“You are part of my life. You, Flynn, Brad. How the hell does me moving to New York change that?”

“As far as I know you haven’t been sleeping with Flynn and Brad.”

“I can’t bury myself in the Valley because you and I had the hots for each other.”

“You son of a bitch.” She could feel herself beginning to shake, and the stinging tears gathering in her throat. Using all her strength, she channeled the hurt into rage. “You can make it cheap. You can make yourself cheap. But you won’t make me cheap.”

He stopped now, stopped packing and turned to look at her with regret, and what might have been pity. “Dana. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Don’t.” She slapped his hand away when he reached for her. “Don’t you ever put your hands on me again. You’re done with the Valley? You’re done with me? Fine, that’s fine, because I’m done with you. You’ll be lucky to last a month in New York, hacking away at that crap you write. So when you come crawling back here, don’t call me. Don’t speak to me. Because you’re right about one thing, Hawke—there’s nothing for you here anymore.”

She shoved past him and fled.

She’d forgotten her hat, she realized as she watched herself run out of the house. A snowball winged by one of the Dobson boys splatted in the middle of her back, but she didn’t notice.

She didn’t feel the cold, or the tears streaming down her face.

She felt nothing. He’d made her nothing.

How could she have forgotten? How could she have forgiven?

She didn’t see then, nor did she see now, that he’d stood in the narrow window of the dormer and watched her go.

SHE woke to thin autumn sunlight, her cheeks wet, her skin chilled.

The grief was so real, so fresh, she rolled away, curled up in a ball and prayed for it to pass.

She couldn’t, wouldn’t, go through this again. Had she worked so hard to get over him, to push herself out of the grief and misery and hurt only to lay herself open to it all again?

Was she that weak, that stupid?

Maybe she was, when it came to Jordan. Maybe she was just that weak and stupid. But she didn’t have to be.

She eased out of bed and left him sleeping. She pulled on a robe, a kind of armor, then headed to the kitchen for coffee.

Moe scrambled up from the foot of the bed and bounded after her. With his leash between his teeth, he danced in place in the kitchen.

“Not yet, Moe.” She bent to bury her face in his fur. “I’m not up to it yet.”

Sensing trouble, he whined, then dropped the leash to lick her face.

“You’re a good dog, aren’t you? Been chasing rabbits, huh? That’s okay, I’ve been chasing something, too. Neither one of us is ever going to catch it.”

She drank the coffee where she stood, and was pouring a second cup when she heard Jordan’s footsteps.

He’d pulled on his clothes, but still looked sleepily rumpled. He grunted when Moe’s paws hit his chest, and managed to nip the coffee mug out of Dana’s hand. He drank deep.

“Thanks.” He handed it back, then stooped to pick up Moe’s leash. The act had Moe running around them in desperate circles.

“Want me to take him out?”

“Yes. You can take him back to Flynn’s.”

“Sure. Want to go for a run before breakfast?” he said to Moe as he clipped on the leash. “Yeah, you bet.”

“I don’t want you to come back here.”

“Hmm?” He glanced up, saw her face. “What did you say?”

“I don’t want you to come back here. Not this morning, not ever.”

“Down, Moe.” Something in the quiet tone had the dog obeying. “Did I sleep through an argument, or . . . Kane,” he said and gripped Dana’s arm. “What did he do?”

“It has nothing to do with him. It’s about me this time. I made a mistake letting you back in. I’m correcting it.”

“What the hell brought this on? Last night—”

“We have great sex.” She shrugged, sipped her coffee. “That’s not enough for me. Or maybe it’s too much for me. Either way it doesn’t work. You ripped me to pieces once.”

“Dana, let me—”

“No, that’s just it.” She stepped back from him. “I won’t let you, not again. I’ve got a good life, all in all. It satisfies me. I don’t want you in it. I don’t want you here, Jordan. I can’t have you here. So I’m telling you to go while there are no hard feelings. I’m telling you while we still have some chance of being friends.”

She moved past him quickly. “I’m going to shower. Don’t be here when I come out.”

HE was still in a daze when he walked into Flynn’s. Was this what she’d felt like? he wondered. Was this what he’d done to her? Had he left her feeling hollowed out and numb?

And what happened when the numbness passed? Was it pain, or anger, or both?

He wanted the anger. Christ, he wanted to find his anger.

Trailing the leash that Jordan forgot to unclip, Moe dashed back toward the kitchen, and Flynn’s cheerful greeting followed the sound of thumps.

“A boy and his dog.” Malory jogged down the stairs, morning fresh in khakis and a navy sweatshirt. “You’re back early this morning,” she began, “or I’m running behind.” Then she stopped, stared at him. “What is it? What’s wrong?” A bubble of fear came into her voice. “Dana—”

“No, nothing. She’s fine.”

“But you’re not. Come on. Let’s go sit down.”

“No, I need to—”

“Sit down,” she repeated, and taking his arm, pulled him toward the kitchen.

Flynn was at the card table, a temporary measure in the evolving kitchen. The walls had been painted a strong teal blue that set off the golden wood of the new cabinets. The floor was stripped down in preparation for the hardwood Malory had selected. A piece of plywood sat on a stretch of base cabinets as a makeshift countertop.

Flynn was eating cereal, and from the guilty look on both his and his dog’s faces, he’d been sharing it with Moe.

“Hey, what’s up? You want food, you’ve got about fifteen minutes before the crew gets here.”