Trina goes on and on, talking a mile a minute. The door opens again, but my back is to it, and I’m too engrossed in this exchange to turn and look. Which is why I’m gobsmacked when the newcomer speaks.

“Sorry I’m late. There was some traffic coming back from lunch.”

It’s a familiar voice. One that used to be closer to my heart than my own. One that filled the gaps in my soul and whispered to me in the dark.

But surely he isn’t here right now. I’ve just been stressed out about this whole thing, and I’m mistaking someone else’s voice for his. That has to be it. There’s no other explanation. Unless…

I freeze. Trina glances over my shoulder, and her eyes go wide. Her red lips form an O, and it would appear she’s been rendered speechless. Casey watches me carefully, and poor Meri is just standing there in her bright yellow pantsuit with her hands clasped in front of her and a smile plastered on her face.

“What is going on?” comes that voice again, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to persuade myself that Ryan Whitlock isn’t standing right behind me.

It’s Casey who jumps in first. He clears his throat and puts a gentle hand on my shoulder, encouraging me to turn around.

“We were just getting started with introductions,” he says as I turn as slowly as I possibly can to face my fate.

It is him standing there. The man I loved more than I loved my writing career, who pored over my words with me at such length, I wasn’t sure which were his and which were mine. Bodies and souls and words entwined in a love deeper than any I’ve experienced before or since.

The man I walked away from when I rejected my offer from JMP.

People are saying things in a flurry behind me now, but I don’t catch any of them. I have tunnel vision, laser-focused on Ryan standing in front of me, looking somehow better for the five years since I saw him last. He’s wearing a thin, navy V-neck sweater and fitted gray slacks. His classic dark-rimmed glasses frame his brown eyes which also seem to be zeroing in on me. The brown hair I used to run my fingers through is longer now, and my hand twitches to find out if it’s still as silky as it was then.

“Scarlett.” His voice is several decibels lower than the frenzy behind me. And yet, it’s all I can hear.

I can’t move, can’t speak. I can only nod slightly, and his hand flies to his mouth. He laughs, then—a harsh sound and not at all the joyous one he used to save for me. The room grows quiet at the noise.