Either way, I’m going to the newspaper archives because I have to know.
And because somewhere in the history of this town, there might be a forgotten woman in a red dress, waiting to be found.
The marble floor of the Belicourt lobby gleams under the morning light streaming through the tall windows. Every surface looks polished within an inch of its life—exactly the way my father likes things.
The place is quiet this early on a Tuesday. A few guests sit with coffee in the lounge area, and the front-desk staff move with that crisp, professional efficiency we drilled into them.
My parents walk beside me. My father’s hands are loosely clasped behind his back as he surveys the room.
His keen eye evaluating everything.
Every light fixture. Every piece of furniture. Every employee.
Behind us, Diana Fairchild clicks along in her heels, her tablet tucked neatly against her side. She’s dressed in a black pencil skirt and her company blazer, immaculate, as always.
“Your mother is spending tomorrow at the spa. When I walked down this morning to set it up, I spoke with Lorna. Her reservations are down,” my father says.
I nod.
“Fall bookings have been strong. I expect there will be an uptick soon,” I say.
Diana clears her throat. “Yes, and also once the ski resorts open in November. A lot of the ladies prefer a day of pampering while their husbands are on the slope.”
“Same as when they’re in Vegas and their husbands spend all their time at a poker table,” Mom says.
“Exactly,” Diana says.
We pass the grand staircase. Sunlight glances off the brass railings.
“And we’re now including spa services in our romantic getaway packages,” I add.
That seems to pacify him.
“And the conference spaces?”
“Most are booked through the end of the year.”
He nods once. “That’s excellent.”
We walk a few more steps.
He says something else.
I hear the sound of his voice.
But the words don’t register.
Because the lobby doors slide open, and Harleigh walks in.
My chest tightens immediately.
She’s wearing fitted black slacks, a soft ivory blouse tucked neatly into them, and her tailored blazer. Her hair is pulled into a low ponytail that swings against her back as she crosses themarble floor. A leather satchel slung over one shoulder and a coffee cup in her hand.
She looks … professional.
Gorgeous.
Completely unaware that I haven’t stopped thinking about her since I left her tucked in bed three days ago.
