Quaid stood waiting for me, hands in the pockets of his jeans, black t-shirt stretched tight over his broad chest. He'd been so lean when we'd first met, like some Goth punk rock singer with his dark waves hanging over his chocolate eyes, that ever present smirk making me want to slap him then smother him in kisses.

The last few years had brought maturity to his face, more obvious in the bright sunlight, thickened his jaw, stretched out his ...