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I don’t mean to ask the question, but I find that the moment it’s out of my mouth, I’m dying to know. An ex, obviously. From the pinched but resigned look on Willa’s face, one that indicates their obviously awkward history. But not heartbreak. Which adds the tiniest bit of lightness to my mood.

Willa sets down my phone with a sigh and leans back in the chair. “He was my college boyfriend.”

“And when was college for you?”

“I graduated four years ago.” She pauses. “We broke up right after.”

Four years ago. Which would make Willa around twenty-six? Twenty-seven? I’m surprised. I thought she was much younger. She’s so … youthful. Being around her makes me feel ancient, but I like knowing there’s only seven or eight years between us.

Not that it matters. It shouldn’t matter. Itdoesn’tmatter.

I shift. “And he lives here in Serendipity Springs.”

“He just moved back. From Paris.” There’s a tension in her voice, matched by tightness in her shoulders. As I watch, she twists her fingers, then seems to realize she’s doing it and stops. “He proposed to me right after graduation.”

Thissurprises me. Not the idea of someone proposing to Willa—that idea makes me want to smash something. I’m surprised their relationship progressed all the way to a proposal, only to fall apart somehow.

How did he let this woman get away?

I wait, sensing Willa wants to say more. Or maybe it’s just that I’mhopingshe wants to say more.

“Now, what about this office?” Willa asks.

“What about it?”

“It’s a mess.” She sets down the clipboard, measuring the closest stack of folders with her hands, as though they hold their own system of measurement. Maybe in Willa’s world, they do. “And from what I’ve picked up, I suspect you are a man who abhors mess.”

“Abhor?”

“It meansto hate. As in, I abhor your ginger mints.”

“You and your vocabulary.”

She beams at me, her smile so genuine and disarming that it makes me take a small step backward. “You inspire me to use my big words. Am I wrong?”

“About vocabulary?”

“About abhorring mess and disorganization. I’m assuming this is how Galentine left things? She never let me in here, but this looks very much like her handiwork.”

“I already did a first round of cleaning,” I tell her. “This is what’s left.”

“Then, thank you. Would you like me to organize all this? Do you have a particular system? A way you like things?”

“I just want to be able to find what I’m looking for without having to dig my way through mountains of papers that may or may not be of any significance.”

“And I just want a pony for Christmas. But this—I think I can do.”

“You want a pony for Christmas?”

Willa laughs. “No. It’s an expression.” She tilts her head. “Maybe it’s just one my family uses?”

“I’ve never heard it. But then, my family wasn’t really the type to have phrases.”

I immediately regret bringing up my family. Especially when Willa sets her elbows on one of the stacks of folders and dropsher chin in her hands. She looks far too inquisitive. And far too … something else. The word that comes to mind istempting.

“What is your family like? Are they still in New York?” She must see the way my whole body tightens at the mention of my family because she grimaces. “I’m sorry. Rude. Not everyone wants to talk about their family. And I’m supposed to be working, not talking your ear off and asking intrusive personal questions.”

She may be apologizing, but she still looks eager for an answer.