“You look like shit, Jack.” My business partner, Ian Wilder, lounges in the doorway of my apartment, a smirk on his freshly shaven face. Always dressed as if he’s about to close a deal, he rolls his eyes at my rumpled and untucked shirt and low-slung, ripped jeans.

“Thanks,” I grumble, turning away from him and padding into the living room where I’d crashed on the couch about forty-five minutes ago, exactly two hours after staggering off a plane at San Francisco International Airport.

“How was the flight?”

“Long.” I flop back on the soft leather and bury my head in a pillow, one of about a hundred decorative ones strewn around my place. None of them are fit to rest your head on, but they add so much life to the décor.

Those words, by the way, do not in any way, shape, or form reflect my opinion of what a pillow should be. But somehow, I lost that battle a long time ago. Maybe I’d just given in because it was easier than having yet another argument about any one of a variety of topics — my inability to commit, my crazy work schedule, my anti-family car.

Not that any of it matters now, at least according to the heartfelt Christmas card I found propped up on my kitchen island this morning.

“I need you to pack a bag.” Ian’s voice is slightly muffled by the beading and sequins pressed against my ear, so I’m not a hundred percent sure I heard him right.

“Mmnphh?” I mumble, throwing an arm over the top of the pillow.

“I said, you need to pack a bag!”

I flip over and glare at him. “Are you kidding me? I just got home from the airport, and I’m jetlagged as fuck.”

“I know, I know. But this is really important. We’re going to Pennsylvania.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Look, here’s the long and short of it. I found our new green, start-up investment. Feedn Time is an organic produce farm out east, but not only do they harvest their own food, they also donate complete meals to soup kitchens in the area and are about to open their own. They’re on the brink of becoming huge. They just need the right promotion to bring their cause to the masses. It’s a great story for the public, a family-owned-and-operated business that started about four years ago. It’s social impact on steroids. And the best part is they’ve just signed wholesale contracts with some of the large and mid-sized supermarkets in their area. Plus, there’s a lot of online potential. They’ve barely scratched the surface there. It’s a perfect company for our portfolio. A win-win. They get your marketing and financial genius and my sales expertise for a decent stake in their star company.”

“We couldn’t find an organic farm out here? We live in the Go Green! Belt of the fucking country.”

“No other company I’ve researched has the same story. And let’s face it, people love a good story. Anyone can buy organic, but wouldn’t you rather buy organic from the company that also donates healthy alternatives to people who can’t even afford to buy so much as a Big Mac?”

He’s right. Even my foggy mind realizes it’ll be a huge win for our portfolio. As the co-managers of a green investment fund in northern California, we scout the world for companies like this. I scrub a hand down the front of my stubbled face. My eyes are bleary and burning from the hours spent poring over paperwork last night on the red eye from London. Or maybe it was this morning. At this point, I don’t even know what day it is anymore. I crack open an eye. “You could handle this yourself. You don’t need me along for the ride.”

“Come on, you can read all about the company on the plane. I put together a briefing package for you.” Ian claps his hands, I guess in an attempt to get me moving. I stay put, where I’m somewhat comfortable. “This has to happen quickly. I already made contact at the trade show in New York last month. Spoke with the daughter. She’s one of the principals of the company and the one who handles the contract negotiations. But we need to draw up contracts and get the ball rolling before any more time goes by. They’re wholesome, salt-of-the-earth-type people. We can’t just barrel in on them, spouting out a bunch of legal and financial crap. We need to build a relationship with them. They need to know we see them as people and partners…not just profits. Besides, it would be good for Lila. A small-town Christmas is exactly what she needs. Your place is hardly holiday central.”

“Well, according to the Christmas card she left me, I think it’s safe to say she’s made other plans.”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“Evidently, that’s exactly what she did.”

Ian looks around at the scratchy pillows in every corner of the room, the tall, ostentatious, floral arrangements and assortment of candles. “Nice that she left you all of her frilly shit.”

“I guess she wanted to leave me with a keepsake of our blissful time together.” As exhausted as I am, I can’t make the effort to bite back the sarcasm.

“Merry fucking Christmas, huh?”

I shrug, closing my eyes once again. “Is it really that much of a shocker? I’m never here, and even when I am—”

“You’re not.” Ian cocks an eyebrow. “I’m actually surprised she lasted this long.”

“Thanks.” I toss a pillow at him and he ducks too late. “Ahh! Those damn beads scratched my fucking eye!”

I snicker and roll onto my side. “Watch out or I’ll send another one your way. The sequins on that pillow over there will cut you up real good if you keep it up. Besides, you’re hardly the picture of monogamy.”

“Yeah, but I make that crystal clear at the get-go. I never set any false expectations. Unlike you, who invites women to move in under false pretenses and then proceeds to move out.”

“I never offer them a future.”

“And yet they keep coming.”

“You said it.”

Ian pauses. “I’m sorry, Jack.”

“Don’t be. It was never going to happen.” Not with her. Not with anyone...else.

“Because you’re still hung up on the one who got away.”

I sigh. Except she didn’t get away. She stayed right where I wanted her to.

Right before I left her.