9
I DON’T KNOW? That’s all she had for him?
Sierra’s words left Ian spinning. She didn’t know?
Ian had fled to the bathroom, locked the door, and braced his hands on the sink, staring at himself in the mirror.
She had to know, right?
Had to know that the first thought he’d had when he’d come to was, Sierra. Where is Sierra?
And the way she hid her face in her hands, shaking, little sounds of horror erupting from her—okay, call him a fool, but certainly that meant she still had feelings for him.
It occurred to him, however, that she didn’t realize he had feelings for her. After all, he had fired her, had kept his distance, hadn’t said a word when she dated Sam, and hadn’t exactly asked her out last year after they broke up.
He just assumed . . . well, he hadn’t actually given up his search for Esme, and Sierra had been pretty clear about her feelings. “As long as you are searching for Esme, you’ll never have room for me in your life.”
But Ian wasn’t searching for Esme any longer. And that reality hit home as he lay in his cabin, rolling around his options in his head.
He could sell the ranch, yes, buy something smaller, and after he helped Dawson get on its feet, he could use the rest of the capital to get PEAK back up and running, maybe even expand their services.
Stick around Mercy Falls, and . . . and . . .
He fell asleep with that thought, and he slept so hard that when Dex’s voice outside roused him, he thought he might be back on the Crawford Triple C. But the motors from the boat had kicked in, as if they were underway back up the coast, and it only took a moment, the shift of the boat on the waves, to remind him.
At sea. Aboard the Montana Rose.
Night filtered into the window, and he fought the temptation to sink back into oblivion.
Then he heard Sierra laugh, and the combination with Dex’s voice had him suddenly very awake.
He showered, pulled on a pair of track pants and a T-shirt, and emerged into the hallway.
Past dinner—he could hear voices in the kitchen, the rattle of dishware being washed. He wandered out to the sitting area outside, past the dining room, and found the group lounging under the stars. The deck swayed under his feet, but the shoreline seemed too far away to make out in the darkness. The starlight twinkled against the inky sea, the air fresh and warm.
He couldn’t quell the urge inside him to find Sierra, to shake free of the past, take her in his arms—
“Hey there,” Dex said. “You feeling okay? Sierra told us to leave you alone, but . . . well, Kelley wasn’t the only one who wanted to go in and make sure you were still breathing. Didn’t want his hard work to go to waste.”
“I’m still breathing. And hungry.”
“We ate, but there’s probably leftovers in the galley.”
Noelly had gotten up and walked over to him. She pulled him into an embrace, held on. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine, Noelly,” he said and held her away from him. “I promise.” Then he kissed her cheek, and she seemed to pull together.
They all appeared dressed for dinner, out of their beachwear and into sundresses and polo shirts.
“Did I miss something?”
“Sierra gave us her presentation about PEAK,” Dex said. “We told her she didn’t have to, but she’s nothing if not determined to end well.”
“We don’t want it to end, however,” Vanessa said. “We talked her into extending the trip by a couple days.” She was sitting beside Hayes, and he had his arm around her.
“What?” He looked for Sierra, but she was nowhere in sight. “Are you serious?”
“We didn’t want it to end on a sour note, so . . . yeah, actually,” Dex said. “We’ll all pitch in, pay the captain and the crew for a few more days at sea. What do you say?”
“I don’t need you to pitch in, but . . . um . . .”
“Bahamas, baby!” Hayes said.
He didn’t know what to say, except, “Where’s Sierra?”
Dex got up. “I’ll find her.”
Uh—
“We’re going to change and hang out in the whirlpool, under the stars,” Hayes said, getting up and holding out a hand to Vanessa.
Noelly followed them, her hand lingering on Ian’s arm as she passed by him.
Dex had headed down the gangway, toward the back deck.
Ian stood there, his stomach pitching a little with the roll of the yacht. Yes, they were most definitely moving, and Ian headed up to the bridge.
