Page 110 of Across the Boards

I put the card away. It’s just a conversation, not a job offer. No need to borrow trouble.

My phone vibrates with a text.

Good luck with your day! Wish I could be there to see your panel, but I’ll settle for a full report later. Thinking of you.

A warm feeling spreads through my chest as I type a reply.

Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll call you after it’s over. How’s San Jose?

Foggy. Missing you. The hotel bed is empty without you.

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling.

Smooth, Carter. Very smooth. We’ve only shared a bed once.

A man can dream. And I do. Frequently. In vivid detail.

Focus on hockey, not hypothetical sleeping arrangements. Talk later.

Yes, ma’am. Knock ‘em dead, Waltman.

I put my phone away, still smiling. It’s nice, this easy banter, the knowledge that someone is thinking of me. It makes Seattle seem suddenly further away.

The panel goes exceptionally well. As the moderator, my job is to introduce the experts, guide the discussion, and manage audience participation while keeping to schedule. When it ends, several attendees approach with questions and compliments. Catherine Porter is among them, giving me an approving nod. By the time I’ve spoken with everyone, my afternoon session is about to begin.

Panel went great. Rushing to next session. Proper update later.

The technical editing world isn’t ready for Elliot Waltman. Go show them how semicolons are really done.

I laugh, earning curious glances from other attendees. He’s ridiculous and charming and somehow always knows exactly what to say to make me smile.

Maybe that’s why I don’t notice him at first—the man standing near the service entrance, watching as I exit my final session. It’s only when I’m halfway across the lobby that I register the familiar posture, the calculated stance designed to appear casual while blocking the exit path.

Jason.

My steps falter, stomach dropping. He’s alone, dressed in his “casual business” attire—dark jeans, crisp button-down, expensive watch glinting under the lobby lights. The outfit he wears when he wants to intimidate without appearing to try.

For a moment I consider turning around, finding another exit. But that would mean letting him control my movements. I’ve spent three years reclaiming my agency. I won’t surrender it now.

I straighten my shoulders, tighten my grip on my conference bag, and continue forward.

“Elliot.” He steps into my path, voice pitched to sound pleasant. “What a coincidence.”

“Not a coincidence at all,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral. “You texted that you’d be here. Remember?”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just being friendly. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“What do you want, Jason?” I try to step around him, but he shifts subtly, blocking my way. It’s a move I remember well from our marriage—how he could trap me in conversations while appearing reasonable to observers.

“Just a chat.” He glances around the busy lobby. “Somewhere more private.”

“I don’t think so. Whatever you have to say, you can say it here.”

His expression hardens slightly. “Always so difficult. Fine.” He moves closer, invading my space. “I wanted to congratulate you on your new boyfriend. The defender with the anger management issues.”

“Brody is none of your business,” I say firmly. “Neither am I.”

I attempt to walk away, but his hand clamps around my upper arm, spinning me back with enough force that my bag slides off my shoulder. Before I can react, he’s maneuvered me toward a recessed area, his body blocking me from the main lobby’s view. His grip is painful, fingers digging into my flesh through my blazer.

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