I’m also leaving the bad memories. Those constant reminders everywhere I look: places Derek and I went on dates, people we hung out with together. All our firsts and lasts happened in the same small town, and this is the only way I’m ever going to make the memories fade.

I follow the line of people, taking my seat ten rows back, right next to the window. With any luck, the person who sits next to me will be the quiet business-type who checks emails the entire flight or, better yet, a sleeper. Sleepers and suits are my favorite, but I brought my headphones just in case it doesn’t end up that way.

After tucking my oversized handbag under the seat, I sit back, resting my forehead against the cool window while waiting for the rest of the plane to board. November in the Midwest is unpredictable as far as snow goes, but the cold is always guaranteed.

Surrounding the Omaha Airport are miles and miles of fields, a serene view I’m leaving behind for my chance in the big city. Skyscrapers. City lights. Trains and taxicabs. I’m looking forward to all of it.

A fresh start.

A new beginning.

A life I’m creating for myself.

Four months ago, I thought I knew everything about love and happiness, but I realize I didn’t know a damn thing. I’d always assumed that time bound two people together. I was naïve. I’ve learned that people can fall out of love just as quickly as they fall into it.

I can’t imagine hurting anyone the way Derek hurt me, and I’ve asked myself every day if I could have done something different to change the way our story was written. Some days I wonder if there was something I could’ve said to make him stay . . . to make him fall back in love with me.

But love doesn’t work that way.

We met up a few days after our breakup to return things to each other. I’d had time to think about everything, and looking at him made me sick. I pretty much dropped a cardboard box at his feet with a Fuck You note lying on top. He hurt me in ways I will never be able to explain—not to him anyway.

Now, he’s living out our dreams all on his own.

He sleeps in the bed we’d purchased to put in the house we never bought.

He finally got the baseball contract he’d been waiting for but couldn’t get his fingers on when I was his girl.

I hate him for all of it. He’s able to move forward, and I’m left trying to figure out where it all went wrong. It’s a question I could spend a lifetime asking myself.

“Saying goodbye can be rough,” A smooth male voice floats from my right, pulling me out of the ocean of misery I’d been swimming in. It’s deep and smoky . . . in a different state of mind I might even classify it as sexy.

“Not as hard as it might seem,” I chide back, chancing a look. He’s a vision in a gray pinstripe suit, tailored to fit his strong, muscular body perfectly. His dark hair is just the right length to wave a little at the ends. A shadow of facial hair peppers his jawline.

“Is Chicago home for you?” he asks, a slight smirk pulling at his full lips. They’re a shade of dark pink—distractingly beautiful, really.

When I don’t respond right away, he clears his throat, pulling me back to reality. Only then does it dawn on me that he asked a question, and I haven’t bothered to look up into his eyes. When I finally do, I realize his lips were nothing but an appetizer to something better. Those eyes—dark green on the outside and fading to a dull gray inside.

“Long day, then?” he asks, reminding me it’s my turn to speak.

“Sorry,” I mumble, shaking my head. “I’m moving to Chicago, and yes, it’s been a very long day of packing.”

“Are you from here?”

I shift in my seat, checking again to make sure my seatbelt is secure. The flight attendant stands at the front, going through all the safety instructions I’ve heard so many times before. “I’m from a small town about thirty miles north of here. You?”

“I live in Chicago. I’m here on business.”

“What do you do?”

He smiles. Perfect teeth, go figure. “I’m an architect. I design hotels all over the country.”

I nod, suddenly at a loss for words. I’m two years out of college, and, until three days ago, I’d been working in a furniture store. If I had to guess, I’d say this guy is in his early-thirties, at the most, and he’s designing freaking hotels. The universe is proving to me loud and clear how much of an underachiever I am.

“What do you plan on doing in Chicago?” he asks, eyeing me carefully.

I suddenly feel underdressed next to him, and I wish I’d covered myself in something nicer than ripped blue jeans, a T-shirt, and an oversized cardigan. “I have a degree in design, but I’ll probably end up waitressing for a while . . . until I can find something more permanent.”

He nods, bringing a water bottle to his lips. “What type of design?”

“Interior,” I say, watching him take another slow sip.

“Well, do you have a copy of your resume?”

I shake my head. “No.”

I watch as he pulls his black leather briefcase from under the seat and unlatches it. It’s full of perfectly organized files, not that I expected anything else. “Here’s my card. Send me your resume, and we can talk.”

Grabbing it from between his fingers, I glance down at the name. Pierce Stanley, President, Stanley Development. “I don’t have a lot of experience yet,” I admit.

He laughs. “I’m not putting you in charge of the design team. We have over fifty design positions, interns to assistants to designers.”

“Okay,” I say, tracing my fingers along the card’s edges. It would be the beginning of my dream, but everything that’s happened has shaken my confidence. I don’t know if I’m in a place, emotionally, to succeed. Not yet.

“Why don’t you write down your information so I can contact you, just in case.”

It could turn out to be a really good opportunity for me, but this man is going to forget about me five minutes after getting off this plane. He’ll take phone calls and attend important meetings. I’ll entertain it anyway.

“Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?”

He hands me a small notebook and a pen that probably costs more than the sweater I’m wearing. “Name, email, and phone number should do.”

I scribble everything he asked for, taking enough care to make sure it’s readable. I hand the pad of paper back to him, watching his lips curl again. “Lila? That’s a pretty name for a beautiful woman.”

“If I’d done more than roll out of bed this morning, I might believe you.”

He smiles. “Believe it or not, Lila, I don’t have to lie to please a woman. You’re beautiful . . . don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

There’s no way to hide my blush, even with only the night sky out my window. “Thank you.”

“Sorry, that probably comes across as pretty forward.”

“Something tells me you know exactly what to say and when to say it. You didn’t get to where you are in your career without that kind of skill.”

“You’re right, but I didn’t get to where I am by lying either.”

“Touché.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I stare back out the window. I rest my head against the glass, my mind drifting to a million different things until I see Chicago in the distance—tall, lit up buildings coming closer and closer.

In just a few minutes, I’ll officially be a city girl. I’m not dreading it by any means because I’ll be surrounded by coffee shops, clothing boutiques, and art. I’m ready to be swallowed into a sea of people where nobody knows who I am.

Glancing to my right, I take in the amused stranger. “How am I going to survive in this city? I’m used to being able to cross town in less than two minutes.”

He rests his head back against the seat. “I moved here from a small town almost twelve years ago. It takes a little getting used to, but you’ll do just fine.”

“You? A small town boy?” I ask, lifting a brow.