“So, no temptation to take Jonathan Wickham up on his offer?”

Hope winced. “Should I have told you about that?”

“Not necessary.” Justine waved the question away. “I hear everything worth hearing eventually.”

“I guess you do, and no, not the least bit tempted. This is my home. Jonathan may think I can’t exist without Georgetown, the Wickham, and him, but he’s wrong. I feel more . . . myself than I have in a very long time.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Glad to know you didn’t give either of his offers the time of day.”

“Oh. Oh! Don’t get me started on door number two.”

Justine laughed again. “That’s exactly why I’m here. To get you started. Men don’t give the real details, just a sketchy overview.”

“What kind of person was I involved with?” Hope shoved back, got a soda for herself. “I knew he was flawed, everyone has flaws. And I knew there were weak spots, and of course, I assumed I’d shore them up. I know better than that, but—”

“You were used to him. You cared for him.”

“I was, I did. Looking back, I see it was the whole package. The place, Jonathan, the people. I considered his sister one of my closest friends. She wasn’t. I thought I was where I belonged, and the lifestyle . . . It was a good one. Or it was on the surface. It’s hard to admit it was all surface.”

“How can you see that when you’re in it?”

“By looking.” She sighed. “Even realizing, admitting, seeing it all, and him, for what it was, he completely stunned me by suggesting we go back to how it was—with benefits including some sort of pay scale.”

“Prick.”

“Oh, at least. Once I calmed down enough, I called my mother and ranted to her for nearly an hour. He was always so charming to my mother, to my family. That mattered to me. She supported me when it all went to hell, but I know she had this soft spot for him. Until I unloaded on her. She was madder than I was when I’d finished.”

“I think your mother and I would get along just fine.”

“You would. Coming here in his Versace suit and Hermès tie, with his honeymoon tan still glowing, and telling me I’m unfulfilled here, out of place here, how I should come back to the Wickham—at a substantial raise—and to him. How he’d take care of me. Asshole.”

“Asshole’s a compliment next to the word I’m thinking.”

“I never thought I’d feel sorry for Sheridan—his wife. But I do.”

“Hold on. Didn’t she rub your face in it? Didn’t she, knowing full well he’d been involved with you, come into your office and tell you she wanted you to run point on planning her wedding at the hotel?”