You should have kicked him out the second he stepped into your lobby.

You should have never let him into your life in the first place. College romance, he was the first boy who really asked you out, flowers and everything. You hadn't imagined you'd get so lucky your first semester at Stanford.

But that luck ran out quickly, the day you overheard something about the new 'tennis power couple' at the dining hall. You texted Art immediately, but when he came out of his dorm building with a box of your things in his arms, it was all the confirmation you needed.

So you kept your head down for the next three and a half years, getting your degree and then getting the hell out of Palo Alto and moving down to Carmel-by-the-Sea. You didn't have a plan, but you had a place to stay, and that was enough.

Over the years, you'd met someone, got married, inherited an inn from his grandma. Saw somewhere that the darlings of American tennis had gotten married, had a kid. You had a kid of your own. Lost your husband.

And judging from Art's bare left hand taking his room key, he must've gotten divorced in the time since you'd last looked his name up.

You told yourself it wasn't your concern, you had about a billion things to do, but the next day you saw him talking to your daughter in the courtyard, helping her with her chalk drawings as you folded linens. And, unfortunately, when he became the topic of dinner that night, you knew where their conversation had led.

Trying to help in a way only kids think to, she had somehow tricked both of you into getting coffee the next morning. You couldn't look him in the eye too long. Yes, it hurt. But it was also too hard to even attempt a reconciliation with your remaining, ever burning feelings towards him.

He'd cheated you before. You had to have learned by now. Right?

You look up at him, and the mission bells ring. Shit. Maybe you really did miss him.

But you have a daughter now. A business. No time for boys and broken hearts.

"How'd you get this place, anyways?"