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fresher than the ones in the cafeteria. Maybe she’d get some takeaway from the café next door after Joe left.
    Urgh. Joe. The thought that he was going to be back here in her studio – her oasis, her favorite space on earth, her safe place – was stomach-turning. It was also unavoidable and it was also also the first of many times to come. She’d be working here, of course, and he’d have to haul ass back to check out her progress, see the sculptures, give formal approval. She sighed and stared out the window, trying to find some energy to cope with the day ahead.
    At five minutes to nine, the buzzer went. Maggie jumped: she was in the miniscule bathroom, trying to do something about her out-of-control hair. She hadn’t had time to shower that morning, and the curls were unruly and showing a spirited determination to have a mind of their own. She gave herself one last look in the mirror and rolled her eyes.
    Yeah, whatever. It’s not like he’ll notice or give a damn what you look like. Also? You don’t give a damn if he gives a damn.
    She buzzed him in, stood by the open studio door. She was on the ground floor, and she heard his footsteps approaching. And then there he was, in another goddamned sexy-as-all-hell suit, his blue eyes bright in the sun, his dark hair thick and tousled. He smiled at her and she glared frostily back, determined not to give an inch.
    “Hi,” Joe said, stomping down hard on the memories that her wild brown curls had just evoked: she’d always looked just like this after a night of great sex. “How are you?”
    She stepped aside. “Fine.”
    He held up the takeaway tray and a bag. “I brought us some coffee, and a few croissants. I remember how much you love them first thing in the morning.”
    “Not anymore, I don’t.” She’d die before eating one of his stupid croissants, no matter how good they smelled and how hungry she was. “I don’t eat carbs now.”
    He blinked, astonished. “You what ?”
    “You heard me. And I’ve already got a coffee, but thanks anyway.” She held up her cup to show him, then turned her back and walked away. “The sketches are over here.”
    Joe followed her, feeling surprisingly crushed by her brutal rejection of his offering of baked goods and caffeine. It really and truly seemed that Maggie wasn’t going to accept anything from him that fell outside of the terms of the legal contract… not food and not drink and not even a smile. God, she really hated him.
    Joe flashed back now to that night when she’d caught him in bed with that blonde ( Caitlin? Kathy? Carol? How pathetic is it that I blew up my relationship with Maggie to fuck a girl whose name I don’t recall?) . Sweet Jesus, the look of pain on her face… he’d never forgotten it, and it still took his breath away when he thought about it now. It had been so sharp and raw, it had made him panic, become harsh and cruel, as though it was her fucking fault that she’d come over early and caught him. As though she’d put him in that position. As though she’d somehow been the one to inflict the pain on herself.
    He’d started babbling bullshit at her, anything to fill the bewildered silence, and she hadn’t said a word the whole time, which had made him more freaked out. Finally, the words had dried up and he’d stared at her beautiful face. The betrayal and hurt were palpable, and Joe had lost the plot completely and started to laugh.
    It was a helpless laugh, bordering on hysteria, and it was motivated by his absolute inability to do anything to fix this, and he knew it. He knew it was over, and he had laughed at the hopeless absurdity of being such a fucking cliché: the asshole boyfriend caught red-handed. Or red-dicked, he supposed.
    God, how she looked when I started laughing… I’ve never seen pain like that. And then when what’s-her-name joined in? I think we ripped Maggie’s heart right out of her chest in that moment.
    It hadn’t surprised him when she’d