My financial manager and realtor cannot come to a consensus about what the right thing to do is in my situation. The realtor, Angie, thinks that I could make an absolute killing on the sale of the apartment and the storefront. Of course, if I make a killing, her cut will be substantial.

Meanwhile, Scott Richards is still arguing in favor of, as he calls it, “maintaining my assets” even if I decide to leave the city.

“It makes the most financial sense in the long run,” he’s telling her over the phone when my cab pulls up to the curb outside my building. There’s a strange energy coursing through me that I’m absolutely going to take advantage of, and right now. My first call when I get upstairs is going to be to one of the personal assistants I share with a couple of friends, and I’m going to ask her to bring as many packing boxes as she can carry up to my apartment.

A moving company will do the bulk of the work, of course, but it’s been a long time since I moved anywhere for a substantial period of time. Since college, anyway, which is bordering on eight years ago now.

“Damn,” I whisper under my breath as I slide my card into the cab’s reader to pay the fare.

“Ms. Banks?”

“Not you, Scott. I was…thinking of something else.”

“As I was saying, I simply can’t recommend a sale of your properties at this time, although the values have, of course, increased substantially since the time of your purchase. There’s no arguing that. But I hope to impress upon you that—”

“Thank you so much, Scott.” Sometimes, interrupting him is literally the only way to end the conversation. I can tell he’s feeling very passionate about keeping me—and my assets—in New York. “Thank you,” I repeat to the cab driver, who gives me a friendly wave and a smile before I close the door to the car. That’s a good sign. Right?

“Scott? I’ll get back with you before the close of business on Monday with my final decision. I appreciate all your input.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then he says, “Of course, Ms. Banks. Pleasure speaking with you, as always.”

As soon as I end the call, my phone rings again.

Angie.

“Hi, Angie.” I pause on the sidewalk in front of the building, tilting my face up into the September sun. Once I go inside, I’m going to lose myself in packing up the most important of my possessions, and by the time that’s finished, it’ll be dark out.

“Carolyn! I’ll tell you, I think this is a wonderful time to list your properties. I have a number of connections who have expressed interested in similar properties in the last few months, so I’m confident we can negotiate a sale as soon as you’re ready.”

“That’s good to hear, Angie.” I want to tell her to list it, list everything, but the words stick in my throat. Why is this so difficult? When it first came to me in Scott’s office, it seemed like a sure thing. A new place. A new life. With Ace or without him.

Is it that simple, though? With him, yes. If we can work this out, then it’ll be the easiest choice I’ve ever made in my life. Without him, I don’t know what I’ll do.

Angie is still talking, but I haven’t taken in a word she’s been saying. Something about the recovering market, more about potential sale prices and added value….

My phone buzzes with a text message, but it’s probably from Jess. I’ll get to it when I’m back upstairs.

“Right,” I say, the next time there’s even a hint of a lull. “If you could email this all to me that would be…that would be great. And I’ll get back to you on Monday.” I don’t bother telling her that I’ll have a final decision. Standing here right now, in the New York City sun, I feel entirely undecided.

About selling, that is. Not leaving. I’m going to get out of here, and I’m never going to lose myself in the business of other people again.

“That’s great!” Angie chirps on the other end of the line. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you. This is going to mean great things, Carolyn!”

Never let it be said that Angie doesn’t have a bubbly personality.

I drop my phone back into my purse, take one more deep breath, and square my shoulders.

I’m doing the right thing. Once I’ve made a little headway with packing, I might even text Ace and ask him to talk.

I push open the door to the lobby, blinking in the relatively low light, and take a moment to adjust my purse.

And then my heart pounds, so hard it feels like it might burst right out of my chest, because standing in the center of the lobby, looking at me, is Ace.

I want to run toward him, and I want to run back out onto the sidewalk, because the surge of electricity that streaks through me is almost too strong for my body to handle. Those gray eyes, that body, Jesus….

He’s clutching a folder in his strong hands and seems frozen to the spot, but then he blinks and takes a deep breath.

“Ace,” I say, not caring in the slightest that Arnie the doorman is riveted to the scene, having put down his copy of today’s Times.

Ace shifts his weight and moves toward me, and it jolts me out of my own head. I’m still too close to the door, and it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, to walk to him with a measured pace.

It’s only a matter of seconds until we’re standing face to face. I breathe in the spicy scent of him and my entire body relaxes.

“Hi.”

His eyes bore into mine.

My entire being hangs on his presence.