“Where’s Connor?” she asked, remembering his son.
“He slipped out right before we started cleaning up the firepit,” he explained. “We drove separately in case I wanted to stay late.” He said it casually, but his gaze was serious. “I was hoping we’d get a minute,” he added.
Her pulse ticked up as she watched him tap the buttons on the dishwasher to start it.
Finished with the task, he leaned on the counter and crossed his arms.
She mirrored the pose, looking up at him. “You good?” she asked. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”
He considered that. “I’ve been trying to follow your lead.”
She didn’t reply, but she didn’t look away, either.
“You asked for space,” he said gently. “So I’ve been giving it.”
“Yeah, I know.” Her throat tightened as she considered the best way to handle this. Did she just come out and say, “I was wrong, stupid, and please kiss me?”
It was her move, and they both knew it.
“Peter,” she began.
He straightened slightly, attentive. “Yeah?”
She took a breath. “I’ve been thinking about…”
She needed to say “us” but the word stuck in her throat. There was no going back if she did this. If she revived their romance, she couldn’t?—
The sharp buzz of Peter’s phone cut through the quiet.
He frowned and grunted, glancing at the screen. “Sorry. It’s work.”
Her heart sank—not because of the interruption, but because of the seriousness that instantly settled over him. He answered without hesitation. “McCarthy.”
Vivien watched his posture change—shoulders squaring, attention snapping into focus.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s my son.”
His son? The room seemed to tilt.
He listened, his jaw tightening. “Where?” A beat. “Okay. Was he conscious?”
Conscious? Vivien stepped closer and reached for his arm. “Connor?” she mouthed.
“Any idea who was at fault?” he asked the caller.
Vivien’s breath grew shallow as she watched him absorb the information.
“Yes,” he said. “He was with me all day. He didn’t drink.” His voice sharpened. “The other driver failed the field test?” He swore softly under his breath. “I’m on my way.”
He ended the call and looked at her, his expression controlled but shaken beneath the surface.
“Connor’s been in an accident,” he said. “On 98. A truck crossed the center line—driver was intoxicated.”
She gasped. “Is he?—”
“He’s banged up but fine,” Peter said quickly. “Concussion, maybe some fractures. They’re taking him to the hospital now.”
She turned without hesitation to find her purse and keys. “I’ll come with you.”
