“Much,” I admit, reaching for her. I draw her close and press my forehead against hers. “Though, now I owe you.”
Her smile is wicked as she presses a brief, hard kiss to my lips. “I’ll collect later. With interest.”
I catch her wrist before she can turn away. “Jess.” The weight of everything I want to say hangs between us.
“I know,” she says softly, as if she actually does. She brushes her thumb across my lower lip.
The sound of silverware tapping against glass drifts from inside, signaling that it’s time for Grant’s speech. We rejoin the party, slightly rumpled but significantly more relaxed, just as Grant takes his position at the front of the room.
I watch with professional pride as he delivers the words we’ve crafted together, tweaked, and perfected over the years.
“Every year, I tell myself I won’t give the same speech about how much this tradition means to me. And yet…here I am again, clearly unable to help myself.”
A wave of quiet laughter moves through the room.
“When I started this celebration twelve years ago, I thought it would be a singular event, a simple way to honor the people who’d been part of my journey, but I underestimated just how meaningful these gatherings would become. This room contains not just extraordinary talent, but something far rarer, genuine humanity and a willingness to support each other through both triumphs and challenges. Those qualities are precious, and your continued presence here year after year confirms I’ve found them in you.”
His gaze sweeps the assembled guests, warm and genuine. “Some of you are first-time attendees; others have been here from the beginning. Regardless, you matter. To me and to each other. I’ve always believed that our finest moments occur when we’re truly seen by those around us, and you’ve repeatedly shown me the power of that connection.”
A smile spreads across his face as he raises his glass. “To connections that matter. Cheers, everyone.”
As applause fills the room, I feel Jess’s eyes on me. “What?” I ask softly.
She shakes her head slightly. “Nothing. It’s just, it’s good writing.”
“Most of it’s recycled,” I admit. “He says almost the same thing every year.”
“Some things don’t need changing,” she says, her eyes never leaving mine.
I’m about to respond when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
FATHER
Heard you’re in the Hamptons this weekend. I have meetings all day tomorrow but could move some things around for breakfast if you’re free. Let me know.
The casual tone almost makes me laugh. Classic Logan Carmichael, acting as if nothing is amiss, as if we’re just two family members coordinating schedules.
“Your father?” Jess asks quietly, noticing my expression.
I nod, showing her the message. “Apparently, he has ‘meetings’ tomorrow.”
Her fingers brush mine as she hands the phone back. “Are you going to meet him?”
I consider it for a moment. “I don’t know yet.”
I pull up a new message, this time to my mother.
LUCAS
Hey Mom, quick question. Is Dad working on a donor meeting for your foundation this weekend?
Her response comes quickly.
MOM
Not that I’m aware of, but I’m in Chicago at an education conference until Tuesday. Why do you ask?
Something cold settles in my chest. I don’t reply, just slide the phone back into my pocket.
