The River House. Carla Neggers

He opened it now and wondered why he’d kept it. A cautionary tale? Hell if he knew.

      The note was in two parts, one he’d written, one Felicity had written. He’d written his portion in black Sharpie pen. They were the only pens he used. He was tidy, and he had his rituals. Felicity had resisted anything smacking of order, at least back then.

      Felicity,

      Meetings in Boston. Back at 5 p.m. Company arrives at 6 p.m. Hint.

      Gabe

      P.S. You know I’m right

      Then her scrawl in blue Sharpie pen:

      I made brownies for you and your “company.” They’re in the freezer. Enjoy.

      Felicity, financial analyst

      P.S. We’ll see who’s right

      He’d left her that morning scowling at him in his bathroom doorway, wrapped in a wet, threadbare towel. He could have afforded new towels even then, but he hadn’t seen the need. It’d been her fifth day sleeping on his couch, nursing her wounds after getting fired from yet another finance job. She had degrees and knew her stuff, but her heart wasn’t in the work. He’d told her so, not mincing words. Then he’d jotted the note and was on his way. By the time he returned, she’d cleared out of his apartment. She’d cleaned up her pizza boxes, collected her dirty dishes, folded the blankets she’d borrowed, put her sheets and towels in the washing machine and tidied up the bathroom.

      His “company” had been a woman he’d invited over to watch a movie. She’d promptly discovered a stray pair of lacy bikini underpants Felicity had missed in the couch cushions, refused to believe his explanation and stormed out of his apartment before he’d had a chance to pour wine. He’d thrown out Felicity’s underpants—damned if he’d mail them to her—and opened the freezer. He’d figured he’d microwave a couple of brownies, drink the wine by himself and put the lousy day behind him. But there’d been no brownies, and he’d realized Felicity had never had any intention of making him brownies. She’d wanted him to open the freezer and not find any brownies.

      Spite. Pure spite.

      Seemed a bit childish now, but he supposed he’d had it coming.

      He’d drunk the wine without brownies, without a date for the evening, without Felicity camped out on his couch with take-out pad thai or another pizza delivery. The next morning, he’d decided the ball was in her court. She was the one whose life was a mess, and he needed to respect what she wanted to do—needed to do. He’d had what he wanted and needed to do, too. He didn’t have time to hold Felicity’s hand through another mess. Nearly a week on his couch had proven that to him. She was a distraction, and he couldn’t afford distractions. Since she didn’t want or appreciate his advice, why push it with her?

      And so he hadn’t. He’d let her go.

      He reread the note. Yeah. She’d been furious with him.

      He folded the note and returned it to the photo album. He’d be lying if he tried to tell himself or anyone else that he hadn’t missed her. Didn’t still, at times, miss her. Especially in those first few months, he would reach for his phone to send her a text or email her a cute puppy video, but he never had.

      He had been right about her hacking away in the wrong jungle. Who was planning parties in Knights Bridge now instead of scratching out a living in a career to which she was unsuited?

      “Didn’t matter you were right, pal.”

      If there was one thing he knew about Felicity, it was that she wouldn’t thank him for being right. She wouldn’t credit him with helping steer her onto a better course for herself.

      Assuming it was better.

      Gabe grabbed his laptop and sat on his bed, his back against several insanely expensive down pillows, and drafted an email to Felicity about the boot camp party. It took him thirty minutes to write the damn thing. Forever by his standards. Normally he was in, out, done. He didn’t angst, especially over something as trivial as planning a ninety-minute open house. He had limited experience hosting parties. In fact, no experience. He’d always delegated that sort of detail. He was good at delegating.

      He was delegating now, if only because of Mark.

      Wording the email was tricky in part because he didn’t want to get Mark in trouble, never mind he was the one who’d created this situation by sticking his nose in with Felicity in the first place.

      Gabe gave an inward groan. This wasn’t an email to a Fortune 500 CEO. It was an email to a Knights Bridge party planner. To Felicity.

      He read it over:

      Dear Felicity,

      Mark tells me you’re able to put together the open house after the boot camp talks. Let me know if you need anything from me.

      Best,

      Gabriel

      It didn’t sound too stiff to him. Professional. This was a business arrangement. He read the email once more and changed Gabriel to Gabe. Using his full first name struck him as too formal and might make Felicity think he was feeling awkward and self-conscious. Whatever the case, it hit the wrong note with him. They were no longer friends, but they weren’t enemies, either. They’d drifted apart. She’d moved on; he’d moved on. That was all there was to it, and Gabriel suggested there was more to it.

      There was, but whatever.

      He hit Send and got up and found a bottle of Scotch he’d bought in Edinburgh to celebrate some milestone in his business. He didn’t remember the details, but he did remember the Scotch. He splashed some into his glass and found his way back to his bedroom.

      He glanced at his in-box but Felicity hadn’t yet responded.

      He drank his Scotch and headed out for a late dinner on his own. By the time he returned to his condo, he was marginally less preoccupied with his ex-friend in Knights Bridge.

      * * *

      Gabe slept late but was awake before his assistant, Shannon Rivera, arrived. She was his last remaining employee. She’d lived next door to him at his first house and only ventured into the city if she had no other option. She’d arranged for the workers at his condo. He figured she knew most of them. Thirty-four, married to a police officer and mother of three, she had finely honed instincts about what he should do in any given situation.

      Probably should ask her what to do about Felicity.

      He checked his email, still in bed, which wasn’t a great habit but since he was alone, who cared?

      He had a reply from Felicity:

      Dear Gabe,

      Thank you for your email. I’m sure I can manage without involving you in any details. Please don’t hesitate to get in touch if you have any questions.

      Best wishes,

      Felicity MacGregor

      He kicked off his duvet and sat up straight. He read the email again. No second thoughts on her part about being self-consciously stuffy and awkwardly formal, obviously.

      So much for bygones being bygones.

      He grinned and rolled out of bed. Sort of appropriate he was in the buff while dealing with a snotty email from Felicity MacGregor. Was he misinterpreting her email? Was she actually self-conscious and awkward?

      “Hell, yeah.”

      He contemplated his response for a good thirty seconds. Then he typed it:

      Great, my one request is to have brownies on the menu.

      Gabe

      He hit Send before he could change his mind. She’d know the mention of brownies was deliberate, a reminder of their past—their abrupt parting of ways three years ago.

      By the time he made coffee and let in the painters, Felicity had responded:

      I