On Saturday, Michael went to the gym and put in a strenuous workout before heading to the park for a five-mile run, trying desperately to shake the restlessness that had kept him tossing all night. In those moments he did manage to sleep, his dreams were filled with that red hair, the green dress, her laugh, those t**s. He kept trying to minimize last night, to compartmentalize it somehow, but he couldn't dismiss the sensory overload of Maggie in his arms, her breath on his neck, the taste of her lips beneath his.
Freshly showered, he pulled on a pair of grey sweatpants, towel-drying his hair on his way to the kitchen. From the dark granite counter, a blue light blinked on his phone. It was a voicemail from Veronica.
"I need to see you," she'd said. He called her right away.
"He
