“You’re not going anywhere yet, Mrs. Ford,” I warn her, serious about this—she’s too much a sweetheart and she wears her years so wonderfully well. The world would be a sadder place without her, that’s for sure. She just smiles and chuckles a low, raspy sound, as if glad that I want her to hang around here longer.

I’m opening my water bottle and refilling Milly’s plate when I see, out of the corner of my eye, Mrs. Ford wave to someone in the distance.

“Oh, my Ian,” she says under her breath, obviously excited.

I follow her line of vision to a tall, dark-haired man of around thirty heading toward us. He’s quite…well, quite attractive. He’s wearing a white dress shirt and formal black slacks, and he’s got a serious, rather handsome face, and shiny black hair that gets ruffled by the breeze. He looks straight out of a Suits episode—he’s even got that untouchable, workaholic air stamped all over him.

Milly’s barking and leaping at him before he even reaches us, which draws out a smile from the guy.

“Bryn, this is Ian, my grandson,” Mrs. Ford introduces.

He gives me a brief nod. “Bryn,” he greets a little formally, then he smiles at his grandma. “Gran. How’s my favorite girl doing?” he asks her in a very nice, appreciative voice, and she giggles.

“Oh, you cad. Sit down.” She pulls him in next to her. I’m glad to spot Sara walking over, and I leap to my feet, too eager to head home and change for my date. “Looks like my replacement is here. I’ll see you next weekend, Mrs. Ford?”

“Yes, Brynny,” she says.

That’s when I realize Ian is rising to full height, his dark stare fixed on Sara. Sara stops walking and gapes.

The silence becomes so awkward that I feel compelled to help Sara, for some reason, even though I have no idea what exactly it is I’m helping her with. She just seems…pale. Like she’s seeing a ghost, or worse.

“Um. Ian, this is…” I begin to introduce, but he cuts me off. His tone a little different. Surprised, I think. Low, and a little questioning maybe.

“Sara. We’ve met.” He looks at her with a brief, stiff smile, and Sara just stands there with her jaw open. That’s when it hits me—I think she’s found her one-night-stand man.

I hurry into the apartment to get showered and dressed, then stress about what to wear. I slip into a comfortable pair of dress pants and blouse, with a thick belt, and a long gold necklace. I check the time, and once I’ve spent 20 minutes waiting, I text him.

Are we still on for tonight?

No reply.

I grab my sketch board and try to make some drawings, then call his number and get voicemail. “Hi. Is everything okay? Call me, please, I’m worried.”

Two hours pass. I stiffen every time I hear an ambulance outside, and I keep replaying the time I got a phone call to let me know my parents had passed. The news is on to ease my paranoia.

He’s all right, I tell myself, fighting my subconscious fears from surfacing.

I fall asleep with my sketchpad in my hand, still dressed, with my heels on.

Sara doesn’t come home until the next day.

“What happened? Did the whole city get lost last night?” I rant, worried about her too.

“We got a hotel room. We fucked, okay? End of story. He’s gone again.”

Wha—?

“Sara!” I say as she heads to her room, lightening up with the news. “You have his name now. Ian Ford.”

“Yes. He’s some mogul/magnate I couldn’t resist, but it’s done with.” She then notices my attire. “Where are you going?”

“Was. I got…I got stood up. God, I can’t believe he stood me up.” I bite my lip and shake my head. “Something is wrong. I can feel it.” I clutch my stomach.

“You’re just paranoid. He’ll call.”

But he doesn’t.

On Monday morning, I call his office. By the afternoon, when there is still no word, I head over to Christos and Co.

Bryn

I cross the lobby and go directly upstairs, where his assistant is hustling to get shit done, as always.

“Is he alone?” I ask.

“Sorry. He’s not.” Click, click, click, I hear the keyboard.

“Did you tell him I called?”

She nods. Click, click, click.

“Why hasn’t he called back?”

Click click…” He doesn’t report to me, dear.” Click, click. “I’m sure he’ll call when he wants to.”

God. That’s it? “Will you stop typing and look at me.”

Robertha stops typing and looks at me, her eyes wide in surprise over my outburst.

“Will he see me or not?” I demand.

Alarmed, she slowly picks up the phone, but I’ve had it with waiting for an ounce of his attention. The least he could have done was call—text. Send a courier. Fucking answer my dozen calls worrying about him. Obviously nothing happened to him. Obviously he hasn’t crashed, gotten robbed, kidnapped, or killed. The man is fine. He’s at work, isn’t he? I start for the doors.

“He’s in a meeting—” she says.

I ignore her and head straight to the double doors leading to Christos’s office. I push them open.

Christos is at the long table at the far end of his office, wearing a white shirt and slacks, his jaw shadowed with three days’ growth of beard—while two men stand with him, reviewing some sort of paperwork.

The relief I feel when seeing him—and confirming that yes, he is fine!!—is nearly knee-buckling. But the feeling is quickly replaced by confusion. He looks raw, a little filthy, as if he hasn’t showered at all.