"Seriously? You’re getting married?" Pacey Witter shifted his weight back in his leather chair, lifting his long legs to rest on the edge of his oak desk, cradling the phone against his ear. At thirty-three, Pacey had established himself in a little corner of the world-or a large corner, depending on how you looked at it. Growing up in nowheresville, USA, otherwise known as Capeside, Mass., had given him a greater appreciation for the fact he was wasn’t a complete unknown in the city of New York, The successful restaurant he built up from the ground and now managed, had put him on the map.

Despite his professional success, Capeside was in his blood. Which is why he was shocked, and happy to hear from his best friend since diapers, Dawson Leery. "Yes. I am. Can you believe it?"

"Frankly, no." Pacey chuckled, "I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone."

"It was casual at first, I mean, she travels a lot, but lives on the other side of the country. So I never really expected it to blossom into anything. But then, every time we got together I just didn’t want it to end. I wasn’t even planning to propose. It just kinda happened."

"If she lives over here, then how did you meet her?" Dawson wasn’t usually known for following his impulses.

"Movie premiere. She was some guy’s date and she waltzed right up to me and told me exactly what she thought of my film. As if I didn’t know that it sucked." Pacey had to smile at that; the Dawson of his childhood would never have admitted his film was less than absolutely perfect. This woman must have been good for him. "I mean, seriously, it isn’t like it’s my fault that the budget only allowed for those sorry excuse for actors that they hired for me."

Now, that was the Dawson he knew.

Dawson Leery had dreamed his whole life of being a famous director. His first movie, Sea Creature From the Deep, starring Pacey and Dawson’s next-door neighbor, Jen, had won an amateur film festival, cementing Dawson’s desire to be a success. And at age thirty-two, he was finally making his mark.

"All right, D. Back to the story, what’s this woman like?" He twirled a pen between his fingers; only half listening to Dawson describe his fiancée. He could hear the love and affection in his friend’s voice, and part of him deep inside ached to hear it.

It wasn’t as if he lacked for female companionship. Quite the opposite. Skipping college completely, he’d hopped a bus headed for California with Dawson. They’d gotten an apartment together near Dawson’s film school, and Pacey’d found work in a restaurant as a prep cook. Finding he loved working in a kitchen, he’d started to save his money, never sharing his dream of opening his own restaurant. In the mean time, he’d learned how to enjoy himself while Dawson slaved away over his books. Tall, dark, and handsome, Pacey had an easy charm and a sexy smile that drew women like bees to honey.

More than once he’d been accused of being a womanizer, perhaps with good cause. But he’d never made any promises he didn’t intend to keep. In the years since coming to New York, he’d slowed down some, was less eager to get into a woman’s pants than he was to get to know them. Unfortunately, he’d never really found a woman he liked after getting to know them. Maybe he was too picky?

"…So, what do you think?"

"She sounds wonderful, Dawson. The perfect woman for you." Even though he hadn’t exactly been paying attention, it was obvious that Dawson was head over heels for the woman, and that was good enough for Pacey. Dawson deserved that kind of love. Pacey only hoped he could find it himself before all the good ones were taken.

"Thanks, but that wasn’t what I was asking," the other man replied wryly through the phone.

"Then…?"

"I was asking if you’d be the best man."

"What kind of question is that? Of course I will. I know you don’t have any other friends."

"Funny. I’m flying in to New York to meet her tomorrow afternoon, we’ll meet you for dinner at your restaurant? I’ll go over all the details then. We’re planning the wedding for next week; it’ll be small, just family. "

"Yeah. That sounds perfect, D. I’ll be there most of the night, so just come in whenever."

"Great. I should get going, I’ve got a load of loose ends to tie up before I should even think about getting on that plane."

"Right," Pacey nodded to himself. "And congratulations."

"Thanks, Pace." Dawson smiled into the phone, hanging up his end.

Pacey kicked off the edge of his desk, and hung up the phone. Dawson was getting married. He shook his head in disbelief and stood up, grabbing his jacket he left the office, locking the door behind him. He was confident the assistant manager could handle everything the rest of the night. Tyson would probably be glad to see him go, the slightly younger man was starting to complain that he was a work-a-holic.

"Boss, you heading out?" The object of his thoughts appeared at his side as he descended the stairs just in front of the kitchen doors. Tyson was a short, stocky man, with a funny accent that no one could quite pinpoint and a brilliant smile ready for everyone. Pacey had hired him on the spot.

"Yeah, but before you start preening with pride, I’ll be in early tomorrow to make up for it."

"You make me sad, boss. Go out, find yourself a little lady and make oodles of babies." He shook his head, watching Pacey with sympathetic eyes. "You need yourself an apple for your eye."

"My eye is of no concern to you," Pacey rolled his eyes with a smile. "Think you can hold down the fort?"

"But of course, I wont let these hoodlums get out of line. They wouldn’t dare."

And Pacey knew that they wouldn’t. He had a good staff working at Rick’s. He nodded his head at his friend, and headed through the restaurant, preferring to survey his pride and joy than escape through the back.

Rick’s had been a pure stroke of genius on his part. The first time he’d watched Casablanca had been with Dawson. The blonde had been watching it for a film project, and Pacey had lacked anything better to do until his date later that night. He’d protested for a solid two minutes, claiming no movie made in black and white could compare to the modern stuff.

