“Emma?"
She looked up from the temp agency form, pen still in hand. A tall man in a blazer two sizes too casual stood at the front desk, holding a paper cup of what looked—and smelled—like tragedy in liquid form.
“It's really you," he said.
Her eyebrows rose. “Austin Miller?"
He grinned. “So you do remember me. I was half-prepared for the polite 'do I know you?' deflection."
“I'd recognize that coffee anywhere. Still drinking battery acid?"
“Only on Mondays." He held the cup up like a toast. “We went to the same econ seminar in college. You used to edit my essays. I got a B+ once. Still your greatest achievement?"
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. “Possibly."
Austin's eyes softened as he took in the form on her lap and the tired look behind her smile. “Rough
