“Okay, so the parent situation is horrific. And yes, they’re the worst and I’m really sorry you had to put up with that. But Mads, this is who they are. This has always been who they are. They bulldoze. They strategize. They treat their own daughters like PR opportunities instead of people.” Her eyes soften. “But none of that is on you. And you are nothing like them. You’re kind. You’re thoughtful. You actually listen to people. You don’t manipulate. You’re not strategic with your love.”
She crosses the room and gently sets Marigold—warm, soft, milk-drunk—into my lap. The baby wriggles once and then settles against me, her tiny fingers curling around the fabric of my shirt.
Cara smiles. “This is what matters. Not Mom’s ambition. Not Dad’s political chessboard. This right here.”
Ryan stands, brushing off his jeans, giving me a gentle half-smile. “Speaking as the in-law who has had a front-row seat to the Ashcroft Circus…Cara’s right. They’re tornadoes, Madeline. You’re sunshine.”
Marigold hiccups, then sighs—one of those deep newborn sighs that makes your entire chest unclench.
Cara tucks a stray curl behind my ear. “Why don’t we take her for a walk around the block? Get your mind off all of it, just for a while. Fresh air and baby cuddles make everything better.”
I look down at the warm little weight in my lap, her dark lashes fluttering against her cheeks, her tiny hand gripping my shirt like I’m the safest place she knows.
Something in me loosens.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I think I’d like that.”
I returned to work this morning determined not to dwell on Jesse Winters. I kept my head down, my eyes glued to my laptop, and my steps so purposeful it was like I was training for a corporate Olympics and avoidance was my gold-medal event. I made it through my morning meetings and strategically planned my trips to the coffee maker when I knew I could steer clear of him.
By the time I’m wrapping up my weekly content planning update with Marco and Becca, I’ve almost convinced myself that I can pull this off. Last weekend with Jesse was a blip; I can put it behind me and focus on my work at Cove. Because let’s face it…I’m pretty positive I won’t be getting into bed with Jesse again.
Speaking of the devil. As I leave the conference room, he appears at the end of the hallway like he stepped straight out of a daydream I don’t want to admit I still have.
He’s wearing a black shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows, his forearms doing unspeakable things to my heartbeat. He looks good. More than good—he looks hot. Kill me.
There’s no avoiding him this time. I take a calming breath and head down the hallway toward my workspace, feigning interest in my phone to avoid having to make eye contact. I try to sidestep him, try to look casual, like I’m not the most humiliated woman on the face of the planet, but he doesn’t let me off that easy.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and calm, as though we hadn’t hadsex in a hotel room and then lived through the Ashcroft Parental Apocalypse a little over a week ago.
“Oh—hi.” I barely recognize my own voice; it sounds high pitched and shaky.
I keep walking, but he follows, adjusting his stride to fall in step beside me. Dammit.
He keeps his eyes forward. “You’ve been…quiet this week.”
I swallow. “Just tired.”
“Uh-huh.” He sounds skeptical. “Is that why you sprinted out of the office at 4:01 on Friday?”
I glance at him sideways, and my pulse immediately quickens. Traitorous body. Traitorous memory. I can still feel his hands on me. His mouth. The way he?—
Nope. Not going there.
“Just wanted to beat traffic,” I mutter.
“Right,” he says, deadpan. “Deep Cove rush hour can be brutal.”
I nearly trip.
We reach the glass doors to the marketing wing, and he reaches out to push one of them open before I have the chance. I walk past him, his arm above me, his body so close the scent of his cologne hits me like a warm hand pressed between my shoulder blades. My brain short-circuits.
He steps in beside me again. “You don’t have to look away when I walk into a room, you know.”
My stomach swoops. “I don’t.”
“You do,” he says gently. “You’ve done it every day this week.”
He isn’t pushing. He isn’t angry. His tone is patient and kind, like he’s trying to give me an out I don’t know how to take.
