She ran into the main room, hoping to find him standing by the reception desk, but the person there wasn’t Micah. Instead it was a woman—a thin, beautiful redhead, with angry eyes and a petulant expression.

“I’m looking for this room,” Electra said, slapping Micah’s key on the counter. “Micah Ruiz sent me to check him out of this place and get his things packed up.” She looked around. “What a nightmare. Whoever did the decorating never heard the phrase ‘less is more.’” She turned back to Dena. “His room? Where is it?”

Dena struggled to understand what was happening. Electra was here for Micah’s things? But he was coming back. He’d promised.

“Mr. Ruiz didn’t leave any instructions to let someone else into his room.” She forced herself to offer a pleasant smile.

Electra waved the key. “I don’t need permission, do I? I have the key. He’s busy recording and can’t be bothered to come here to take care of the details.”

Dena didn’t know what to think. Micah couldn’t have gotten back together with Electra. Not so quickly. He’d sworn he didn’t even like her that much. But Electra had his key. How would she have gotten it if he hadn’t given it to her?

“I’ll show you the room,” she said stiffly, walking toward the main entrance. “It’s in the carriage house.”

“It’s so cold here. And the snow. What’s up with that? When he’s done recording, we’re going somewhere tropical. Just the two of us. I can’t wait. Sun, sand and sex for three weeks. Then we’ll come home and start writing. It’s going to be wonderful.”

Dena came to a stop in front of Micah’s door. Electra used the key to let herself inside. She looked around and wrinkled her nose.

“What a dump. How did he stand it here for so long?”

She walked through the living room, into the bedroom, then returned. “I’ll take his guitars with me. Send the rest of it to his manager. Here’s the address.”

She handed Dena a business card.

“Bill him for the shipping.”

In less than five minutes, Electra was gone. She carried out two guitars, leaving everything else, including a stunned Dena, who stood in the center of Micah’s living room and tried to remember how to breathe.

He was gone. Just like that. He hadn’t told her, hadn’t hinted. He’d just sent that horrible woman to get his guitars. And now she was supposed to pack up his things and send them to him? Like his time here hadn’t meant anything at all? Like she hadn’t mattered?

What about the song? What about the night they’d shared? What about the kisses and all the things he’d said? She’d hoped that they were—