I stand on the sidewalk outside the Carlisle Building, my stomach tied up in knots. It’s got to be Max, hasn’t it? The secretary on the phone was vague about the meeting, so maybe Jules is right. He’s figured out that I had nothing to do with Artie’s backstabbing, and he invited me here to apologize and make it all OK.

In your dreams.

I head inside and security directs me up to the same floor where I had my interview—and there’s Ms. Editor with her frizzy curls. I give her a polite smile and look around for Max. But she plants herself in front of me and extends her hand.

“Hallie, I’m glad you could make it in on such short notice.”

Oh. “You called the meeting?” I ask, trying to hide my disappointment.

She blinks. “Well, yes. Did my secretary not make that clear?” She sighs. “I’m sorry, I’m training in someone new this week. Would you come into my office?”

I follow her, curious now.

“I know we couldn’t find a place for you in Art,” the editor says. “But it turns out we have a position as a photography assistant that’s just opened up.” She rolls her eyes. “So much turnover these days. No one knows how to commit to a job..”

I straighten up. “So . . . is this another interview? I’m sorry, I didn’t bring my portfolio. If you want, I—”

Ms. Editor waves me off. “It’s fine. The position’s yours if you still want it. I know I liked what I saw.”

She did? Could have fooled me. I’d hate to see how she looks through a portfolio she doesn’t like.

Hold on, did she just say—

“I have the job?” I repeat, my eyes widening.

“Yes,” the editor says, sounding amused. “I take it you are interested.”

“Yes. Yes, absolutely.” A photo assistant position here at Carlisle Publishing—it doesn’t even matter what magazine or paper it’s for, it’s a big leap up that ladder. Holy shit. It’s really happening.

With awfully coincidental timing. I pause, my pulse skipping. “This might sound like a strange question, but did Max have anything to do with this?”

Ms. Editor raises one carefully plucked eyebrow. “Max? I’m not sure who you’re thinking about, but this offer is straight from me.”

Oh. That last bit of hope snuffs out. But still. This is the job I wanted. Like the universe telling me I made the right decision handing back that check.

“Never mind,” I say quickly. “I’m so happy a spot opened up. When do I start?”

The editor smiles. “Next Monday, if you can.”

“I’ll be here!”

I leave with all the details, still in a daze. But even though I’m grateful for the chance, I still have this ache of pain lingering in my chest. I want to be happy, it’s just hard to be overjoyed after the romantic roller coaster I’ve just been on. And the weirdest part is that all I want to do right now is call Max and tell him about the job. I can imagine how he’d have cheered at my victory, and insisted that of course they would be wowed by my talent . . .

I shake it off, but my heart is still heavy.

Back in the lobby, I can’t quite bear to leave yet. Instead I wander into the gallery. I drift from display to display, soaking the images in. It’s ridiculous, I realize. That treasure hunt Franklin Carlisle sent his family on was all about the history and legacy of his company. But now scheming Artie and the rest of them will tear all that history down.

I hope it was worth it.

This time I hear the curator’s soft shuffling before he completely sneaks up on me. Ernest Hammersmith is looking as cheerfully Santa Claus-y as ever.

“The photographer,” he beams. “You came back. Looking for inspiration?”

“Celebrating,” I reply. “I just got hired on as a photo assistant.”

His eyes light up. “Well, then. Congratulations!” Then his enthusiasm dims. “I hope it survives the shakeup, when the company changes hands.”

He already knows? My stomach clenches. “I know Franklin Carlisle is passing it on. Is the sale already a sure thing?”

“It might as well be. That Arthur Junior is a piece of work,” he adds ruefully. “He’s been pushing to unload the whole place for years.”

Damn. Even though I knew it was coming, it still hurts. “I’m really sorry about that,” I say. “I can tell the company means a lot to you.”

“To be sure. I’m one of the board members, you know,” he adds. “Won some shares off Franklin in a hand of cards, forty years ago now.”

“No, really?”

But Ernest doesn’t look so happy. “Carlisle Publishing has been a profitable and respected business for nearly a century. None of us wants to see it stripped for parts. But the younger generation, they’ve got no interest in learning the ropes and putting in the hard work to keep up that tradition. They just want to make a quick buck.”

I pause, trying to remember what I heard Artie say, that night at the party. He had some of the board members on his side, ready for when he got his hands on Franklin’s shares.

Does this mean he couldn’t sell without them?

“How is the ownership of the company split?” I demand, my excitement rising. “Franklin’s portion isn’t enough to make that call on its own, is it? If you all stood up and fought to keep things the way they are—”

Ernest sighs. “In theory. But as you can see, we’re all getting on. Franklin was the real force behind things. Without him, there’s no real leadership.”

“Well, here’s hoping there’s still a company—and a job for me—come Monday,” I say, rueful.

Ernest smiles. “I hope to see you soon.”

I exit, my happiness dimmed even more. I hate to imagine what Artie and co. will do to the Carlisle legacy, so how must Max be feeling, watching everything fall apart?

Nope, I’m not supposed to be thinking about him. The whole point of getting out of the house was to clear my head. And now that I’ve returned the money, I don’t have any ties to him.

Clean break. Fresh start.

So how can I explain ambling up to Central Park? And if I happen to stroll toward the Boathouse where my camera—and the rest of me—took that unfortunate tumble the other week, that’s just a coincidence too. I’m absolutely not scanning the lawns trying to pick out the exact spot where the refreshment tent was set up. The spot where I first locked eyes with Max Carlisle.

I sit down and gaze out across the lake. I replay our first meeting over again—his cocky grin, our banter, dear Lord, that amazing kiss . . .

I never would have thought I’d fall for the guy I met over those cupcakes. Every red flag was waving that I knew his type. But I was wrong. There’s so much more to him than the cocky charmer he seemed at first glance.

Is he even thinking of me at all? Or has he moved on to the next foreign assignment, the next no-strings girl, like I never existed at all?

It’s a good thing I’m not the gambling kind, because the cruel truth is, I would bet everything that he hasn’t skipped a beat.