I begin to wave.
She grins, drops her giraffe so she can wave too, and chirps, “Bye Mama! Voo Voo!”
My breath catches. “I love you too, baby,” I whisper. “Be good.”
My tears fall, but Esme doesn’t notice. She’s too excited.
Laney squeezes my hand. “We’ve got her. Go, now. But remember…tell the man..”
I nod, blinking fast, grab my suitcase, and start the walk toward him. He stands with his jacket open, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on me—and I just hope he can’t read the stew of emotions simmering beneath my ribs.
Hope and fear. Longing and guilt. Excitement braided with dread.
And then he’s moving toward me, arms open wide. And before I can second-guess a thing, I’m in them.
He pulls me close like I belong there, his mouth onmine, soft and certain. Kissing me like I’m not a risk—but a promise.
Somewhere behind us, Laney honks the horn as she pulls away.
As we board the private jet,all I can think is?—
Whose life is this?
And please let it be mine.
TWENTY-SIX
SPENCER
They say money can’t buy happiness—and maybe that’s true. But it sure as hell can give you a nice nudge in the right direction. And this woman?
She’s the kind that dreams are made of.
So if I can help bringher closer to one ofher lifelong dreams—Paris, fresh croissants, riverside walks—then sign me up.
Twice.
Yes. We’re going.
To Paris.
We’ll be wheels up from Maplewick by 7:30 a.m. EST on Friday. A quick flight to Boston. Then straight onto my jet, already fueled and waiting in the adjacent hangar.
If all goes according to plan, we’ll land at Charles de Gaulle Airport at 8:30 p.m. Paris time—just in time to see the Eiffel Tower sparkle from the back seat of our car.
Friday night, we’ll make a quick change and head out into the city.
A better view of the Eiffel tower and a dinner plan that I hope says I want her to have it all. An evening walk alongthe Seine, stop for crêpes or café crème if we’re still awake. Maybe we’ll even climb the steps at Montmartre if we have any energy left.
Saturday, we’ll sleep in if we’re able. Breakfast will be delivered to our room.
Then we’ll spend the morning at Musée de l'Orangerie, where her favorite artist, Monet, is waiting, followed by a stroll through the Jardin des Tuileries. Lunch by the river, shopping, or wandering—whatever she wants. I’ve booked a table at Le Clarence, tucked inside an 18th-century mansion just off the Champs-Élysées.
Candlelight. A private corner table. Vintage Bordeaux. Something simple, yes. But unforgettable. Great conversation. Her smile.
On Sunday, we’ll take the train to Eure-et-Loir, the countryside just outside Paris, to visit my old rehab town.
The little village where we’ll visit Henri’s village bakery, share some laughs, and taste something warm and flaky. Show her where I healed. Let her see the quiet part of France—the part that changed me. The part that always makes me think of her.
