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“You’re not going to believe this. Wendy made me executor of the will, but I’m to go to Willow and explain it all. We’ve jointly inherited the estate, but there are some ridiculous clauses I have the attorneys working on. She has to come to London and stay to receive her share.” My stomach sinks.

“What?” I ask in shock. “You and Willow? Everlend?”

“Yes! That’s what I’m trying to tell you. After all this time, all the searching,” he whispers.

“What do you mean searching? When did you start looking for her again?” I ask defensively.

“I never stopped,” he confesses, his words widening the cracks in my heart. Oh, Piers.

He keeps talking while I try to remind myself how to breathe.

“She’s in the summer home that belonged to Wendy’s family. It’s in the papers. It’s all there. The deed to the house is registered to Willow Darling, dated nearly six years ago. I can’t believe I never thought to look there before. It’s so close to art school, a family place.” He keeps talking, but I can barely hear him over the whooshing of my heart.

“Piers, slow down. Where are you? What about Anderson?” I selfishly fire off.

“I can barely hear you. Can you hear me?” he yells, and the sound in the background gets louder.

“Piers! Where are you?” I stand and begin pacing.

“I’m at the airport,” he informs me, and just like that, the rug is jerked from beneath me, shattering what’s left of my heart. The broken pieces scatter in jagged little shards.

“I know the timing sucks, I’m sorry, but I have to go, Scarlett. I have to do this. Can you understand? You can handle Anderson. I trust you.” But I don’t trust myself. I need him. “I’ll call soon. I’m boarding the jet now.” He starts to break up, so I hurry and say the only thing that’s right.

“Sure, Piers. I’ll take care of everything. Have a safe trip. Call me when you land.”

What I want to say is, please, Piers, don’t go. Don’t leave me. Don’t choose her!

Don’t chase her ghost when you have someone right here in front of you, someone who didn’t run away, who didn’t leave you.

But I don’t. So, he goes to find her, and I feel more lost than ever.

#####

Cohen

I made a few calls before I found out someone named Barrington was handling the reading of the will. One call to his office yesterday, the breathy receptionist, Miranda, let me know she couldn’t give out that info over the phone. I watched her though the window, and lucky for her, chesty brunettes had always been my type.

I followed her to a pub after work, where she had drinks with her mates. All the males were focused on more attractive women, not into the whole sexy librarian thing, I supposed. But it worked out better for me.

When she was about to leave, I ran into her, pulling my classic “bump and spill,” though careful not to spill too much on her. After she got over the initial shock of the cold lager splattered on her chest, and got cleaned up, we got a booth, became cozy, and ordered another round.

After a few more drinks, and my hands on her sides, she got chatty, and I found out the official reading was earlier that day.

I gave her a kiss, put her in a cab, and sent her home. Then I drove by Scarlett’s and saw she was in for the night. Too bad.

Now, I’m back outside of Barrington’s, counting on Miranda being here today.

Just as I move to step in, my mobile rings.

It’s her.

“Yes,” I answer, looking around, certain she must have eyes in the sky like she’s the mother of freaking dragons.

“Nothing to report?” she breathes into the phone.

“I said I would call when I had news, didn’t I?” I lie.

“James collapsing at the funeral wasn’t news?” She raises her voice.