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“Taya.” His voice is the same.

It’s incredible how his voice sounds exactly the same, despite everything he said to me with it. The warmth when he says my name, the careful intelligence in how he speaks—it’s all unchanged.

Everything else isn’t.

“How are you?” There is warmth in his tone, like he has a right to ask me a damn thing.

“Is this about the bonus payment?” I am unable to keep the edge out of my words.

People say getting over someone is a victory. Not feeling anything for them is a victory. Not letting them hurt you is a victory.

I don’t know about that.

I was hurt. I can admit that. And every time I think of him, there’s still a sharpness to it—because he made a fool of me.

I’m fine with that. Now.

If I missed him—missed us—it would be a problem. But I don’t, and in fact, what I feel is simpler than that. Griffin is a man without integrity, and I don’t need to get over that.

He’s silent for a moment—it’s his way of protesting.

He doesn’t like my directness. He liked the version of me that softened things, that gave him the diplomatic answer, that had learned over our time together to make his reality comfortable for him. I spent a long time being that version.

I am not her anymore.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he says.

Disgust crawls up my spine. He’s now back with his wife, and he’s hitting on me?

What a douchebag!

At least, when we were together, he and his wife were separated.

Officially. I’m no woman’s other woman.

“If that’s the case, how about you send me my check?”

He ignores that, and I realize how much I dislike that he lives in his own world and talks about things only he cares about. He’s a self-centered prick, and I was a moron.

“I heard you’re in some ranch town doing basic legal work?”

“Griffin, if this isn’t about⁠—”

“Baby, you’re better than that.”

“I’m better than you,” I snarl. How dare he make my life small? How dare he insult this life I have built?

He chuckles. “You’ve always been the better person, baby.”

The endearment grates, and my nerve endings scream.

I sip my wine and walk to the tall windows and watch the beautiful mountains—they don’t care about my emotional drama; they stand there stoically, millennium after millennium.

“I miss you.” He blurts the words out, like he’s been building up to them. “I know how things ended between us. But I think about you and I⁠—”

“How does your wife feel about you missing me?”

“This isn’t about her. This is about us.”