Five years ago, in a fit of rage or depression or whatever you want to call it, I packed up a duffel bag and ran. After wandering for about a year, I had a service pack up everything that was important to me—which wasn’t much—from my condo in Roger’s Park and put it up for sale. That was when I came back to Chicago to move into this tiny apartment in the South Loop. It took me six months before I could call Trina again to tell her I was alive. I made her promise never to tell Ryan, swore her to secrecy. It took another two months of her building up my trust before I even gave her my new address. I never gave it to Ryan. Never called him. Never texted. I still go out of my way to avoid driving near his old place.

It’s not that I didn’t want to see him again. I did…and looking at him now, I remember even more clearly the way his body felt against mine, the way his lips brushed against my skin, the way his words sounded as he whispered them into my ear. But I was too afraid. If he had been angry with me or if I had ruined his career, I never would have forgiven myself. And so it just became easier to stay away for good. I convinced myself it was for the best.

But as his dark eyes search mine with a mixture of sadness and concern, I can see that he might have missed me almost as much as I missed him. And I don’t know what to do with that information.

He clears his throat, breaking us out of whatever tense moment we were sharing. He lifts the portfolio from under his arm. “I have notes for you. And your address is on the contract.”

Of course it is. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. But I certainly never thought Ryan would just show up at my apartment.

“That doesn’t exactly explain why you’re here,” I say over the noise from my television. “You could have sent the initial notes through Trina.”

“Do you want me to send my notes through Trina? That’s not typically how I work, but—”

“No,” I cut him off. “I don’t know why I said that. It’s not how I work, either.”