After a moment, she gets serious again. “Lucky for you, we’re out of time, so I can’t bug you about talking to him about what happened five years ago, but I think you should. Soon.”

I stand quickly, not wanting to go any further with that for now. I came a long way today. Let’s not ruin it.

“Maybe next time.” Even I can hear how uncommitted I am to that.

She laughs again. “Definitely next time.”

There’s only one thing that I can ever do after therapy, and that is watch baking competitions. Since my holiday baking marathon was so rudely interrupted last time, I’m itching to get back to it. I change into my pajamas, toss my hair up into a bun, make myself some tea because coffee this late in the day would be bad for my circadian rhythms, and snuggle in.

No sooner do I start the first episode of a new season than there is a knock at the door.

“Dammit, Trina,” I curse loudly as I stand to answer it. Probably loud enough for her to hear me through the thin door. “You scheduled that appointment and texted me no less than eight times to make sure I went. You should know—”

I’m cut short when I pull the door open, because it’s not Trina standing there. It’s Ryan.

He’s more casual today in dark jeans and a forest-green hoodie, but his hair is still done. There’s a portfolio tucked under one arm, a laptop bag slung over his shoulder, and a question in his gaze that I can’t quite decipher.

“I’m not Trina.” His voice is laced with humor, though he doesn’t let his face show it.

“I can see that.”

His eyes flick over my shoulder, and then he gives a little half smile when he sees what’s on the television. “You still love baking shows.”

“Some things never change,” I singsong in a desperate attempt to break some of the tension Ryan his decidedly brought with him.

That backfires, because his gaze slides over me as if he remembers every curve and dip and surface of my body. “Some things never do,” he says softly as his eyes meet mine again.

It doesn’t take much to remind me what I loved about Ryan all those years ago. In fact, I was reminded of it throughout my entire time at the Anastasios offices while he sat across from me, larger than life and overtaking my senses. He’s still so confident. So unabashedly emotional. If I had to venture a guess, he’s probably still so damn good at what he does, turning raw words into sentences that leap off the page.

Some things never change, indeed.

“Why are you here?” I ask. “And how did you get my address?”