Captain Gregory sat in his elevated captain’s chair before an array of radar screens, navigational devices, communications receivers, a compass, and a number of other pieces of blinking, digital equipment Ian should probably know.
He couldn’t read radar well, but judging by the map, it looked like they were north of Cuba, coming up on the Florida Keys.
“So, we’re really going to the Bahamas?”
The captain turned. “Miss Rose ordered the trip extension. You said to follow her orders, sir.”
Yes, he had. Still, the decision to suddenly change course felt so out of Sierra’s character.
Felt, really, like a decision influenced by Dexter Crawford. And it turned a knot in Ian’s gut.
That was just it. Whatever Dex was up to, it wasn’t going to work.
Because there was only one man for Sierra. Maybe she should have the right to decide that, but he wasn’t going to go down without a fight.
So, despite Dex’s plans, a couple extra days on the boat might be exactly what Ian needed. Because he had a feeling the moment she returned to Mercy Falls, she’d figure out new and creative ways to avoid him. “Yep, to the Bahamas we go.”
Ian exited the bridge and headed down to the main deck, down the back stairs.
That’s when he spotted them, bathed in the backlight of the ship, on the deck by the Jet Skis.
Dex, leaning against the back railing, one foot looped around a rail for balance, wearing a white polo shirt and linen pants. Sierra stood with her back to Ian, her dark hair blowing in the wind, listening to something Dex was saying.
Dex reached out and took her hand. Tugged her toward him.
Sierra took a step closer.
Dex reached out, touched her cheek, curled a hand around her neck.
Stop! The word raked through Ian, grabbed his chest. Instead, he stood frozen, a voyeur, watching his worst nightmare play out.
Again.
Because he’d been here a year ago. Watching from a distance as his best friend in Mercy Falls, Deputy Sam Brooks, had kissed Sierra right in front of him on the dance floor.
And sure, he’d been dancing with someone else at the time, but his gaze kept slipping over to Sierra wrapped in Sam’s arms. His gut hurt with every beat of the music, and he nearly surrendered to the urge to go over and—what? Separate them?
Tell Sierra that she was killing him?
He had no right—except . . .
He was tired of putting his life on hold when what he wanted was right in front of him. Tired of propriety and regret holding him back.
Tired of not getting his happy ending.
“Sierra!”
He could hardly believe he shouted, her name ringing out from him as he stood on the stairs.
She startled at his voice. Turned.
That was all he saw.
At least the only clear image he could recollect, because everything after that merged into one confusing, panicked sequence.
The boat rocked hard to port, pitching into a deep trough. He slammed against the rail and held on as water sprayed over the bow, soaking the back deck of the ship.
Shouting came from the bridge, and perhaps he should have recognized the panic, but his gaze had gone to where Sierra stood—
Or had been standing.
Then it hit. Whatever swell had sucked them into the trough between the waves gathered beneath the yacht and lifted it toward the crest, and the boat keeled hard to starboard.
Ian slammed against the bridge bulkhead and managed to get his arm up just as the wave crashed over them. A crushing wall of white foam and dense black seawater.
Ian held his breath, closed his eyes, and grappled for anything to hang on to as the force lifted the vessel and pushed it over.
Ian hit the roof of the stairwell just before the wave scooped him up and out, tugging him toward open water.
He hung on to the edge of the bridge doorway, still holding his breath, the night black in his eyes.
Then the wave freed him, rushing past him into the sea, and for a moment loosed its grip on the ship.
The yacht settled back into the next trough, and Ian fell back onto the bulkhead, slick with the lick of the ocean.
But in a second of blinding shock, Ian realized the Montana Rose lay capsized to starboard, pushed by the successive waves in the darkness.
Ian scrambled to his knees on the bulkhead. The yacht lit the water, the lights eerie under the depths of the sea, the waves thunderous around him—or maybe that was his heartbeat. “Sierra!”
