The notes still sat on the kitchen table. She’d deal with them tomorrow—throw them away or maybe write one back.
But right now, Evan was arguing with Ryan about the proper way to serve chili, with sour cream and cheese or just crackers, and Ally was laughing at something Colton said, and her mother was pressing a kiss to Violet’s head.
Right now, she wasn’t alone anymore.
And tomorrow, she’d have to decide what to do about a man who wouldn’t stop waiting.
CHAPTER 25
MARCO
The dock stretched out over water that looked like liquid fire.
Marco had been walking the lake path for an hour, watching the sun drop behind the mountains, turning everything gold and orange and shades of pink that shouldn’t exist outside paintings. He should have been back at the inn—Colton had mentioned dinner with Ally’s family—but his feet kept carrying him along the shore, past the waterfall, past the cottages, to this quiet stretch where the old wooden dock jutted into the lake.
He almost walked past her.
She sat at the end, legs dangling over the water, Violet asleep against her chest in a fabric wrap. The dying light caught the honey-blonde of her hair, turning it copper and gold. She looked small out there, silhouetted against all that color.
For five days he’d been trying to talk to her. Five days of notes and careful approaches and watching her flee every time she spotted him. He’d told himself he’d give her space. Wait until she was ready.
But standing here now, watching her hold their daughter—because she was, wasn’t she?—he couldn’t turn around again.
The dock creaked under his feet. She turned, and even from twenty feet away he could see the color drain from her face.
“Don’t.” Her voice came out rough. “Please. Just—don’t.”
“I’ve been trying to give you space.” He stopped at the edge of the dock. “I’ve been trying to do this right. But Christina, I can’t—I need to hear it again, to make sure I didn’t imagine it.”
She didn’t run this time. Maybe she was tired of running. She just sat there, arms wrapped around Violet, eyes fixed on the water.
The air smelled of lake water and the particular sweetness of autumn leaves.
“She’s mine, isn’t she?”
The words broke somewhere in the middle. He’d meant to sound calm, measured. Instead, his voice cracked, raw with something he couldn’t name.
Christina’s shoulders started to shake.
He watched her cry, feeling helpless and desperate and terrified all at once. Violet stirred against her chest, making a soft sound of protest, and Christina pressed a kiss to her daughter’s dark hair.
“Yes.” Barely a whisper. “Yes, she’s yours.”
The breath left his body. He’d known—had known since that morning on the lake path when recognition hit like lightning—had heard her say it, but the shock of seeing her had made him doubt what he heard. Now, hearing her say it, the words resonated within him.
“Please.” Her voice broke on the word. “Please don’t take her from me. I know you have lawyers, I know your family has resources I can’t imagine, but she’s my whole world. She’s everything. Please?—”
“Christina.” He moved closer, the dock boards groaning under his weight. “Christina, look at me.”
She turned, and the tears on her face caught the last of the sunset light. He crouched a few feet away, close enough to catch that scent he remembered from Miami—something floral, something soft—mixed now with baby powder and the clean smell of lake air.
“I’m not here to take her.” His voice came out rough. “I just want to understand.”
The words tumbled out of her then, everything she’d held back. How she hadn’t known who he was that night. How she’d wanted anonymity, no names, no stories—just one last night of being someone she wasn’t anymore before starting over in Blueberry Hill. How she’d found out she was pregnant with no way to find him because she didn’t know anything about him.
“When did you find out?” He had to ask. “Who I was?”
“Months later, like I said.” She wiped at her face with the back of her hand, her other arm still cradling Violet. “There was a magazine at the grocery store. You and Colton, some fashion spread. That’s when I learned your name. Marco Castellano. Fashion heir. International playboy.” The words came out in a rush. “In the article, you said, ‘Settling down is for people who’ve given up on adventure’.”
