“No. I’ll just wander.” I grabbed my tote and walked out before he could marshal another argument. Behind me, he hesitated, still rattled by the lipstick stains, probably still reying whatever heat he and Tracy stirred upst night.


    The elevator doors closed, and my phone pinged. A text–of course–from Ms. Darwin herself.


    Tracy: [Mr. Hob didn’t throw upst night, did he? Sorry, I couldn’t stop him. Two new deals in the bag, he was over the moon. I’ll make sure he drinks less next time.]


    My stomach rolled at her y. Silence would only let her think she’d hurt me, so I tapped back.


    [So thoughtful, Tracy. Next time, stamp the lipstick on his chest. That way, even without a heads–up, I’ll know exactly <i>how </i>much fun you two had.]


    Message sent. No reply. Was she rattled… or just busy savoring her triumph? Hard to say, and I honestly didn’t care.


    I spent thete morning drifting through the luxury boutiques, snagging a silk scarf for Mom, a leather wallet for Dad, and a DSLR camera my kid brother had been begging for.


    Around noon, I ducked into a sun–sshed café that overlooked the indoor concourse. The sleepy, after–lunch sunlight felt like a weighted nket across my shoulders.


    “Hey–Ma’am!” I nced up. Outside the window stood the same kid who’d staggered into me in the hotel corridorst night, drunk on everything butmon sense.


    Today he wore a gray tee and baggy jeans, tall and fresh–faced enough to make a college admissions officer weep with joy.


    “Small world, huh?” he said as he slid into the chair opposite mine.


    Iughed. Two run–ins in forty–eight hours. Even Romeo and Juliet had to work harder.


    He propped his chin on his hand, eyes crinkling. “You here alone?”


    “Yep. Just doing a little shopping.”


    “Me too. Mind if I get you something? Coffee? Dessert?”


    “Appreciate it, but I was just about to head out for lunch.”


    “Got it.” Disappointment flickered for half a second, then he bounced up to the counter, borrowed a pen and a slip of paper, and dropped them in front of me. “Name’s Ryan Jennings. My cell’s on there. I’m from Shaville. You local?”


    “No, I’m living in Hachester,” I said.


    He looked happy. “Not bad. We’re practically neighbors.”


    His handwriting was borderline calligraphic. I raised an eyebrow, and he flushed like a kid caught practicing love poems.


    <b>Just </b>then, his phone vibrated. He nced at the screen and grimaced. “Gotta run. My grandpa’s here for treatment. I’m supposed to pick <b>up </b>a


    gift for him before visiting hours end. Next time I’m up your way, can I take you to lunch?”


    I started to shake my head, then surprised myself by nodding. “Sure. Drop a line.”