I told her. She hung up before I finished the sentence.
Olivia Grant arrived forty-one minutes later with a carry-on that was slightly too large for overhead cabin storage (she had clearly argued her way past the gate agent, because she always did), a bottle of very good Burgundy tucked under one arm, and the expression of a woman who has flown six hours specifically to say things that needed saying in person.
She looked at me.
I looked at her.
“You’re already falling for him again, aren’t you,” she said. It was not a question. “Don’t answer. I can see it.”
“I’ve been back in New York for less than two weeks,” I said.
“Mm.” She handed me the wine and wheeled her bag past me into the suite. “Where are the glasses?”
That was Olivia. No preamble, no jet lag, no buffer. She had been my
