I’m climbing the stairs to the second level when he disappears into his study. By the time I reach the landing, I hear the clink of a crystal tumbler as he pours a glass of bourbon followed by the familiar creak of his grandfather’s leather chair.
I wash up and change for bed, opting for one of the modal pajama sets I wore the first night we shared a bed. Slouchy. Comfortable. Not sexy in the least.
It’s weird, sleeping with clothes on now. And the bed is cold and empty without him. An hour later, I’m no closer to sleep than I was before. When my mind races like this, it’s impossible to shut it off.
I’m going to tell him tomorrow, and I’m going to tell him everything. It can only go one of two ways.
Flinging the covers off, I tiptoe downstairs to get a glass of water from the kitchen. On my way back, I spot the light in his study glowing through a half-open doorway. Quietly, I make my way over.
He’s as still as a statue in his oversized chair. His bourbon rests in front of him, untouched. I doubt he’s moved an inch since an hour ago.
“You just going to stand there or you going to come in?” His voice sends a start straight through me. “I heard your footsteps.”
His gaze steers toward the doorway and, for the first time in forever, he doesn’t look like he’s two seconds from making a sexual meal out of me.
I enter, though reluctant, words stuck in my throat. The clock on the wall reads a quarter past midnight. I told myself I’d tell him tomorrow …
Tomorrow has arrived.
“Before I tell you how I feel.” My voice is distant in my ears, like my words are coming from someone else. “I have to tell you something.”
His chocolate-gold gaze narrows as he sits forward.
“When I was eighteen, I fell in love with an older man.” Weakness spreads through the lower half of my body, but I stay upright. I want to stand for this. A chair seems too informal for what I’m about to say. “He was a successful businessman. Much like you. Handsome. Charming. Charismatic. He pursued me relentlessly—again, like you. And he gave me money to be with him.”
Speaking those words out loud for the first time sends a painful squeeze to my chest. Not even my closest friends know about this.
“He told me he loved me,” I continue. “And I believed him.”
Trey folds his hands on the desk, listening with intention.
“But everything changed when I got pregnant,” I say, pausing to collect myself. “I found out in the middle of my senior year of high school. I was eight weeks along. And I was terrified. But he said he loved me, and I believed him. I trusted that we’d figure things out. Only he was adamant that we give the baby up for adoption. He said it’d be best for each of us. And when I resisted, he made an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
He frowns, as if he knows where this is going. Though I can’t tell if he’s sympathetic or disapproving.
“He said if I gave our child away, he’d get me into Princeton so I could focus on my future. He said he’d pay for everything. He also said he’d buy my mother a house. And he offered to cover all of my sister’s medical expenses …” I say. “All I had to do was sign.”
My eyes brim with hot tears, but I blink them away.
“So I did,” I say. “I sold my baby in exchange for a better life.”
His lips purse. Still he says nothing.
I’m going to be sick …
“So I think you should know, before this goes any further, that I’m a selfish woman who has done selfish things,” I say. “And if you don’t want me to be the mother of your child, I completely understand.”
An endless pause lingers between us before he pushes himself from his chair and makes his way to my side of the desk.
“Is that why you were so against this arrangement?” he breaks his silence.
Gazing up at him through half-damp lashes, I nod. If I tried to speak, I’d surely choke on the words.
He gives me a moment. Or maybe he’s taking one for himself. All I know is the silence between us bears an excruciatingly painful weight.
“What made you change your mind?” he finally asks.
I swallow the lump in my throat. I need more time. And yet, bottling the details grows more painful by the second. There’s an ache deep within my marrow that both fills and hollows me.
“Because I kept thinking about all the good things I could do with that money,” I say. “I can’t change what I did, and I’ll never get that part of me back, but if I spend the rest of my life making a difference for other people, maybe one day I’ll be able to forgive myself.”
Trey drags in a long, jagged breath as he studies me.
“Anything else you want to come clean about?” he asks.
I can’t read him.
“Yes.” I slip my fingers around the waistband of my pajama bottoms and slide them halfway down my hips. Next I push my panties down an inch until the translucent, silver-white C-section scar is on full display. “This is why I’ve always insisted on the dark when we’ve messed around, why I’ve always turned away from you when we have sex … I didn’t want you to see this, to ask questions I didn’t want to explain. This scar is a reminder of a time in my life that holds nothing but shame and grief.”
He forces a hard breath through his nostrils. Without warning, he lowers himself until my scar is at eye-level. I squeeze my eyes tight, sucking in a breath when he runs his finger along it.
“If you want out of this, if you can’t look at me the same now, I understand,” I say.
When I peer down at him, he meets my stare. And in a moment I never could have anticipated, he presses his mouth against the one place I’ve never allowed a man to kiss since that fateful day.
My lungs burn and my body turns stiff. I force myself to take a deep breath.
Trey rises slowly, his tender hold remaining on my hips. “You were eighteen, Sophie. I imagine you were scared out of your mind. You did what you had to do.”
“I could’ve made it work.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I would’ve made it work,” I say.
