The whole way back to the office, all I can think about is Wes. About what a mistake this is. And about how in the hell he got me to agree to dinner.

I climb the stairs above U-Coin with trepidation. I know Kyla will ask how it went, and I owe her the truth. Or at least part of it.

Sure enough, as soon as I step one foot into our small little space, Kyla shifts around in her seat. When she sees it’s me, she pulls off her massive headphones and turns away from the website project she was working on.

“Well? How did it go? Did he offer you a job?”

I flop down into my chair, not caring that I’m immediately plastered to the vinyl. I let out a sigh.

“Sort of?”

Kyla laughs. “What does that mean?”

“He wants to pitch me formally on Friday but … yeah. They’re launching some kind of new hiring initiative for disadvantaged women, and he wants our help to promote it. He said he’d heard about the work we do with non-profits.”

Kyla leans back in her seat. She looks thoughtful.

“Hmm,” is all she says.

“What does that mean?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Just … hmm.”

I let out a resigned huff. “Yeah. That’s how I feel too. Hmm.”

We laugh, and it feels good to have someone to share at least some of my concerns with.

“That project doesn’t sound like GoldLake,” Kyla says.

“No,” I agree. “It really doesn’t.”

“And we aren’t the kind of firm they’d normally work with.”

“Exactly! See, this is why I’m conflicted about it.” Well, one of the reasons.

She nods. “On the other hand … God, I can only imagine the budget they have for a project of that size. Did he mention anything about billable hours?”

I shake my head. “I’ll ask him Friday.”

She nods. “Still. I’m going to guess it’s pretty high.” Her lips twist, and she rubs the inside of her wrist, a nervous habit of hers. “You know, this job could probably take care of all our bills for months. We wouldn’t have to harass all our other clients; we could take on more pro-bono projects. The Elmwood Gables Community Center project you wanted to work on, for instance.”

“I know,” I groan. I’ve already considered how much financial freedom this project would afford us. In so many ways, it would be a godsend.

If only I could shake my hesitation about working with Wes.

“What do you know about this guy?” Kyla asks. “You said you went to high school together — did you know him well?”

I shake my head.

“Not really. Different circles.” I hate myself for the lie, but I can’t bear to get into the whole sordid story right now.

Kyla, bless her, takes me at my word.

“I guess you’ll have to try to evaluate his intentions at your meeting Friday. Do you want me to come with you?”

For a second, I entertain the possibility. I’d pay good money to see Wes’s expression if I showed up to dinner with Kyla in tow. I know a double date isn’t exactly what he had in mind, even if he did claim this was purely a business meeting.

But deep down, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want Kyla there. That wants to face Wes on my own.

Maybe that should be a warning. Wanting to be alone with him doesn’t exactly seem like a wise idea, after all. But I push that thought out of my mind.

“I’m fine,” I tell her. “We’ll debrief afterwards.”

She nods. “Okay. Be careful, okay?”

“What do you mean?” I wonder for a second if she can sense that I have ulterior motives for taking this meeting.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I guess I just think there’s a reason we’ve chosen to stay away from representing firms like that. They don’t always share our values.”

“I’ll say,” I mutter under my breath. Kyla doesn’t even know the half of it, and her words resonate more than she realizes.

* * *

After a couple more hours of work, I decide I’m too distracted to get anything else done. I say goodbye to Kyla and take the subway back into Brooklyn.

I unlock the door of our apartment quietly, not wanting to disturb Emma if she’s working, but when I poke my head into her room, where her desk is, I find it empty.

I let out a breath. I’m actually relieved to find her gone. I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with Emma The Perfect yet.

I hop in the shower to wash the day’s sweat off my skin. Thank God we don’t pay for our own water here, because ever since Marigold moved above the U-Coin, my shower quota has shot way up. Today, though, it does nothing to refresh me. Even under the pounding stream of cool water, I feel hot and flushed.

Wes.

I push the image of his face aside as I soap my body, ignoring the way my nipples pebble when I think about him.

Wes.

God. Why does he have to be so fucking hot? Why couldn’t he have gotten a beer gut and a bald spot? Instead, he’s somehow even more attractive than he was at eighteen. Wealthy, successful, powerful, and sexy as hell. It hardly seems fair.

I allow myself a minute — just one — to think of Wes’s deep voice, of his long fingers on that little shot glass, of the utterly sexy way he’d smirked at me across the table at the juice bar. My soapy hands drift across my skin. Over my breasts, across my stomach, inching lower until I find my part and slip one tentative finger over my clit.

Christ. What am I doing? I hit the tap, turning the shower as cold as I can make it. I yelp as the frigid water hits me, but I force myself to stand under the spray until all traces of soap — and all my thoughts of Wes — are washed away.

When I let myself turn off the water and climb out of the shower, my skin has finally lost its pink flush. I pull on clean shorts and a tank and head to the kitchen, where I throw a pot of water on the stove so I can boil some pasta. Cooking is more Emma’s domain than mine, but I can at least manage noodles.

