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Ravi Parikh.

“I don’t want her associated with this brand,” hissed a voice from the office next door.

I almost banged my head on the table as I straightened. Was that Shep?

“I know, Dad,” Cam said. “You’ve already explained⁠—”

“How many times do I have to tell you this, Cam? Shepherds don’t associate with trash. Not even in business.”

Cam’s low, controlled voice answered, “She isn’t trash.”

“She’s still a gold-digging harpy just like she was back then. I don’t understand this weakness you⁠—”

“That’s enough,” Cam said sharply. “It isn’t weakness to reach for help from someone who can give it.”

“Help?” Shep scoffed. “Is that what you’re reaching for, son?”

“I’m not having this conversation again. I’ve been listening to this same speech since I was fifteen. Don’t worry. I’ve got it memorized.”

A silence stretched before Shep murmured a barely audible, “What—” something, something “—Delacroix girl?”

“She wasn’t right,” came Cam’s clipped reply.

A sigh, and then, “They’re never right until they are.”

My face scrunched. What a strangely romantic sentiment from such a callous man.

“I have work to do,” Cam said, his voice closer.

I gripped the door handle of the conference room and shut it as quietly as possible, leaning against it while his footsteps treaded the other way. What the heck was that? Cam had argued with his father on my behalf, claiming I could help, and yet he’d shut down a perfectly good idea. A great idea, even.

And that last part… What speech had he been listening to since he was fifteen? Something involving me, or another thing entirely? With a sigh, I reminded myself it didn’t matter. That was a conversation I shouldn’t have heard. Rolling my shoulders, I released some tension and wiped it from my memory.

All except the part that mattered most, the part that had my heart pumping sunlight through my body instead of blood:

She isn’t trash.

Thirteen

“There was a mysterious coffee on my desk again this morning,” I said to Ravi Tuesday evening after a hostess seated us at our favorite restaurant, Ti Amo.

“Any idea who it’s from?” he asked, spreading the napkin over his lap.

“I think it’s from Bennett. He denies it, but there’s no other explanation.”

The Italian restaurant had been our trio’s favorite since the day before Maribel’s quinceañera when her parents splurged for a grand banquet. That was, of course, after Mari begged them with all the grace of a self-diagnosed Deprived Teenaged Girl. The bruschetta was matched by none, and when the server introduced himself, Ravi didn’t hesitate to order three servings of it along with a bottle of wine.

“A bottle?” I raised my eyebrows, thinking of the cost.

“This is a celebration, isn’t it?” And then, because he knows me well, added, “I’m buying, remember? So don’t worry about it.”

He and Maribel had wanted to host a homecoming celebration soon after I moved back, but the appendicitis and subsequent recovery inserted itself quite rudely into our plans. This morning, Maribel declared our celebration would commence tonight, no arguments allowed.

My purse buzzed, and I reached in to switch my phone to DND, but the name on the screen gave me pause.

“Maribel?”

“Shay, I’m so sorry! I’m going to be late. My Pilates instructor for tonight got the flu, so I have to fill in. Class starts in ten minutes and lasts forty-five.”