The back deck lay halfway submerged and rolled with the waves. No sign of Sierra or Dex. Shouting came from the bridge.
“Sierra! Dex!” Ian grabbed the rail above him and pulled himself over it, holding on as the yacht rode into the next trough, not nearly as deep as the one pulled by the rogue wave.
“Sierra!” He scrambled toward the stern, searching the inky, foamy water. The Jet Skis had loosed, and one of them floated just inside the rim of taillights. It seemed the sea had settled again, but he’d heard of rogue waves coming in threes . . .
“Ian!”
Maybe he imagined her voice, but he scanned the water beyond the stern, to the starboard side and—maybe. Yeah, just inside the glow of the submerged lights, a body.
Waving, struggling toward the yacht.
“Sierra!”
Please let it be Sierra.
But he couldn’t exactly dive out into the waves to grab her—he’d kill them both. Why hadn’t he learned how to swim? But he’d helped Kelley check the lifeboat, and he knew an inflatable raft was secured to the end of the yacht in a detachable box. And, next to the raft, life jackets.
He’d discreetly made sure they were securely lashed yet accessible.
Because he’d feared exactly this moment.
Sometimes he hated being right.
Ian held on to the railing as the boat rocked, then he crawled down to the lower deck. The vessel thrashed in the water, and Ian prayed it wasn’t actually sinking.
Couldn’t think—not yet—about Hayes and Nessa, Noelly, and even the crew trapped in the submerged cabins.
Another wave, this one just a meager swell, lifted the boat and attempted to yank the rail from his grip, but he fought it and the shiver that worked its way through his belly to his muscles.
Not this way. He wasn’t going to lose another person he loved to the sea.
He threw himself at the fiberglass box affixed to the end of the stern railing. A red release cord dangled from the front, and he grabbed it and yanked.
The cradle opened. Inside was the valise encasing the life raft. He grabbed the rip cord and yanked out enough mooring line to wind it around the rail.
“Hang on, Sierra!”
He glanced up for her but didn’t see her in the ring of light. Panic gave him the strength to grab the valise with one hand and with a shout throw it out into the pitching sea.
“Inflate!” He grabbed the mooring line and tugged it, hard. Again.
Behind him, he heard shouts, but he didn’t have time to look. “Please!” The third yank released the plug, and in a second, the raft filled.
It bounced on the sea, rolling in the waves but not upending.
He held on through another succession of waves, then scrambled back and hooked his foot on the mesh holding the life jackets. In a second, he’d grabbed one out, slung it over his shoulders.
He was reaching for another when he felt the boat keel again to port, a deep rocking into a trough that made him look up.
He barely made out the wave against the dark pallor of night, but when the yacht yawed back the other direction, he landed on his chest and wrapped his arms and legs around the rail.
Held his breath.
And for the first time in years, considered praying.
The water crashed over him, yanked at him, fighting to unseat him, but he hung on with everything he had, one thought on his brain.
Sierra!
Please, God, she didn’t want to die.
Especially not at sea. Her body lost in the depths.
Alone.
It happened so fast, Sierra couldn’t get her brain around it—one second, Dex was telling her how he wanted her to come to Texas to be his assistant—the next she’d slammed against him so hard she’d knocked him backward. He’d just about righted himself and grabbed for her when the boat rolled the other way.
She’d fallen backward and hit the rail, and before she could catch herself, the wave washed her out to sea.
The force of it rolled her into the depths, turning her, and she fought the pull of the current to drag her away from the yacht, a scream trapped in her chest.
Don’t panic.
The words crested through her, a steel hand as she kept churning her arms, her legs, fighting.
The wave finally released her. She popped above the surface, coughing, searching for the yacht.
To her horror, the Montana Rose listed on its side in the waves, halfway submerged.
Dex had vanished, swallowed by the ocean.
“Help!”
She kicked hard toward the yacht, but the swells in the aftermath of the wave fought her. Seawater burned her eyes, her nasal passages, the water suddenly frigid.