“But then you wouldn’t be who you are today.” He takes my cheek in his hand, and suddenly I resent the compassion in his voice and his despondent gaze washing over me. “You’ve spent all this time hating yourself for what you did when you were a child.”
“I was an adult and should’ve known better.”
“You were exploited by an older man. You couldn’t have known better.” His words are tight on his mouth. “Tell me, are you going to spend the rest of your life punishing yourself for this?”
“I … don’t know,” I say. I’ve never thought about it like that. “It’s my burden to bear.”
“So you’re just going to carry this around with you forever?” he asks, incredulous.
When he puts it like that, I realize how ridiculous it seems.
But feelings are real to those who feel them. Unless he knows what I’ve been through firsthand, he can’t comprehend how difficult that would be.
“My baby’s father,” I continue, “he was adamant that he never wanted to be a dad. And he said he found the perfect adoptive mother. He made her sound wonderful … but the day I signed my baby away, I saw him with her in the nursery. He kissed her. He had his arm around her. I later found out she was his college girlfriend … And a year later, he married her.” My lip trembles and little earthquakes run through my body. “So while I walked away with nothing, they walked away with our baby. He got to raise her. Gets to raise her. He got to see every milestone, be there for every first.”
“You had a daughter.”
I bite my lip, not realizing I’d used those pronouns. Everything was supposed to stay secret, including the gender.
“Everything about you suddenly makes perfect sense,” he says. “Who did this to you, Sophie? I want his fucking name.”
My lips press flat. “I wish I could tell you …”
“Then tell me.”
&
nbsp; “I signed an NDA,” I say. “If I say anything, there’ll be repercussions.”
He’ll stop paying for my sister’s experimental treatment. He’ll seize the house my mother has come to love the last eight years. There’ll be questions. She’ll want to know why I broke the NDA. And if she finds out about my arrangement with Trey, I’ll break her heart all over again.
“I’ll handle those repercussions.”
“This isn’t your problem.”
“Your problems became mine the moment you signed that contract,” he says. “Let me deal with him.”
I huff. “And what are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure.”
They named her Sasha, and she’s beautiful. Wavy dark hair, big blue eyes accented by a thick fringe of lashes, rosy cheeks. In the handful of photos I’ve seen, she seems bright and happy and cheerful. If Trey were to make a fuss of this, if word were to get out that Nolan knocked up a high school girl and adopted the baby, Sasha could read about it someday. I’m not even sure she knows she’s adopted. She looks so much like Nolan …
“It’s too late,” I say. “It’s not like I can get her back. And it’s not like he’ll ever apologize. Even if he did, it won’t change anything.”
Trey exhales, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. “Tell me who he is anyway. You’ve already told me everything else, yes?”
“I haven’t said his name in eight years,” I say.
“Seems to me there’s a lot you haven’t said in eight years …”
I open my mouth to speak. But I stop myself.
“It doesn’t matter who he is. He’s in my past … and I need to focus on the future … like you said.”
His thumb grazes my lower lip. “Yes, Sophie. You do.”
Trey crushes my mouth with a kiss so tender my eyes burn—until a flood of euphoria rushes my veins.
“I’m falling for you.” The words are weightless on my tongue but heavy in my chest.
“Oh, Sophie …” His mouth curls. “I know.”
Forty-Four
Trey
Present
“I feel embarrassed to ask this as I should’ve done it by now … but this business deal you’re trying to nab, the one that requires you to be a family man … what kind of business is it?” Sophie asks as we disembark my jet and make our way to a waiting Town Car. “What makes it so special that you’re taking such extreme measures to get it?”
We climb inside and wait for our luggage to be loaded.
“It’s a steel and oil company,” I say, taking her hand. I haven’t stopped touching her since we took off a few hours ago, haven’t taken my eyes off her. Instead of her usual weekend jeans-and-t-shirt, she dressed in a fitted navy dress, her hair twisted into a low bun as she wanted to make a memorable first impression. She’s Jackie O. and Marilyn combined and then some. “Landing this would be a record deal for me. It’d go down in history as one of the biggest takeovers Westcott Corp has ever done. Not only that, but it would allow me to control a significant portion of the U.S. oil market, which could influence my electric car agenda. I’m also planning to remedy their environmentally destructive practices and uncompetitive worker’s wages. They’re a parasite of a company, and I intend to fix the error of their ways.”
Her hand turns clammy in mine. “What’s the name of this company?
“Ames Oil and Steel,” I say. “Soon to be Westcott Oil and Steel …”
Her gaze falls to her lap, then out the window. To our left, a vast body of water holds bobbing sail boats and yachts in all lengths. Since my parents perished in the Atlantic, the idea of dipping my toes in that ruined ocean makes me slightly nauseous, but with Sophie by my side and this historical deal on the horizon, I’ll make an exception.
Shingled houses and colonial-style shops and restaurants line the street on both sides as we enter a quaint seaside town. The sidewalks are peppered with people in carefree, vacation-esque attire, bags in tow.
“We’ll be staying in the guest house,” I say. “So fortunately we’ll get a social reprieve at the end of each night.”
I lift her hand to mine and kiss its top. She’s trembling.
