“We’ll talk,” he murmurs.“All the stuff we haven’t said yet.We’ll figure out what this looks like—how we move through the world like this.But right now?It’s all about you.”
“You just have to let us take care of you,” Monty adds, nuzzling the back of my neck.
I let my eyes close, water lapping gently around us, their touches still roaming, still affectionate.Still ...hungry.But not demanding.
And for the first time in forever, I let myself fall into the feeling.
Wanted.
Held.
Safe.
Not because everything is fixed.
But because they’re here, and I hope that they won’t walk away.Not today, or ever.I want this to be our always and forever.
ChapterThirty-Seven
Callaway
Moving day should feel like a victory lap.
It’s been a three-week ordeal.They said it would be fast, easy ...they lied.The repairs the place needed were more than we accounted for and moving wasn’t as easy as “let’s get our things into the place.”
Nope.
I sold most of my furniture.Monty did exactly the same, and Vesper’s stuff fit in one room—which is why we’re currently calling it her office.
Sure, we have new keys, a new zip code, and even a couple of pools.We’re in Lake Oswego instead of downtown Portland—and yes, the fucking couch made the trip, because Vesper declared it “emotionally supportive” and who am I to argue with a pregnant woman who can weaponize sarcasm and pregnancy hormones like they’re tactical gear?
We promised to pay for it when they find out who’ll be billing us.
This should be the part where I breathe and tell myself we pulled it off.We built a safe place.We outplayed the cameras, the gossip, the Winthrop family brand of manipulation, the faceless men who think you can steer a person’s life with a press release and a threat.
Instead, moving day feels like stepping onto thin ice and pretending I don’t hear it complain beneath my skates.
According to Vesper, the house is obscene.
Not “cute little starter home with a porch swing” obscene.Obscene in the way money becomes uncomfortable when you stop thinking of it as numbers and start thinking of it as options most people never get.It’s glass and wood and soft light, tucked back from the road like it has secrets.Gated drive.Trees.Cameras.Motion sensors.The entire property seems to murmur,Nothing bad can reach you here.
Which is a sweet lie.
Bad things don’t need permission.
I’ve been here since sunrise with movers who call me “sir” like I’m somebody’s father instead of a professional hockey player with too much money and an unfinished plan that keeps changing every time Vesper’s eyes go too bright.
The funny part is that she’s not asking for anything.Monty and I just want to give her the entire world.
I’m trying to decide where to put kitchenware I don’t even know how to use because Teddy Bradley—the concierge—has “taste,” and now we own serving platters that look like they belong behind glass with a tiny plaque that saysDo Not Touch, Peasant.
Worst of all, Vesper approved it all because Teddy is her new best friend, and they’ve already started swapping pregnancy symptoms like they’re trading family recipes.
Harvey handled most of the paperwork—and all the things that would’ve made my skin crawl if I’d had to do them alone.I wish he were here for moving day, but he’s out at the camp walking the county inspectors through the first of three site visits they require before they approve operations.He has people working around the clock to make that happen.The goal is to be able to have it ready before that third inspection.
That place will be working soon, or my name isn’t Calloway Livingston Harrington Winthrop.
We—Monty and I—are gathering players who are interested in investing one or two weeks of their lives to teach young players what they know.Philippe is recovering and learning how to delegate.According to Vesper, who’s on the phone with him daily, it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.