But then, he’d found himself drawn into the film. He couldn’t quite believe how fast the time had passed. As far as he was concerned the movie had been story telling at it’s best. He felt an instant camaraderie with Humphrey Bogart’s character. Rick was a tough guy. He had the stiff upper lip, a dry humor that simply flew over the heads of his companions, and a heart of pure gold. A little dented maybe, but still 24 karat.

Scanning the room, Pacey felt a surge of pride at his accomplishment. A grand piano, larger and classier than the one in Casablanca, was stationed in one corner of the room on a raised dais, one of the five professional pianists that worked for Rick’s sat behind it, his agile fingers flying over the keys. A few yards away, the one of the bartenders was taking an order and casually flirting with the two women dressed in clinging dresses in front of him. The rest of the large room was sunk lower into the floor, tables spread far enough for patrons to have more privacy than was normal in other restaurants. A dance floor was cleared in front of the piano, and his eyes settled on the two couples dancing there.

The first, an older couple, in their fifties at least, slowly swayed from side to side. The man stood tall, his cheek pressed to her graying hair, an arm curved tenderly across her back. The woman’s eyes were closed, her face a portrait of contentment as she rested her cheek against her husband’s chest. The ache in the pit of his stomach seemed to intensify without warning.

The second couple was younger, late twenties he guessed. Where the first couple was comfortable in their well-worn love, this second couple could only be described as head over heels. She had her hair pulled back from her face in a half-ponytail, her eyes twinkled in the romantic light as she gazed adoringly up at her man. For his part, the man returned the gaze with a passionate kiss, bending her backwards over his arm as he dipped her. She came up laughing, wrapping her arms eagerly around his neck as she pressed the length of her body against him. Another pang in the vicinity of his chest.

He shook his head at his own weak emotions, he should be proud he was able to provide such a romantic environment. Turning, he strode to the door. Nodding at the hostess, he stepped out into the street. It wasn’t as if he was jealous. He was happy with his life, a financial and public success, he’d proven both his friends and family wrong. So what if he didn’t exactly have a steady stream of women knocking down his door anymore? He didn’t really want that anyway. When he wanted to see some action, he’d get it. Odd that he didn’t want to see action as much as he used to. It was almost ridiculous how much he didn’t want to get laid. Not that he didn’t want sex, he did…but he no longer wanted just sex.

He shook his head, wanting to rid himself of the thoughts. So what? His friend was getting married. Good for him. He was glad for Dawson. There was no reason for him to get depressed over this. He was thirty-three, there was plenty of time to find a woman to love, get married, have kids. What was he worrying about? It’s perfectly normal to be lonely every once in a while.

With that thought in mind, he walked down the street towards his favorite bar. Granted, he had one of his own, but he wasn’t much in the mood for the romantic atmosphere at Rick’s. Tonight, he much preferred Divided, the club eight blocks down that was know for their martinis, pool tables and lacked the loud music and dancing most clubs in New York were known for.

Stepping inside the doors, he hung up his jacket, and made for the bar, sliding onto a stool. "JD, please." He ordered.

"Wasn’t expecting you tonight," the bartender, known to Pacey only as Rod, said as he poured Jack Daniels into a glass and handed it to Pacey.

"Eh, I needed a break." He shrugged a shoulder and lazily turned, scanning the rather empty room. A pair of guys were playing pool and drinking beer. A small group sat in one of the back booths, wearing business suits, a sure sign they were here to wind down after a tough day. One woman sat alone at the other end of the bar, stirring her olive around the martini glass. "Not much of a crowd you got here tonight."

"It’s a Monday," Rod shrugged. "We’re never all that busy unless it’s football season. Anything else I can get ya, Pace? Pacey?"

Pacey didn’t reply for the simple reason that his mouth had gone dry. At first glance, the woman six seats down from him had seemed pretty enough, a little bored though. His eyes had been drawn back to her, and at second glance he’d registered all the beauty that he’d bypassed the first time. The woman was absolutely gorgeous.

She had dark hair that she had pulled back from her face in a clip, the dark brown strands, burnished red by the lights, hung down her back in soft waves. Her face was tilted slightly towards him, as she rested her hand against her cheek. Her eyes were focused down, her long lashes brushing her cheek as she stared at the glass, and he was struck with the desire to know what color her eyes were. Her lips were full and smooth, tinted just barely with a little red. His gaze slid downward, along the silver chain to a small pendant that hung around her neck, just above the lush curves of her breasts. He swallowed thickly, trailing his eyes over the dark red shirt to the skirt that ended just above her knees, revealing her long, long, long legs.

His eyes slid slowly over her again, taking in every curve, every fold of cloth that hid what he couldn’t see. Finally, looked into her face again, late twenties by his best estimate, maybe early thirties. But God, she was beautiful.

"Pacey?" Rod chuckled, watching the other man stare at the brunette who’d come in twenty minutes later. He’d seen her come in before, usually with a few of her friends, and she usually drank what she ordered. So far, in the time she’d been there he’d only seen her take a sip of her martini.

"Uhhh."

"It’s rude to stare, you know." The woman looked up from her drink and cast Pacey a frosty look.