It’s Callaway.
No words yet.Just his name on my screen, ringing.
I stare at it, my pulse tripping over itself, and all I can think is—fuck.I’m not ready for any of this.
ChapterFive
Vesper
“Hey,” I answer right away, because letting it ring feels like inviting bad luck.I can’t handle any more bad news.
“You could’ve paid for wi-fi during the flight,” is the first thing Cally says.“Waiting almost ten hours to speak to you has been its own hell, Ves.”
I shut my eyes as I step off the curb, New York air slapping my face awake.Not Juniper Ridge cold, not mountain-cold, but enough to sting.Enough to remind me I’m here.I’m moving.I’m doing something.I’m not frozen in the moment where Dad’s voice went rough and small and said he needed me.
“Hello to you too,” I say, aiming for chirpy.It comes out thin.
“I’ve been worried sick,” he snaps, and there’s heat there, real heat, like he’s been carrying it around and it finally found a target.“I almost called your father.”
I huff a laugh that doesn’t feel like laughter.“You say that like it’s the nuclear option.”
“It is.”He doesn’t even hesitate.“There’s too much going on in the league.The last thing I want is to talk about my career with him while he—” He cuts himself off, like the rest of the sentence tastes wrong.Like talking about my father’s health out loud makes it real.“What’s going on, Ves?”
My breath catches.I force it back into place and keep walking, weaving through people who don’t know I’m a second away from tipping over.
“Ugh, I forgot to order a rideshare,” I mutter, because focusing on logistics keeps me from focusing on the fact that my hands are shaking.
“There’s a car already waiting for you,” Cally says.“Harvey arranged it.”
I stop short.“You shouldn’t have.”
“You always say that.”His voice drops.“And you always accept it.”
“I’m capable?—”
“I know what you’re capable of,” he cuts in, and the way he says it makes my pulse jump.Not because it’s kind.Because it’s loaded.Because he knows me in the ways I hate being known.“I also know you’ll try to do everything alone until you break.I need you to call Harvey once you’re home.He’ll arrange anything your father needs.”
“You’re very bossy today, Callaway,” I say, because fighting him would take energy I don’t have.
“I’m always bossy,” he replies.“You just usually pretend it’s charming.”
My mouth goes dry.
I spot the guy holding a sign: VES LAFONTAINE in bold black letters, like I’m someone important instead of a girl with a camera bag and a family emergency.
“That’s me,” I murmur.
The driver takes my carry-on before I can protest and opens the back door like this is normal.Like my life isn’t currently on fire.
I slide into the SUV and freeze.
Because on the seat beside me there’s a warm cup of my favorite order, down to the almond milk I only let myself have when I’m stressed: an iced London Fog with lavender syrup, vanilla bean foam, and a dusting of bergamot on top like it’s trying to be art.
A pastry wrapped in paper.A sandwich in a neat little box.
My throat tightens again, anger and gratitude tangling until I can’t tell which one is louder.
“You spoil me,” I manage, staring at the cup like it’s a trap someone dressed up in foam and sugar.
