“That’s true. My youngest was born with eyes so dark they looked black, and now they’re light brown. Babies are full of surprises.” Mary straightened, apparently oblivious to the cold sweat prickling Christina’s back. “Do you need anything special today? The Hendersons just brought in their first apple harvest—Honeycrisps. And we got a new shipment of those frozen pizzas Ryan likes.”
“A couple of pizzas would be great.” But she was already moving, her feet carrying her toward the exit even though her basket was still empty. “Actually, I think I—I left something in the car. I’ll come back later.”
“You sure? I can hold your basket?—”
“No, it’s fine. Thanks, Mary.”
She didn’t run. Running would draw attention. But she walked fast, faster than she should with an eight-week-old in a carrier, past the checkout lanes and through the doors and out into the September morning.
The car was twenty feet away. She made it fifteen before her eyes started burning.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry in the parking lot.
She got Violet buckled into the car seat, hands shaking as she fumbled with the straps. Her daughter watched her with those eyes—those changing, impossible-to-hide eyes—and made another small sound, this one closer to a whimper.
“I know, baby. I know. We’re going home.”
The car smelled like the air freshener Ryan had hung from the rearview mirror, artificial pine mixed with the baby powder scent that clung to everything Christina owned. She gripped the steering wheel and stared through the windshield at Spilled Milk’s brick facade, at the hand-painted sign advertising apple cider and pumpkins.
She’d built a life here. A fragile, precious life full of her mother’s cooking and Ryan’s quiet help and Emily’s practical advice. A life where Violet was surrounded by people who loved her. And it could all come crashing down the moment someone looked too closely at her daughter’s face.
She pulled out of the parking lot without buying anything. The groceries could wait. Right now, she needed to get home, needed to close the door behind her and hold her baby and figure out what she was going to do.
The road back to the cottage wound through the mountains, past the turnoff for the inn, past James Roberts’ property with its weathered fence. Christina drove on autopilot, her mind churning through scenarios she’d been avoiding for months.
What if somehow Marco found out? What if his family found out? She’d read enough tabloids to know what the Castellanos did to protect their interests. Lawyers. Private investigators. The kind of resources that could crush a single mother who’d made the mistake of spending one night with the wrong man.
They would take Violet. Or they’d try. They’d drag Christina through courts and custody battles, would paint her as a gold-digger who’d gotten pregnant on purpose. But she hadn’t known. She hadn’t known who he was until weeks later, until she’d seen his face on a magazine cover in this very grocery store and nearly collapsed in the pasta aisle.
Christina pulled into the cottage driveway and cut the engine. Through the windshield, she could see Angus in the front window, his tail wagging at the sight of her car. Smoke drifted from somewhere nearby—one of the vacation people must be cooking out. She turned around to look at Violet, who had fallen asleep during the drive, her tiny fists curled against her chest.
“I’ll figure it out,” she whispered. “I promise.”
She unbuckled Violet’s car seat and carried her inside, past Angus’s eager greeting, to the bedroom where the bassinet waited. Violet stirred but didn’t wake as Christina set her down. She stood over the bassinet for a long moment. Then she pulled out her phone and did something she’d promised herself she’d quit doing.
She searched his name.
The results loaded instantly. Dozens of articles about the supermodel, about speculation over whether this was “the one” who’d finally tame the Castellano heir. Photos of them dancing, drinking champagne, leaving together in the back of a black car.
Christina scrolled past all of it until she found what she was looking for—his schedule. Appearances. Events. Places he was expected to be.
There. Milan Fashion Week. Late September through early October. Then a string of appearances in Europe—Paris, London, Rome.
Thousands of miles away. Nothing to do with anything on the East Coast. She closed the browser and let out a breath.
Safe. For now.
But she needed to talk to someone. Her mother, maybe. Someone who could help her think through the what-ifs, the plans she’d need if everything went wrong.
She pulled up her mother’s contact and stared at the screen. How did you tell your mother that your baby’s father was one of the richest men in the world, and you’d been keeping it secret for fear of losing everything?
Violet made a sound from the bassinet—that soft chirp again.
Christina set the phone on the nightstand and went to check on her daughter. The message to her mother would have to wait. Right now, Violet needed to be fed, the laundry was piling up, and somewhere in the kitchen was a casserole that needed to be put away before it spoiled.
She lifted Violet from the bassinet, settling into the rocking chair by the window. Outside, the afternoon light was golden, slanting through leaves that were just starting to turn. A cool breeze stirred the curtains. Inside, her daughter latched on and began to nurse, her tiny hand pressing against Christina’s chest. Angus turned around three times and settled by her feet.
The conversation with her mother couldn’t wait forever. Violet’s eyes couldn’t stay hidden forever. But those problems belonged to tomorrow, or next week, or whenever Christina could find the words.
