He didn’t tell her he was in New Orleans. He didn’t intend to spend the night here, anyway, and he definitely didn’t intend to spend it with Gayle. “I’m working.”

“Well,” she said, and he imagined her walking across the plush carpet of her home, probably standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows to stare out at the night. The suggestion wasn’t unexpected. “You won’t be working all the damned night, now will you? I could stay over….”

If it wasn’t so damned sad, it would be funny. Gayle, living in the lap of luxury, spending the night in Aunt Colleen’s torn-up bungalow without any hot water or much else.

“Conditions are rustic. I sleep in a sleeping bag on a cot, Gayle.”

“Cozy,” she said, deliberately misreading what he meant. “I could get a hotel. You could stay in something a little less primitive for a night.”

“I don’t think so.” He leaned back in his desk chair again, his weight making it squeak in protest as he placed a foot on his desk. He thought of Kristi, the difference between the two women, and the fact that he’d never really felt the same way about Gayle. Not even close. Gayle had been right about that, her feminine instincts honed.

“You’re avoiding me,” she said with a little pout in her voice.

Jay steeled himself. There was just no way to sugarcoat this. “I can’t make time for you right now.”

He heard her swift intake of breath. “Wow. I guess I didn’t expect that. I thought we were going to be friends.”

Outside the door of his office, he heard footsteps and soft conversation as two colleagues passed. Further away a phone rang.

“I think we have a different opinion on just what being friends is.”

She charged, “You don’t want me to come up there.”

“It wouldn’t be a good idea.” There was a pause. He didn’t really know how to do this without hurting her, then decided he had to be cruel to be kind. “Gayle, I don’t think we should see each other again. Not even as friends.”

“Why’re you doing this?” she cried, appalled.

“We both agreed it’s over.”

“Your idea. Not mine!”

“You weren’t happy.”

“I could be.”

“Oh hell, Gayle. It would never have worked. We both know it.”

“You wouldn’t let it.”

“I’m not going to fight about it.”

“You bastard,” she said, her voice switching tones. “It’s Kristi Bentz again, isn’t it? I knew it. That’s why you went up there in the first place. Because she was going to school up there—surprised I know that?”

No, he wasn’t. That was the problem. “It’s over, Gayle.”