In the Bentley. I sat in the back, running my fingers over the seams of the leather, overwhelmed by memories of the last time I’d sat there. This was unreal. This reckless girl in her black dress and high heels being driven to the house of her boss, her enemy, the man who had ruined her life … ruined her with a kiss. With a look across the office. This wasn’t me. By the time the car stopped in front of a modest-looking brownstone on the quaint, brick-lined Charles Street, the bottom floor of which was taken up by an antique shop, I wanted to run. Toward him. Away from him. Instead I slid my leg across the seat and placed my heel on the uneven brick. The night was warm, the first hint of Boston’s usual humid summers heavy in the air. I stood, straightened my dress, thanked the driver. There was no past anymore, only the powerful present. And there were just a few feet between me and Daniel Hartmann. The street echoed with the indulgent noise of people enjoying a good meal, and I glanced toward the sidewalk patio of a restaurant.