Another wave crested over her head, blinding her.
When she popped back up, she heard her name on the wind. Or maybe imagined it, but it sounded like Ian. Oh, please—
“Ian!”
She’d clawed her way back into the pool of light given off by the submerged vessel, and now she made out a form crawling over the boat, on top of the side railing.
Ian! She recognized his form against the hue of light. And the fact that he wasn’t trapped in his room, drowning, turned her weak. As she watched, he reached the stern and released something into the water. In a moment, it inflated, and relief whooshed through her.
The life raft.
“Hang on, Sierra!”
The waves had pushed her out of the perimeter of light, but she swam hard toward the raft, gulping in too much water, blinking against the stinging salt. She wasn’t going to die out here. She would get on that raft, and then she’d figure out how to get everyone else off the ship before it sank.
She felt the next wave gather beneath her even as the lifeboat loomed large, bright yellow and orange, a beacon illuminated by the back lights of the yacht. The wave sucked her toward the raft, a great current that made her scream even as she rolled over, fighting the pull.
The life raft slid by her. No!
Then mooring rope slapped her hand, and in a second of panicked brilliance, she grabbed it.
Held on as if her life depended on it. She managed to reach the raft, and she swam under it, looping her hands through the righting straps along the bottom.
The wave hit. The force of it launched the raft forward, upended it, and nearly yanked the straps from Sierra’s arms. But she had the raft in a death grip and rolled over onto the top of it, clinging to it as the wave pushed her away from the yacht.
Water blinded her, saturating her, drowning her.
When it ran its course, she lay atop the raft, breathing hard.
But alive.
Oh, God, please! What about Ian?
He’d been on top of the boat when the second wave hit. Now she turned, searching. The yacht had capsized even more, the hull almost completely visible in the waves.
Ian had vanished.
She had to get the raft righted, but she didn’t want to let go. The waves had died, but she’d read somewhere that rogue waves had sisters. Two, or three, she couldn’t remember, but . . .
“Sierra!”
The voice traveled over the surf, and she spotted Ian in the water, in the glow of the sinking yacht, wearing—thank you!—a life vest.
He had hold of the mooring line to the raft and was pulling himself toward her. She scrambled around, hooking her legs around the righting line, and leaned over the edge.
She caught his hand, pulled him closer.
For a brilliant, life-changing second, he met her eyes. So blue, and so much relief in them she couldn’t breathe. His hair was plastered to his head, water glistening on his skin, the life vest floating behind him like a cape. Yes, in the water, holding on to the mooring rope, he looked like her hero coming to save her.
Except he couldn’t swim.
“Get on the life raft,” she said, yanking his hand.
“We have to turn it over.” He hooked his feet through the dangling boarding ladder and hoisted himself onto the raft. “Here,” he said and started to shuck off his vest.
“No, you can't swim. I can!”
“Not in these waters. Just put it on, Sierra.” He handed her the vest, and his tone made her slip it on.
“Get behind me. We’re going to turn this thing over.” He stood up, grabbed the righting rope, and anchored his feet along the edge. “Hang onto me,” he said.
She got behind him and hooked her hands around his waist. The sea had settled, but they rode the waves a moment. She guessed he was waiting for a swell to help them flip the massive, eight-person raft.
Indeed, they fell into the trough of the wave, and then, with a grunt, Ian leaned back, hoisting the righting rope, leveraging it with his weight and the movement of the waves.
“Hold onto me! Don’t let go!”
Never. She had her arms latched around his lean waist, felt his body strain, then the weight of the raft shifted as their combined strength broke the surface tension and lifted the raft from the water.
“C’mon.” Ian grunted. The raft angled up, hit the halfway mark, and still Ian held on.
Then they were falling back, the raft coming at them, hard.
Ian’s legs tensed, and in a moment, he’d sprung them away from the raft, out of the pull of it as it splashed down, upright in the water.
