“Damn it. That move sounds as if Griff, that fucker, has been giving her pointers. You think she’s gearing up for a divorce?”

“Apparently, she called a lawyer.”

“She’s done that before,” I rationalize aloud. “She usually backs down.”

“True.” Harlow lets out a troubled breath. “But something tells me this time will be different.”

As soon as I hang up with my sister, I call Keeley again. Still no answer. I leave her another voice mail with some assorted groveling and a casual question about the bar Harlow mentioned. Has she heard of it? Damn it, why won’t Keeley even talk to me? I can’t seem to go on without this woman.

How can I soothe her anger so we can have a… What do shrinks call it? Yeah, a dialogue. I start racking my brain for ideas. I’m pretty sure she would find flowers lame. In the larger scope of things, they’re easy and cheap. But if I try to buy her something expensive or substantial, she’ll tell me she can’t be bought.

Where does that leave me?

I reach my condo and dash through my door, hoping that Keeley will be here, waiting. Maybe she’s just too pissed at me to answer the phone. Maybe she wants to yell at me before we talk. I’m okay with that. I’d probably feel like I wasn’t important if someone tried to persuade me to flash a little leg or whatever to make them a buck.

My hands tremble as I shove the key in the lock and push the door open. “Keeley?”

Nothing. The place is painfully quiet.

As I glance inside, the kitchen looks completely spotless, so I have no idea whether she even stayed for breakfast. Nor has she set anything out for dinner. That worries me.

I toss my keys on the bar and scan the family room. Nothing of Keeley’s is lying around. No book. No glass of half-imbibed water. No rumpled pillows on the sofa.

My guts starts to clench with dread.

“Keeley?” I call again.

I can’t stand that she’s not here, not responding to me. I swallow as I dash to her bedroom.

Please tell me she’s not gone for good.

The minute I hit the threshold, her absence is palpable. But the bedroom smells so much like her it nearly drops me to my knees. A pang for her obliterates my composure. I imagine her skin. I see her smile. I can almost feel her heart.

Keeley Kent would never use or sell me. She would never put her job first. If she loved someone, she would never betray them, hurt them, or leave them.

I have fucked up so badly. Every cell in my body aches with that truth.

The worst part is, I don’t know if the damage I’ve done is reparable.

Taking four giant steps across the room, I rip open the closet door. And I breathe an audible sigh of relief. Her clothes are still hanging. Her shoes are still lined up along the bottom of the closet.

I work a lot of long hours, so I don’t always think about the fact that my condo could be tidier. But Keeley not only tucks everything away, she has this knack for arranging items around the room so they’re both clever and functional. I’ve noticed recently that she’s completely turned my kitchen upside down—in a good way. Same is true of this bedroom. It used to be a spare space for guests to crash. Now she’s brought in pictures, throw pillows, and knickknacks. The space actually looks homey.

What the hell do I do if she decides not to come back? Will she send me a Dear John letter asking me to return her stuff while telling me to fuck off?

Those thoughts pelt my brain over and over as I change into pajama pants and head for the sofa. Absently, I turn on the TV to wait. I text her to say I’m home. No reply.

With a sigh, I tune out the news. Politics—don’t care now. Economic data—whatever. I usually listen to the housing info, but I can’t even pretend to give a damn tonight. The program drones through the local news and special interest stories.

Still no Keeley.

I call once more—just in case. She ignores me utterly.

My stomach goes from tight to nauseous. The clock tells me it’s past time to eat dinner. For maybe the first time in my life, I’m way more worried about someone else and how they feel than what the fuck is going on in my life. Food will come later. Once I know what’s up with Keeley.

Eight o’clock rolls past. Stupid sitcoms with bad laugh tracks can’t hold my interest. Nine o’clock comes and goes. I don’t even know what Keeley is doing, where she’s gone. If she’s trying to teach me a lesson, I think I’ve learned.

Finally, my phone rings. I pounce on it, fumbling with the answer button. But the display tells me it isn’t Keeley.

“Britta?”

“Yeah. I just wanted to check on you. I finally got Jamie in bed and thought I’d call. As I backed out of the parking lot at the office, I thought I saw through the window that you and Rob were arguing. Everything all right?”

I need to get control of myself. Stop this man-period I’m having. I have to not freak out.

Deep breaths.

It doesn’t help.

“I’m good.”

“You don’t sound like it,” Britta chides gently.

She’s not stupid, and I shouldn’t treat her that way. “He threatened to quit.”

“He what?” I hear the shock in her voice and grimace. “That man has devoted years to you. What the… Everything seemed all right when I left.”

It was. And now that I’ve opened my big mouth and started talking, I don’t have any other way to explain our fight except the truth. “Keeley isn’t just the woman I’m hooked up with right now. I was grooming her to distract Griff so we would get the Stowe listing.”

I explain everything, including the fact that I have no idea at all what to do next.

When I’m done, Britta says nothing for an unnervingly long time.

“You still there?” I ask. My voice croaks with nerves.

“How dare you.”

My assistant doesn’t yell or scream. I wish she would. Then we could get into a knock-down-drag-out and purge her anger. But no. She says the words so softly I have to strain to hear them. I know Britta’s temper well. Silence is bad.

“Um…because I’m stupid?” I’m hoping that’s the right answer. When I explained my scheme aloud again, that’s how it sounded.

“Maxon, you are thirty-three years old. You need to learn that you don’t always get your way.”