Richard

"Well," I say, straightening. "Isn't this a surprise?"

Lewis Felton exhibits none of his usual pomp and circumstance. In fact, his nice jacket is rumpled, his button-down rolled to the elbow.

His auburn hair is windblown, sweat wetting his temples. In fact, he looks like he ran here.

"The meeting is over," I inform him coldly, packing up my briefcase. "Your proxy should have your notes prepared for you."

Lewis says nothing, only stares at me in the vast, empty conference room. Outside, San Francisco buzzes vividly. When the board requested I fly in for a few weeks after the New Year, I did so without question. It wasn't a difficult decision. Saint-Égaré has felt empty since August. It's felt like hell.

Every inch of it makes me think of Georgina Felton, and while San Francisco is her home, at least my version of it is untouched by her laugh, her dark eyes. It doesn't stop me though, from halting on the street now and then when a banner of red-black hair swoops by. My heart catches eve