I push aside that thought. “I’m good. Great, actually.”

“Yeah, seems like it.” I detect a sardonic flavor in his tone as his hazel eyes roam the atrium’s architecture.

“And you? You seem to be doing well.” My gaze drifts over his uniform.

“Can’t complain. Rikell’s a decent company. I get benefits and holidays. You know, that sort of stuff.” He folds his arms across his chest, making his biceps look that much bigger and more sculpted in the short sleeves of his uniform shirt.

And I catch myself staring at them, for far too long. So long that he begins shifting on his feet. “How many is that now?” I nod toward the sleeve of ink, even as my cheeks flush.

He stretches his arm out in front of him, slowly turning it this way and that, as if admiring his own tattoos. “I stopped counting a long time ago.”

“I’ll bet.” I clear my throat. “Do you live in the city?”

“Summer Heights.”

“Oh, yeah? Nice. We have a few buildings out there.” It’s a good half-hour commute by car—longer, by public transit—an area considered more affordable for young families and people just starting out.

“Yeah, well, we’re renting for now. We’ll see how we like it.”

We’re renting.

We’ll see how we like it.

Of course Kyle’s living with someone. He’s thirty years old. My stomach tightens as my gaze drops to his left hand. There’s no wedding band. Not even a tan line of one. An unexpected wave of relief hits me, followed by that voice inside my head, reminding me that a missing ring doesn’t mean he’s not married. Or at least madly in love with someone: that the next step isn’t inevitable.

I push that painful thought aside. “I just live a few blocks from here. With Ashley and Christa.”

That earns a high-browed look. “Christa?”

I laugh. “She’s gotten a lot better. Most of the time.”

“That’s . . . cool. I guess?” His gaze drifts to the security desk behind me, and I sense him searching for an escape. “I should—”

“Have you kept in touch with anyone from Wawa?” Was I the only one you completely shut out?

When his eyes meet mine again, there’s heaviness in them. “I’ve seen Eric a few times over the years, but that’s it.”

“Oh yeah?” Despite the tension, I smile at the mention of that goof. “We were just talking about him the other night. How’s he doing? Still a pain in the ass?”

Kyle’s eyes narrow as he studies me for a long moment. “He’s good. Listen, I should get back to work. I don’t want Gus firing me on my first day.”

“Says the guy who used to sneak off the second he saw any opening,” I tease softly.

“Yeah, well . . . That was a long time ago. Shit happens. People change.” His smile is sad.

“They do.” Sometimes for the better, and sometimes not.

But which is it, for Kyle?

I feel the overwhelming need to know. “Hey, do you want to grab a drink sometime? Or a coffee, or lunch, or whatever. You know, catch up on things.” On everything.

A curious smirk touches his lips, but it’s fleeting. “Yeah . . .” His brow furrows. “Let’s keep it simple for now. You know, stick to hellos in the morning and goodbyes at night. That sort of thing.” His voice is low and soft—almost apologetic—as he delivers me the verbal blow.

The sort of thing that strangers do. Not friends. Not even acquaintances. And definitely not what we used to be.

I swallow against the ball of disappointment growing in my throat. “Of course. If that’s what you want.”

“I think it’s best for everyone involved.” He takes a step back. “Have a great day, Miss Calloway.” He shifts around me and strolls toward the desk, his steps even and slow.

I absently paw at the elevator button again and hear the ding to announce another available car, but I don’t move, my feet weighted in place, my gaze locked on Kyle’s retreating back.

It happens just as he’s edging past Gus to take his seat. He turns and our eyes meet, and thirteen years seem to evaporate in the air between us.

Christa was right, after all.

Kyle may not have forgotten me, but he doesn’t seem to want to remember us.

With my heels kicked off and my feet propped on a cardboard filing box, I quietly watch the last rays of sun creep over the Marquee building. Its rooftop is just visible. We had the hotel signage removed as soon as the deal closed on the building. Now it sits idle, the first few floors boarded up to keep out riffraff, giving vermin free rein inside.

Maybe Christa’s right and I shouldn’t give Kyle a second thought.

Or maybe I should hate him.

For breaking my heart thirteen years ago.

For treating me so callously last Friday.

For wanting to keep me at arm’s length today.

But right now, all I have inside me are questions.

“Heading home soon?”

I spin in my chair to find my father standing in the doorway. He’s swapped his pinstripe power suit and tie for a crisp white collared shirt—the top two buttons open—and a beige linen blazer and khaki pants. The subtle sandalwood aroma of his aftershave wafts in.

“Soon. But more important, where are you off to, Don Juan?”

The right corner of his mouth quirks. “A dinner meeting.”

Dad never goes to business meetings without a tie.

“You need to trim two months on the Marquee’s revised timelines—”

“I know,” I say. “I’ve already asked Tripp to have his team tighten it. He said he’d have something to me by the end of the week. I’m pushing for an eleven-week reduction.”

“Oh.” My dad nods slowly, a flash of satisfaction crossing his face. “Good.” He drags his fingertips along his chin in thought. I note the smoothness, even from here. Whoever he’s meeting, he shaved in his office’s restroom for her. “You and Tripp seem to be playing nice?”

“Seems so.” I grit my teeth through an innocent smile. Tripp spent the two-hour meeting this afternoon glowering at me from across the table as Serge walked me through the revised plans post city approval. If looks could kill, I’d be split open on a spit and roasting right now.

“Interesting . . .” Dad’s eyes narrow. “I didn’t think being told to shove a golf club up his ass would motivate him so well.”

Shit.

Of course the piglet went squealing all the way home.

I take a deep breath, set my shoulders, and brace myself for a tongue-lashing.

“I know you think I’m hard on you, and demanding. And maybe I am. But everything I do—everything I’ve ever done over the years—I’ve done only with your best interest at heart. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, Dad. I do.”

He sighs heavily. “Don’t stay here too late.”

“I won’t. Promise. Enjoy your dinner.”

He makes a sound and turns to leave.

“Hey, Dad?”

“Hmm?” His eyebrows rise in question.

“Please tell me this one’s at least forty?”