While I wait for the water to boil, I grab my cell phone so that I can check my Marigold email. Nothing new. I feel a twinge of disappointment, and I realize I’d been hoping to see something from Wes.

I give my head a shake. I must have issues, if I’m hoping to hear from him. On a whim, I find Celia’s contact info. I hit the call button.

“Rori!” She squeals into the phone after a couple of rings. “This is a nice surprise!”

“Hey, Celia,” I say, relaxing into a smile at the sound of her voice. Celia and I met in college and became instant best friends. We’d shared dorm rooms and then apartments, clothes, shoes, and an endless number of bottles of wine. We’d come to New York City together a few years ago, but she’d recently moved to Chicago to open a bar with her fiancé Jace. I’m thrilled that she’s found such happiness, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss her like crazy.

“Less than four weeks now!” she gushes. “Can you believe it?”

“I can’t. Are you completely and totally freaking out yet?”

“Not about marrying Jace, if that’s what you mean,” she says with a laugh. “But I am freaking out a bit about all the wedding details. Remind me again why I decided to plan a wedding in another state?”

I grin. “Because you wanted to get married in Connecticut, because your family is there and you grew up there?”

“Right. Good reminder. I knew I made you Maid of Honor for a reason,” she jokes. “But this is still hell.”

“Is there anything I can do from here?”

I can hear her gnawing on her lip on the other end of the line as she considers the question.

“I don’t think so. But thanks for the offer.”

“Okay, well, just say the word,” I tell her. “Anything you need.”

“Thanks, sweetie. You’re the best. How’s life treating you?”

“Uh, okay, I guess,” I say. The water on the stove bubbles, and I dump an unmeasured portion of dry pasta into the pot, enjoying the second of silence as the water slows its boil for a moment.

“Rori,” Celia says. It isn’t a question.

I sigh as I rummage through the drawer for a large spoon to stir the pasta with.

“I saw Wes Lake today.”

Celia sucks in her breath. She’s never met Wes but she’s heard all about him. Even in college, he occupied an embarrassingly large part of my mental space, and I couldn’t help but compare other guys to him. It was Celia who had helped me move on, and in the last year, watching how happy she was with Jace, I thought I had finally put Wes completely and totally behind me. I wanted what Celia had, and I was ready to find it.

Not that I had actually done anything to try to find it, of course. The truth is, I don’t date much. I blame work for that, but I won’t lie — part of me is hoping that love is going to knock on my door one day, kind of like it did for Celia. I’m not sure I have the stomach for dating in New York City. I swear this entire city is made up of pretentious hipsters, douchebag finance types, forty-year-old party boys, and stone cold creeps.

“You just ran into him? Did he recognize you? Did you talk to him?” Her questions get more high-pitched until I cut her off.

“Worse. He showed up at my office. He offered me a job.”

“A job?” Celia screeches. “What? What about Marigold?”

“I mean, a marketing job. Not a job at GoldLake.”

“That’s great!”

I shake my head, even though I know she can’t see me. “No, it isn’t. This is GoldLake we’re talking about.”

“Aren’t they a huge firm? This would be great for you and Kyla, no?”

I sigh. “That’s the problem. They’re a huge firm. What do they need Marigold for?”

“Because of you!” Celia breathes.

“What?”

“Rori, this is about you! Why else would Wes seek you out after all this time? The marketing thing is just a cover.”

“You’re crazy,” I say, although my throat suddenly feels dry. I stir my noodles and hot water splashes out of the pot, sizzling on the burner.

“I’m not crazy,” she says smugly. “Ooh, this is so exciting. You have to take the job now.”

“Since when did you become Miss Optimism? I miss my old friend, Celia the Cynic.”

Celia laughs, a irritatingly cheerful tinkle. “You can thank Jace for that. And remember how far-fetched and impossible my relationship with him seemed in the beginning? What if it’s the same for you and Wes?”

For a second I let myself entertain the idea. What if she’s right? What if Wes did seek me out? What if he wants to rekindle what we once had?

God. I can’t go through that again. Even if what Celia is saying is true, I can’t do it. I can’t let him hurt me like that again. When I was seventeen, Wes leaving had devastated me. To go through that a second time might just destroy me.

“Sweetie, I have to go. I’m boiling over here.” I rummage in the drawer for a pair of oven mitts.

“Boiling over?”

“My pasta.”

“Oh, okay. Well, promise me you’ll think about what I said, okay? Don’t be afraid to bet on this, Rori. I bet on Jace and look how well that turned out.”

“I promise I’ll think about it,” I assure her, while I secretly cross my fingers.

I end the call and toss my phone on the counter while I tend to my pasta.

Despite what I told Celia, I don’t need to think about it. Her advice had exactly the opposite of its intended effect on me. Instead of considering the possibility of Wes’s offer, I’m more convinced than ever that the whole thing is a terrible idea.

I can’t work with Wes, and on Friday night, I need to tell him that.