Page 3 of Back in the Bay

"Or with seventeen years of happiness like me and Marcus," Aidan interrupts, his wedding ring catching the light as he gestures. "You're looking at the exceptions, not the rule."

"I'm looking at reality," I counter, pushing a strand of auburn hair behind my ear. "I've got a dissertation to finish and dogs to feed. The last thing I need is to waste time on another relationship that's going to implode in my face."

Aidan's expression softens. "You'd feel differently if you met the right person."

Something twists in my chest—that familiar ache I try to ignore. "Maybe I already met the right person, and it still flopped spectacularly."

"Wait, what?" Aidan straightens, coffee forgotten. "Who? When? How have I never heard about this?"

I wave him off, already regretting the admission. "Ancient history. Like prehistoric. Dinosaurs-were-witnesses ancient."

"Mabel—"

"I have a client meeting in twenty minutes," I say, gathering my notes and laptop. "And I can’t afford to be late. If this case goes well, I may be able to make partner next year."

As I hurry past Aidan, he calls after me, "This conversation isn't over, Maxwell!"

I know it isn't. But some failed romances are better left buried—especially when you've just moved to a small town where running into your past is starting to feel dangerously likely.

I swear I can feel Aidan's curiosity boring into my back as I stride down the hallway. That's the problem with best friends—they can smell emotional baggage from a mile away, and Aidan's got a particularly sensitive nose.

The elevator doors close behind me, and I exhale. Seventeen floors of blessed silence before I have to be "on" again. I check my reflection in the polished metal wall, tucking a stray hairback into place. Portland's top divorce attorney can't look like she's been through an emotional wringer herself.

My phone buzzes. Aidan, of course:

We're having drinks tonight. Non-negotiable. I need ALL the details about this mystery man.

I roll my eyes and type back:

Can't. I have a brief to finish.

His response is immediate:

Liar. You submitted your brief yesterday. 7:00 pm at Cassidy's. I'll bring tissues and tequila.

The elevator doors open, and I step into the lobby, cursing under my breath. This is what I get for having a colleague as a best friend—he knows my schedule better than I do.

My client, a tech executive whose husband thought their prenup was more of a suggestion than a legally binding document, is already waiting. I paste on my professional smile and extend my hand.

"Mrs. Whitaker, thank you for coming in."

Two hours later, I've outlined a strategy that will ensure Mrs. Whitaker keeps her company shares and her dignity. As she leaves, visibly relieved, I feel that familiar rush—the certainty that I made the right choice focusing on my career instead of chasing some romantic fantasy that would inevitably disappoint.

Back in my office, I try to focus on my next case, but my mind keeps drifting to Cedar Bay. To Cole Bennett and his stupidly perfect smile. To promises made under a summer sky that neither of us could keep.

"Knock knock." Aidan appears, dangling my coat from one finger. "It's 6:45, and I'm not above physically dragging you to Cassidy's."

"I hate you," I mutter, but I'm already shutting down my computer.

"You adore me," he corrects. "And you're going to adore me even more after you've unburdened your soul and I've provided sage wisdom about your love life."

"My non-existent love life."

"Exactly the problem we'll be addressing." He loops his arm through mine. "Now, let's go unpack whatever trauma has you convinced that every relationship is doomed to end with someone's belongings being thrown off a balcony."

As we step outside into Portland's persistent drizzle, I wonder how much to tell him. About Cedar Bay. About Cole. About how sometimes the right person comes at the entirely wrong time.

Cassidy's is crowded for a Wednesday night, which means we have to shout over the din of happy hour warriors drowning their workday sorrows. Aidan secures us a corner booth while I order—whiskey neat for me, something with too many garnishes for him.

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