Jensen Packard opened the door to his house and stepped in.He dumped his phone and keys to the table. He removed his suit and dumped that on the nearest chair. Then he walked to the bar... Taking a bottle of red wine and a glass. Then he went back to the sitting room and dumped those on the table as well.He walked to the kitchen. He headed straight for the refrigerator, took out a carton of juice and lifted it to his lips. He drank half of it, then stuck it back inside.He went to the back door. Through the windowpane, he looked out into the dark night and after a moment heard a flurry of movement outside, followed by a frantic scratching at the woodwork."Rufus" He pulled the door open, and a large gray dog burst into the kitchen on a blast of cold air."Hey buddy" he said. "I missed you too"Jensen reached down to pat him the dog on it's head. "You have awful breath, do you know

The message read:Hi Jensen,I know this is out of the blue so…surprise! It's been a while, huh? I know... Guess we have both been really busy. Anyway, Jon told me you are opening a brand new building back at home. Congrats on all your awesome accomplishments, by the way.It is actually the reason why I am texting you right now, but I don't think we should discuss this in a text or on the phone for that matter. That is why I would love for us to meet next week and discuss this in person.You pick any day you will be free and I will be there. I do hope I hear from you soon.Best, Katherine Kavell.Jensen frowned. Memories he had fought so hard to surpres rushing back at him. Anger blazed in his chest. Singeing. Devastating. He had to hand it to her. He thought. The woman had a lot of fucking nerve.So this was how she was going to play it? No '

He was Twenty five and she was twenty one. He was going on some errand for his grandfather or something —he couldn't remember what it was. Because the moment he saw her walk down the beach toward the dock he had forgotten what he was supposed to be doing. He was hidden in a group of trees. Oh yes —he remembered now —he was cutting wood from a tree that had fallen when he heard the hinges squeak and a screen door slam. He cast a quick glance toward the house where a girl in bright blue bikini came down the front porch steps and crossed the lawn. He leaned a shoulder against a tree and just watched her. She had a great body. He had thought. Then he recognized her face. He couldn't believe it. It was Katherine Kavell—kitty Kat. He stared at her, his mouth open. Gone was the awkward teen who wore too much make up and followed him everywher

They swam on the cove where the water was shallow and warm enough to enjoy. One time they hung out in a sailboat's small cabin, laughing at the weather and eating a Lunch of egg salad sandwiches and barbecued potato chips she had brought along. Years later, he couldn't eat barbecued potatoe chips without thinking of that day —without thinking about her. They spent so much time together. They talked about everything. About school. About poetry. About music and movies they loved. They talked about life and death and dreams. One day they went to their childhood favorite place. The place where she had seen him cry. The place that had become their favorite spot. They stayed out there till late in the evening, and when they decided to go back, on their way he pinned her against a tree and did the one thing he had wanted to do since he saw her again on that beach. He pinned get against a tree and kissed the hell out of he

One day, Eight hours and…six minutes. That was how long the text had been sitting in Jensen's inbox. He detested that he was reduced to even knowing how long it had parked itself in his consciousness, taunting him with it's presence. Taunting him with that gut twisting mix of hope and bitterness he thought he was finally rid of. He detested the fact that it had taken just one text from her to reduce him to this. He hated that she still had that effect on him. After five damn years. How he wished it were one of those mundane work texts or emails he had become so adept at passing to his assistant to deal with. Then, from a safe distance, it would have been so easy to tell her to handle it. Or, better yet, delete it. But here it was. Not handled. Not deleted. And about as far from mundane as it could get. Not when he had already read