Will spun her in a slow circle, and for now—just for tonight—she let herself be purely, completely happy.
The hard conversations could wait until morning.
CHAPTER 4
CHRISTINA
String lights swayed in the evening breeze, casting shadows that danced across the tables scattered along the lakeside. Christina shifted her weight, trying to ease the pressure on her lower back. Violet had been active all afternoon—somersaults during the ceremony, a full gymnastics routine through dinner. Seven months pregnant and she already felt enormous.
“You okay?” Ally appeared at her elbow, two glasses of sparkling cider in hand. “You keep rubbing your belly like you’re trying to summon a genie.”
“Your niece is training for the Olympics in there.” Christina accepted the cider. “I think she’s doing backflips.”
“She’s excited. Her grandmother just got married.” Ally clinked her glass against Christina’s. “To a man who actually deserves her.”
They looked toward the makeshift dance floor where their mother swayed in Will’s arms, her simple creamy lace dress catching the fairy lights. Will held her like she was something precious, his weathered face soft with tenderness. Christina had never seen that expression on her father’s face when he’d looked at their mother. Not once.
“She looks happy,” Christina said.
“Ladies!” Francesca swept toward them in a flowing purple dress, Bo trailing behind her looking slightly dazed. “There you are. I need someone to tell me whether the coconut cake is better than the chocolate. I’ve had three slices and I still can’t decide.”
“You could just have both,” Bo suggested.
“I already have. Twice.” Francesca patted her stomach. “Purely scientific inquiry at this point.”
Christina laughed, and some of the tightness in her shoulders loosened. This was what she loved about Blueberry Hill—the way people folded you into their lives without question. In Miami, she’d had acquaintances, networking contacts, people who knew her father’s name and treated her accordingly. Here she had Francesca bringing homemade soup when she was nauseous, Dora Collier stopping by with hand-knitted baby blankets, Mary at Spilled Milk saving her favorite Bartlett pears for her.
“I’m going to find more cake,” Francesca announced. “Bo, structural support duty.”
“Always.” But he was smiling as she pulled him toward the dessert table.
Ally excused herself to help Ryan photograph the reception—his phone apparently had better low-light capabilities than anyone else’s—and Christina drifted toward the old oak tree at the edge of the gathering. A quiet spot to watch the party without being in the center of it.
She was happy. She was. Her mother had married a good man. The inn was coming along beautifully. In two months, she’d hold her daughter in her arms, and they would build a life here together.
So why did her chest tighten every time she saw a couple dancing?
The answer kicked against her ribs.
Voices carried from the other side of the oak—Dora and James, sitting on the wooden bench Will had built. Christina hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but sound traveled clearly in the evening air across the water.
“Did you see this?” Dora was saying, phone angled toward James. “That model friend of Colton’s? Marco Castellano. He’s some kind of fashion heir. Three different women in two weeks, according to the tabloids. His poor mother.”
James glanced at the screen with apparent disinterest. “I try to avoid celebrity gossip.”
“It says here Colton told a friend, who told some reporter that Marco has a revolving door in the place they’re all sharing in New York. Models, actresses, even a Miss Universe.” Dora’s tone mixed disapproval with fascination. “Can you imagine? Miss Universe.”
“Sounds exhausting.” James’s voice was dry. “All that chasing.”
“Must be lonely,” Dora said, quieter now. “All that running and never finding anything real.”
Christina pressed her back against the rough bark, her pulse loud in her ears. Miss Universe. Models. Actresses. A revolving door.
She thought of that night in Miami. The crowded club, the stranger who’d asked her to dance. No names, they’d agreed. No life stories. Just one night.
He’d been beautiful. Dark hair, green eyes that seemed to catch every light in the room. She’d felt alive in a way she hadn’t in years, and when morning came, she realized she no longer wanted the club life.
Violet kicked again, hard enough to make Christina gasp. She spread her fingers across her belly, feeling the movement beneath her palm.
