Paris Ford stared at her work television. Her assistant, Michelle, had dragged her to it at lunchtime to stare at Paris’s ex-boyfriend taking the hit that had put him into a coma. Her insides had gone gooey as she stared at the scrolling news across the top and bottom of the screen and tried to listen to what the sportscaster was saying.

“Logan Slade has now been in a coma since the spring training scrimmage this morning, folks.” The sportscaster frowned. “Last year was a building year for the California Wave, and the owners thought they would draft a few key players to build a number one team. Bogart Humphrey was one of them, but rumors say there’d been some bad blood between Humphrey and Slade since the draft. Owners and fans alike are starting to wonder if they’ll even have a decent team this year.

“Of course, the real tragedy is Logan Slade, an all-star quarterback out of UC Berkeley, who was drafted to the Wave three years ago and clearly had more talent than this team could keep up with. And rumors are that his fiancée—” A picture of Kim Turner flashed on the screen, wearing a zebra-print halter top dress, blonde hair pulled up, with the reddest, tackiest lipstick Paris had ever seen. “—is devastated and has promised to keep everyone up to date on her vlog.”

Michelle, who tended to be a bit on the pop culture junkie side, let out a sigh. “Will this affect our All-Stars Event?”

It would be hard to explain to anyone how mixed Paris’s feelings were at this moment. Logan Slade had been more than her ex-boyfriend. That made it sound so trite. No, Logan Slade had been everything. Breathless and dizzy, she stumbled, dropped the file in her hands, and grasped at the back of a chair. “Logan.”

Logan was an integral part of the event her company had been commissioned to plan and execute the past two years, which some social media outlets had termed the Billionaire Boy Event of Jackson. Logan, a Jackson native, had contracted with her company two years ago to organize the event, bringing together the best of Jackson to fundraise for a couple of different world-changing organizations: autism, human trafficking, funds for babies born in other countries who needed surgeries …

The sportscaster continued. “But Logan did say one last thing before he went into the coma, leaving all of his teammates confused, and especially his fiancée, Kim.” The television cut back to Logan’s face as he sprawled on the ground, football helmet off. Paris could tell it was a phone that videoed this segment, because the frame was shaky.

Kim leaned over him, sobbing. “Logan? Logan?” she pleaded, tears leaking down her cheeks.

Logan’s eyes flashed opened, and he muttered, “Paris.”

The blood in Paris’s veins turned to ice. She swayed woozily.

Michelle grabbed her arm. “Whoa, sugar, I guess he hasn’t forgotten about you after all.”

Paris’s mouth felt dry as she tried to cover up her stumble. She stood and shrugged away from Michelle, forcing herself to breathe. “I’m fine. It’s …” What was it? Of course she was worried, even though she felt stupid for it. Obviously, she wasn’t the zebra-print dress fiancée on the television. She wasn’t anything to Logan Slade anymore, hadn’t even talked to him since her mother’s funeral two years ago. She shook her head and bent to retrieve her file, noting the newscaster had gone on to other stories. “I’ll be in my office, Michelle.”

Michelle gave her a top-to-bottom look, catching on. The past year had been a hard year. Divorcing Shane and juggling custody of their five-year-old had been the toughest thing Paris had ever done. Michelle had been babying her for far too long.

Michelle waved her on and turned to pick up the remote, turning the television off. “Let’s get back to work, people. The biggest social event in Jackson Hole doesn’t get planned with us standing around. We are six days away from All-Stars! Chop-chop!”

Paris shut the office door behind her and sucked in another long breath. Tears welled in her eyes as she frantically went to her computer and googled Logan, something she had forced herself not to do the past couple of years. She had to see the coverage. She had to know what the prognosis was. Of course, a YouTube video popped up with Kim’s face. Kim Turner, not content with mere movie stardom, had taken it upon herself to record every intimate detail of their lives.

Paris scrolled through the search results, but didn’t see anything about the prognosis. Was he okay? Reluctantly, she clicked on the most recent video from Kim, showing her sitting next to his hospital bed, sobbing, telling the audience she didn’t know what she would do; they were supposed to be married and he was the man she wanted to spend her life with. Then the video cut to shots of the cake, dresses, and table china that would be displayed at the wedding.

Paris shut her laptop. Sitting back in her chair, she closed her eyes and played “Symphony No. Five” by Beethoven in her mind. Keeping her eyes closed, she held up her hands and air-played it. Since the time she was three and started playing the piano, she’d found that the classics soothed her the most.

She thought of her son, Ty, and her stomach jumped into her throat. She had to pick him up from kindergarten today. Grabbing her keys and purse, she reminded herself that her relationship with Logan Slade had been over a long time ago. He might have whispered her name, but that meant nothing.