Up until now, she was excited about the trip, saying she’d never been to Martha’s Vineyard. All of last night, her phone glowed in the dark of our bedroom as she researched its history and shared fascinating bits of information. And before that, while packing, she held up dresses and brimmed hats and asked my opinion as I chuckled and reminded her we were only going to be there for two days.
Her face is turned away, attention focused outside.
“Can we pull over?” Her breath quickens and she releases my hold to fan herself.
“Of course.” I lean forward and tap the driver. “We need to stop. Immediately.”
He pulls into a packed parking lot on the side of a café. She opens the door before we’ve stopped, rushing to the trunk side of the car.
I hurry around back, finding her hunched over, hands on top of her knees.
“Jesus, are you sick?” I reach for the small of her back as I opt not to check the gravel at her feet.
Wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she nods. “I’m sorry … it just hit me back there … maybe it’s altitude sickness from the plane?”
That happens, especially in smaller jets and especially when someone is only accustomed to flying commercial. The G-force hits differently.
“Don’t apologize.” I rub small circles against the spot between her shoulders. “If anything, I’m sorry. I’d reschedule this trip, but I’ve already cleared my schedule and Ames is expecting us. Plus, the sooner we get this over with, the closer I’ll be to closing the deal—then I’ll never have to deal with this difficult bastard again.
Sophie is silent, and out of nowhere our driver produces a bottle of water and sanitizing hand wipes. She cleans up and takes a few small sips before steadying herself against the side of the car.
“I can find a doctor. I’m sure I can find someone who makes house calls,” I say. “Maybe we can arrange for an IV? Get you some hydration? Since we’ll be in the guest house, you’ll have privacy as you recover. I’m sure they’ll understand about the altitude sickness …”
“No, no. I’m sure I’ll feel better after I finish this.” She takes another drink. “Let’s go.”
The three of us climb back into the car, and for the next forty miles, she rides in silence.
Forty-Five
Sophie
Present
“Welcome, welcome! I’m Anabelle.” A tall woman with glossy dark hair down to her elbows answers the door of a sprawling blue shingle house with white trim and a private drive. The landscaping is filled with nothing but green and white hydrangeas, trailing a sweet scent into the air along with the salty ocean breeze. “You must be Sophie?”
She leans in, air kissing each of my cheeks and depositing a faint perfume against my skin that smells like a million bucks and warm chocolate chip cookies at the same time.
Our driver wheels our luggage up the paved walkway. Anabelle waves him closer, telling him to place everything inside the front door. He leaves our bags in the foyer before vanishing into the Town Car and departing down the circle drive.
Children’s laughter fills the background. Somewhere in this home, my daughter plays, oblivious to my presence. My throat constricts, but I force a smile.
“And of course, you’re Trey,” she says, air kissing his cheeks as well. “I know all about you … but it’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
“The feeling is mutual,” he says.
“Nolan’s out back on the patio by the pool,” she says before rolling her eyes. “Just took a work call. That man wouldn’t know the meaning of vacation if it smacked him alongside the head.”
My stomach twists and hot bile rises up my throat, but I force it away with sheer will. I won’t let him see me quake. I won’t let him get a reaction out of me.
Trey slides his hand around
mine and we follow Anabelle through the soaring two-story entry to a sliding door off her impressive white-and-marble kitchen.
He’s lounging in a chair that faces a sparkling cerulean blue pool, legs crossed at the ankles as he peruses something on his phone. From this angle, I can tell his broad shoulders have rounded and his hair has thinned since nearly a decade ago. And when we get closer, I spy a stomach that protrudes enough to strain the buttons on his chambray shirt.
Time has not been kind to him.
A petty burst of satisfaction washes through me.
“Nolan,” Anabelle says, voice sing-song-y. “Our guests have arrived.”
He darkens his phone screen, places it on a table that matches his lounge chair, and turns to face us, pushing himself up to a standing with a subtle groan. His gaze lands on Trey first and he extends his right hand.
“Pleasure to finally meet you in person,” he says. But when his attention shifts to me, a restrained paleness colors his tanned face. “And you are?”
Of course he’s going to pretend he doesn’t know me.
“Sophie Bristol,” I give him my full name. A reminder of a name he’s likely spent the last eight years trying to forget.
“Nice to meet you,” he says, extending his hand. All eyes are on us, so I can’t show a hint of reluctance.
“Likewise,” I say, our eyes holding for one knowing second. The inner teenage me wants to glare at him, but I won’t. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction.
Anabelle checks her watch. When we disembarked the jet earlier, it was nearly four o’clock. “Should we start with some drinks? I make a mean margarita …”
“That would be amazing, Anabelle. Thank you,” Trey says.
“Why don’t you all have a seat here.” She points at a zinc-topped table beneath a stained-cedar pergola. “And I’ll be right back.”
Anabelle disappears inside, her brightly patterned sundress loose on her thin hips as it sways in the breeze.
“How was the flight?” Nolan makes small talk, his laser-intense stare flicking between the two of us. Something about it weighs on me, hard, intrusive. But I offer him a smile each time, a silent “fuck you.”
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