. "I was thinking of what you were like as a kid. A hellion, probably."

That coaxes a smile out of him. "I was the picture of good manners, actually."

I cough to hide my skepticism as we enter the shadow of a large, glassy skyscraper. Nicholai slows the car, affronted. "I was. Michail, on the other hand..." He trails off, and I know the moment has passed.

We roll to a stop, now level with the skyscraper's gilded entrance. We're somewhere in downtown Los Angeles, deep in the heart of the city. "What is this place?"

"You'll see." Nicholai steps out of the car and an umbrella springs to life in his hand. Before I can so much as open my own door—did he put child locks on the damn thing?—he's there, offering me his arm. I ignore the electricity that runs along my skin as I wrap my fingers around his bicep.

We trot over to the curb, our bodies brushing with every step to avoid the onslaught of rain. A bellhop stands vigil at the front door, eyes wide with admiration as he ogles Nicholai's ride.

Nicholai tosses him the keys. "Park her, will you?"

"Yes, sir," the bellhop breathes, darting over to the car without hesitation. He barely seems to notice the sheet of rain coming down on his head.

Nicholai guides us to the front door, but I stop suddenly at the threshold. He runs into my back with a little oof. "Excuse you," he says, peeved.

"Um. Hello? I'm all wet." I glance at him from over my shoulder. "I look terrible. And this place is...nice" Nice doesn't begin to cover it. From what I can see of the reception area, this building is resplendent.

"You look ravishing." Nicholai lowers the umbrella, leaving us standing under the rather narrow eaves of the building, still pressed together. Warmth radiates from his body, soothing the chill brought on by the rain.

"You're a terrible liar." I take a deep breath and hurry inside. Ravishing. Please.

He follows me closely. "The only terrible liar here is you."

"I am not—"

"Mr. Ivanov!" A thin man hurries from behind a curved desk, his face flush with anticipation. Strands of delicate white and lavender flowers dangle from the ceiling, giving the room an ethereal, dreamlike quality.

"Patrick," Nicholai says calmly, extending a hand.

Patrick shakes it reverently. "Sir. The pleasure is mine. We've reserved the elevator in anticipation of your arrival." He casts me a brief, puzzled look. "I apologize. I don't know—"

"Amara Rossi." Nicholai places a hand at the small of my back. I expect him to introduce me as his assistant, but he merely smiles.

I don't trust that smile. Not one bit.

"Of course, of course," Patrick says, obviously flustered. "It's a pleasure. Truly. If you'll follow me." He drifts over to a bank of elevators, shoes slapping loudly against the expanse of polished floors.

"What do you think?" Nicholai asks conversationally. I glance at our escort. His eyes are pinned to my face, awaiting my answer.

"Oh." I have no idea why he's asking me, of all people. "It's, um. Very nice."

Poetry.

"I thought so," Nicholai muses. As if we've had this conversation a thousand times already. The light above the elevator blazes, signaling its arrival.

Our escort, emboldened by our feedback, proceeds to tell us every feature of the building as the elevator shoots up, up, up—all the way to the penthouse suite. I only half-listen to his pitch, dazed by the grandeur of it all.

"There's plenty of space for two," Patrick continues, beaming at the both of us.

I make a noise in the back of my throat. "Oh, we're not—"

Nicholai's hand snakes around my waist, cutting me off mid-sentence. He presses his lips to my hair. "That's good to hear."

I'm going to do more than pinch him, I decide, somewhat lightheaded. His hands are warm against my midriff. I take a breath to try and steady myself, but the smell of his cologne is...intoxicating. Or maybe that's just the effect he has on me. Pathetic.

"Here we are."

The elevator doors slide open, revealing marbled floors, white walls, and a modern, somewhat bulbous light fixture jutting from the center of the foyer's ceiling. In short, it looks just as I imagined it would.

Nicholai drapes my arm over his. He winks down at me, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Shall we, darling?"