But I was.
I was there too, on January third, when I woke up to a letter on her empty side of the bed. Suitcase gone. Clothes gone. Her, gone. She’d caught the earliest bus, left without waking me.
And if that wasn’t what broke me in two, it was the folded piece of paper, her elegant scrawl reading four words.
I’ll always remember my time in Ciallach: Kit Sinclair’s laugh like a bubble of champagne, her touch soft and tender, and my heart hers.
Even if it was thirteen years ago.
twenty-two
KIT
My Tears Ricochet - Taylor Swift
Thirteen years passed. It should have felt slow, painfully so. Instead, it felt like an avalanche.
The freedom and excitement of being the boss of my own agency had made me feel like a new woman all those years ago, a distraction from the heartburn I’d been unable to outrace. After over a decade, I could feel the ache in my bones, the want to return home.
To find that peace again.
Instead, I found myself in Paris. I’d used the pull of fashion week as an excuse, checking in on some of the agency models and enjoying the chaos it brought to the French.
And then she found me.
“Kit?”
My attention snapped up to the blonde standing at the edge of my table, twin blue eyes staring back at me.
I stood, wiping my sweaty palms on my Dior skirt. “Hello, hi.” My voice held a nervous edge that sounded so foreign. Swallowing, I tried to push it away. Now, face to face with thedaughter I hadn’t met in almost twenty-four years, I couldn’t work out if I should offer a handshake or get on my knees and plead forgiveness.
“Thanks for meeting me.” Scottie smiled weakly, the expression forced, before pulling out a chair at the table. “I know it’s last minute.”
She’d contacted the agency two days ago, a phone call my assistant wasn’t entirely sure what to do with.“This caller says she’s your daughter. I know the gays love calling you mother, but the vibes are different.”
I’d cleared my schedule immediately.
“How are you doing?” I asked, trying to read the secrets in the deep, dark marks below her eyes as we sat opposite each other.
Her shoulders slumped. “Hungover. I didn’t get to bed until nine.”
My eyebrows pressed together. “Nine in the evening?”Maybe she takes after her father.
“The morning,” she replied flatly. “Some millionaire’s son invited me to his yacht, and it was all fun and games until he started getting a little too handsy and I threw a case of his Champagne into the Seine.”
A smile pulled at the edge of my lips. “What year?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No, this was last night.”
“I meant the Champagne.”
Realization slowly dawned across her features. A cute little nose, a dash of freckles across her cheeks.My baby.“2002.”
“That’s a good year.” I grinned. “He deserved it.”
Her body relaxed opposite me, and I wondered if she’d prepared herself for me to get angry. “It worked out in the end. I flirted with a Michelin Star chef who took me back to his restaurant and cooked me the best omelette of my life.”
“The best nights are like that.” I smiled. “Chaos, but with a happy ending.”
