Lydia Carver swept in, elegant as ever, with a slim folder dangling from her manicured fingers.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said, which, of course, meant she knew she was and didn’t care. “But let’s talk husbands.”
I nearly choked on my coffee. “It’s been a week since I left him.”
“Time is of the essence, dear.” She smiled pleasantly, settling into the armchair like she was about to conduct a board meeting. “You’d be amazed how quickly opportunities vanish when one hesitates.”
I stared at the folder. “What is that?”
“Information,” she said, her voice light. “On a potential match.”
“You’re joking.”
“Do I ever?” She opened the folder and slid a glossy photograph across the table. “You’ll remember him—Graham Whittaker. His parents owned the vineyard up north.”
I blinked, the name stirring half-forgotten memories. I’d been a child the last time I remember seeing him. And he was a tall, lanky teenager with dark hair and a shy smile. “Graham? He’s not already married? That surprises me.”
“He was.” Mother’s lips curved. “But not anymore.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Do you know what happened?”
“Rumors of an affair. Hers, not his. But it was all tight-lipped.” She waved a hand dismissively, as though fleeing wives were a mild inconvenience. “Anyway, the divorce was finalized almost a year ago. He’s quite ready to move on.”
“How old is he?”
Mother checked her file. “Thirty-two. You see? He’s mature and accomplished. Perfect for you.”
“And he’s… on board with this?” I asked, my skepticism warranted. “This isn’t all being planned between you and his mother over afternoon tea?”
Her smile didn’t waver. “I assure you, Michelle. He’s aware of the arrangement and has expressed genuine interest. Obviously, he’ll want to meet you. See where your head is at.”
“My head,” I repeated, incredulous. “My head is all over the place, but my heart hasn’t budged.”
“Your heart has gotten you into enough trouble,” she said evenly. “As for the children, Graham has none of his own. A blessing, really. No competition, no divided loyalties. Just a clean slate.”
“You understand that Scott is not going to willingly disappear from his kids’ lives, right? You may hate him, and the two of us might not be on the best of terms at the moment, but no one can say that Scott isn’t an amazing father.”
She rose gracefully, smoothing her skirt. “I have no doubt he’s a fine father. But with you and the kids living on the East Coast, Scott may find it… difficult… to stay connected.”
The cruelty of it all. Yes, Scott was in the wrong, and he’d have to get his shit together before I’d allow him access to the kids again, but moving his children across the country, knowing what I did about his absolute loyalty to being a present father, made me ache for him.
I sat there staring at Graham’s photo, my pulse a slow, uncertain thud. He looked older, of course—and more accomplished—but a steady kindness lingered in his eyes. Exactly the type of man I used to think I wanted.
“I don’t think I’m ready to make a decision like this,” I said finally, setting the picture down. “It’s too soon. Everything’s too—”
Mother lifted a hand, cutting me off with that serene, patient smile.
“Darling, no one’s asking for a decision. It doesn’t hurt to meet him. To see if he’d even be an option.”
Her take was so reasonable that it was impossible to argue with.
I exhaled. “Fine. I’ll meet him. But that’s all.”
“Excellent. And you’re in luck—he flew in this morning.”
“Wait… he’s here? Already?”
“Of course he is. You’re a Carver. Not too often one of those comes on the market.” Mother clapped her hands once. Immediately, a woman appeared in the doorway, carrying a garment bag the color of champagne. “You’ll wear this tonight. Dinner at eight.”
