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I ignored the ding of a message. My hands were elbow deep in yeast dough, and sweat trickled down the back of my neck.

It was four-thirty in the morning, but I hadn't slept a wink.

At three, I finally gave up and drove to Salt he should know what I was planning.

"I might have an opportunity to open another location in Cedar Hollow," I filled him in.

"Oh, wow!" His face lit up. He was instantly aware of the opportunity offered to me and, by extension, to him.

Cedar Hollow was an exclusive shifter community; nobody who wasn't family was even allowed to visit.

The town had everything—boutiques, grocery stores, pharmacies, you name it.

Opening a restaurant there would be an honor, especially for a non-shifter.

New people would flock in droves to my other restaurants just because they were affiliated with Cedar Hollow.

And like I said yesterday, magazines like Cuisine Chef would be sure to want an interview, maybe even do a feature.

There was no way I was going to let Patrick ruin this for me. Damn him anyway.

"Damn, boss, I'm proud of you." Evan moved in like he was going to give me a hug, but I evaded him with an apologetic smile, pointing at my floury apron and hands.

I quickly made a beeline to the bathroom to get washed up.

I was a mess. My eyes were glassy, my lips turned into a perpetual frown, flour graced my hair and my face, and of course, there were the undereye circles from lack of sleep.

Great, you're a mess, Ella , I congratulated myself.

I sighed, because I couldn't go meet Patrick looking like this.

I needed to get back to my apartment, take a shower, wash my hair, and put on layers upon layers of makeup.

I checked my phone and saw a message from Patrick, or Pats, according to my high-school-era contact info, flanked by one of the last pictures I took of him when he was eighteen.

My heart even did that stupid little lurch it used to do when I got a message from him.

Over the years, he moved down my contact list far enough that it was no longer a constant reminder of what I had lost, of how deeply he had hurt me, but one look was enough to bring it all back.

The love and the joy, the pain and the heartbreak.

How many months had I sat there holding my phone—not this one, an older version—in my hand, hoping and wishing for it to ring?

I skipped by the message he just sent, ignoring it for now, and moved up. The last ones were all from me.

Can we talk?

I miss you.

Please call me

I don't understand

One from Patrick.

Pats

It's over Ells

Ells , I sighed. That's who we had been to each other, Pats and Ells.

Yeah, yeah, I know, stupid Hallmark and all that.

But we liked it. In his last message, he had called me Ells .

Just like we always had. New tears filled my vision, and I wiped at them impatiently.

How could he still do this? How could he still hurt me after all these years?

Pats

It's better this way, trust me

Please, let's just talk about this

Shit, I wiped my eyes again. You're a grown woman. An adult. He doesn’t get to hurt you anymore, Ella ! I pep-talked myself before I finally scrolled to his newest message.

Pats

I can meet you at Cedar Hollow this week if you want to go over the layout in person.

I stared at the message like it might explain itself if I glared hard enough. What was he talking about?

If I want to go over the layout in person…

Like we didn’t already have a meeting planned today.

Like he hadn’t ambushed me yesterday under the guise of a business deal.

Like my heart wasn’t already twisted up in knots because of the look in his eyes when we stood across that table pretending to be strangers.

I scoffed out loud. “Pats, you idiot.”

I typed.

You forgot our meeting today? Seriously?

But I deleted it. It sounded too obvious that I cared.

Then I tried.

We already have plans, remember?

I deleted that, too, tapping my nails against my teeth, until eventually, I settled on.

Still planning to be there today. Let me know if that still works for you. I need the address too.

It was neutral. Cool. The kind of thing you’d send to a contractor or a business contact. Not your first love, who once told you your laugh could wake the dead—and that he liked it better than silence.

I hit send before I could regret it, then dropped the phone face-down on the bathroom counter like that might stop the emotional whiplash.

Behind me, the mirror didn’t lie. I still looked like someone who’d seen a ghost. I began taking my clothes off and nearly jumped out of my skin when the phone dinged with an incoming text.

Pats

I’ll be there. Take the road past the main gate—gravel path, third turnoff. You’ll see the sign. Can’t miss it. No need to dress up.

I stared at the screen, towel clutched in one hand, heart thudding.

You don’t need to dress up ?

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Did he think I was dressing up for him ? That I was still the girl who used to steal his hoodies and pretend not to care that her mascara ran when she cried? Because I wasn’t. Not anymore. And yet… he still managed to hit a nerve I didn’t know was exposed.

I wanted to reply with.

It’s a business meeting, not a date.

I wasn’t.

You don’t get to say things like that anymore.

Instead I simply typed.

What time?

There, totally business. I turned on the shower because the water took forever in this building to heat up, especially in the winter and spring, oh, and the fall. In the summer, it was even harder to get it cold. Okay, I was rambling again.

The phone dinged.

Pats

—I really needed to change his name:

How about 1pm?

Perfect

Good, no need to further this conversation. I dropped the towel and was just about to finally step into the shower when the phone dinged again. Now what?

Pats

Bring a jacket. It’s colder out at the site than in town

I stared at it. That was it. No emoji. No extra punctuation. Just… thoughtful?

I stood there, the cold slowly settling in, giving me goosebumps, just as steam was beginning to rise from the shower, warming the room.

But the cold inside me only grew. He remembered how I always underestimated the temperatures.

How I used to forget jackets and pretend I wasn’t freezing.

How I used to shiver against him on purpose, just to have an excuse to be close.

I reminded myself that I wasn’t that girl anymore.

I wasn’t.

But that didn’t stop me from standing there like a fool, heart stuttering, wondering if he’d typed that last message and thought of those moments too.

I didn’t reply.

What would I even say?

Instead, I stepped into the shower and let the water wash over me—hot, cleansing, and utterly useless against the way Patrick McCloud could still get under my skin without even trying.