Moving on is impossible when the police call me three times a day with updates.

It seems like it’s been forever, but it’s only been three days, and already I can feel myself becoming snappish, the kind of asshole I always hated growing up.

I don’t want to hear anything else about Angelica.

On Monday, the doubt clouds my mind like a thunderstorm descending over the city.

Everyone’s words go in one ear and out the other, and after meetings, when I look down at the legal pads in the leather portfolios I’ve taken to carrying with me, I don’t remember what my notes are supposed to be about.

If I made such a great choice, why is it eating me alive?

By noon, I’ve had enough. I’ve also had enough of being alone at my penthouse. I never ended up asking Connor to go out, and now my chest is dull and heavy and somehow like a live wire, raw and exposed, at the same time.

Maybe a night out would have lifted the weight a little bit.

“Emily.” My voice is loud and clear. I stand up from behind my desk, grab my suit coat, and pat my pocket. Phone is secure. “I’m out for the rest of the day. Reschedule everything for later in the week. Wednesday at the earliest.”

“Mr. Brandon?” she says, standing up from her own desk as I come through the outer office. “Are you feeling all right?”

“No.”

She takes in a breath like she’s going to ask another question, but changes her mind.

It doesn’t matter. I’m gone.

* * *

I end up at a piano bar on 47^th with my hand wrapped around a cold glass, which contains something called the Hell’s Kitchen. I’m not entirely sure what’s in it, and I don’t care.

There’s no music playing right now, but one of the pianos is being tuned and the man doing the work occasionally lets a note sound long, then fiddles with it. Aside from a couple of tourists—from the Midwest, judging by the accents and the way they gleefully order every appetizer on the menu and giggle their way through each one—I’m the only one at the bar.

I’m halfway through my drink and beginning to relax when the bartender leans against the bar across from me. I’ve been staring at the polished hardwood bar top and thinking about Angelica. When I raise my eyes to find out what he wants, he’s looking at the tourists in the corner booth.

“They’re having a great time,” he comments smoothly, like we’ve been having a conversation all along.

The pair of them have moved on from the basket of popcorn they started with to a ham and cheese sandwich and a second cocktail. “Yeah.”

“You think they’re going out tonight?”

The woman is wearing a black sheath dress and the man has a button-up shirt—I can’t see if he’s wearing pants, but I’d guess cargo shorts by the looks of him. “They’re tourists,” I shrug. What the hell else do tourists do except go out?

What do you do except stay in?

“Fifty bucks says they get discount Broadway tickets to the first show on the list.”

I laugh, but it sounds bitter and hard. “I’m not stupid enough to throw away money on that kind of bet. We both know you’re right.”

The bartender, a tall, skinny guy with red hair, smirks, then waves his hand between us. “I can’t judge them too much. They help pay the bills.”

“Damn right.” They help pay mine, too, even though they probably don’t know it.

There’s a pause.

I sip my drink.

It’s three-quarters gone, so I down the rest and push the empty glass toward the bartender.

He raises his eyebrows at me. “More of the same?”

“Surprise me.”

He putters around behind the bar, mixing, stirring, and then presents me with another glass. “My signature.” I don’t ask. I don’t care. From the taste of it, it’s either highly alcoholic and this man is a master of disguise or he’s watering it down in case I start to lose it.

A legitimate assumption.

“So, what’s your deal?”

I take another swig of the drink. Rum. It has rum in it. “My deal?”

“Yeah. Guy like you, expensive suit....” His eyes flick along the lines of my jacket. “Your type isn’t usually in here at noon.”

Why not?

“I wanted to get out of the office.”

He nods, the corners of his mouth turning down. “This is better than an office.”

“Agreed.”

“Did you get fired or something?”

That’s funny. “No,” I say, a wry smile on my face. “I couldn’t focus.”

He cups his hands around his ears. “You can tell me. I’ve got all afternoon, and it’s empty in here.”

I shake my head. “Are you a living cliché? Is that what this is?”

“I like to talk.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t have to.”

I swallow. The thoughts that have been hammering around inside my skull all day are begging to get out. Even if it’s to—

“What’s your name again?”

“Ryan.”

“Ryan.” Another sip of the drink. I don’t want him to know who I am—you never know who is in cahoots with the gossip websites. “Have you ever met a woman who seemed like the perfect person for you, and then they turn out to be...” I can’t begin to describe it. My heart clenches, turns inside out.

“Yeah, man,” Ryan says sympathetically. “You end things with her?”

If I were sober, I’d never answer. I’d never be talking to this guy like he’s Connor, or one of my other friends from the Swan.

If I were with Angelica, I wouldn’t be here at all.

“I did.”

“Do you regret it?”

His words cut into me, punch a hole through my already bleeding heart.

I finish the drink in two gulps, pull out my wallet, and toss a hundred on the bar.

“No.”