Then Laurie touches my arm again, her hand warm and familiar. “You know we’d love to have you and Esme come for a visit sometime. We really would. Lord knows Carter and Serena aren’t in any rush to give us grandchildren.”
The kindness—and the quiet inference—guts me.
They actually think of Esme as a grandchild.
And that thought makes me miss her even more in this moment—my little anchor. My living proof that Icanbuild something warm and real, even if this life doesn’t look the way I once imagined.
Eventually our conversation winds down.
I press the button for the elevator, hoping to disappear upstairs before anyone else tries to make conversation.
My shoes pinch. My heart aches in that quiet, familiar way that comes from holding too much in for too long. And all I want is five minutes alone to call Esme, hear her tiny voice say “Hi Mama,” and remember why I’m here.
The elevator dings.
I’m about to step inside when the front doors to the inn swing open behind me, and something in the air shifts.
I glance over my shoulder, more out of instinct than curiosity.
And there he is.
Spencer Devereaux.
My chest tightens before my brain catches up.
He’s not in a tux this time. Not in the sleek, hyper-polished armor he wore in D.C. Instead, he’s wearing jeans—expensive ones, sure, but still denim—paired with a soft, heather-gray T-shirt and a navy sport jacket.
Casual. Confident. Effortless.
Of course.
Then Iseeheron his arm.
Petite. Blonde. So blonde. The kind of blonde that glows under soft lighting and probably has a name like Saffron or Skye. She’s wearing a fitted ivory jumpsuit that clings in all the right places, showcasing her curvy figure and tiny waist. Her heels click daintily on the stone floor. She barely reaches his shoulder.
They stand at the reception desk, holding hands like teenagers at prom.
He leans down, murmurs something into her ear, and she laughs—soft and musical, like she’s never had to fake it a day in her life.
Then, as if it couldn’t sting any more, he presses a kiss to the top of her head.
Gentle. Familiar.
My stomach twists.
This isn’t the brunette woman from the picnic photo. That woman had dark hair, long legs, an easy elegance, and child with a caterpillar drawing her in.
This is someone else.
New. Different. Weekend-worthy.
Because what else would Spencer Devereaux be doing at a luxury inn in the middle of nowhere if not booking a few days of sex and seclusion?
I retreat behind the nearest marble column like a coward, praying they don’t see me.
What an absolute cliché.
And yet—here I am. Hiding. Hurting.