She hadn’t let go. Now she wrapped her legs around him, holding him up in the water. “I got you!”
He was trying to kick them toward the mooring line, and she clamped her arm around his chest with one hand, the other helping him.
They reached the line together, and he held on as she disentangled herself.
Reluctantly. Because the sea was starting to pitch again. “We need to get aboard.”
He didn’t stop to agree, just hooked his arm around her and pulled her to himself. Then, switched his hold and pushed her toward the raft.
“Put your feet into the ladder!”
She found the webbing below the side of the raft and felt Ian’s hand on her back as she pulled herself up.
She tumbled inside, hitting the bottom hard, and for a second just lay there.
The base of the raft undulated with the sea. The inflated tubes on the sides were higher than she'd expected, and she had to scramble to her knees, practically stand to lean over the side to reach for Ian.
But he was working his way back to the boat. “Ian! What are you doing? Get in the raft!”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I have to find Dex!”
Dex. Of course. She scanned the water for him, saw nothing in the debris of the yacht—deck chairs, the Jet Skis, various gas containers, a cooler.
Ian reached the boat.
To her horror, he sank beneath the water, vanishing under the hull.
She held her breath, her heartbeat ticking away the seconds.
Her pitching stomach nearly let go when he reappeared, a life jacket in his hand. He pulled it on, not tying it, again.
And that was when she felt it—the trough that signaled the third sister, the biggest of the monster waves, given the momentum of the first two.
“Cut the raft away!” Ian was shouting.
She stared at him, frozen.
He started moving toward her, hand over hand in the water, a crazy expression in his eyes.
“The wave will sink the boat and pull you down!”
Pull us down. Because he wasn’t leaving her here, right?
The raft dropped into the trough and began to rise with the swell of the wave.
Ian reached the raft and unsheathed a knife located next to the mooring line attachment.
“No, Ian!”
But he was sawing at the mooring line, the line fraying with each draw.
The raft lifted higher, rising toward the crest.
“Ian, get in the raft!”
He ignored her, sawing. With a snap, the mooring line released. At once, the raft spun in the water, taken by the wave.
She fell to the floor, curled her hand onto an internal strap, and fought her way back to her knees. “Ian! Get in this raft!”
The roar of the wave ate her words as it crested, crashed down on the raft, a swell of seawater and power that filled her mouth and her eyes and nearly swamped the raft. She clung to the webbing and felt the power of the wave press her away from the yacht and push her out to sea. Seawater filled the vessel to her knees, nearly upended her, and when she thought she might go fully over, the wave released her.
The raft settled back, hard, into the sea. She lay on the floor, puddled in seawater, her limbs rubber as the ocean settled around her.
Ian!
She climbed to her knees, clamboring to the edge of the raft.
Stilled, horrified.
The wave had pushed her nearly a hundred yards from the yacht. The hull was now just a dim outline as the lights began to wink out.
“Ian!” she screamed.
He had vanished.
She scoured the sea for hope, screaming his name until finally the waves took her away. The night deepened around her as she watched the lights from the Montana Rose sink into the sea.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Jess stood at the window, her arms folded, holding the remotes as the most recent news channel droned on about something she couldn't care less about.
Taxes. A protest somewhere. The closing of a school.
Nothing about the medical status of Damien Taggert.
“You need to make a decision, Jess.”
Pete’s voice emerged from the kitchen, and she closed her eyes, hating his words.
“Couldn’t I just . . .” Wait. Hope. She glanced at the television, then at the cell phone silent on her coffee table.
She heard Pete’s feet against the floor and turned as he came toward her. He raised an eyebrow.
“I was talking about the pizza, babe.”
Oh. She offered a tight smile, and he wore an expression on his face not unlike the one he’d worn when she’d opened her door yesterday to find him standing there.
Such sweet compassion it could undo her. Now he lifted his hand and tucked a wayward strand of her hair behind her ear.
“And the next decision after that would be—it’s time to take a shower.”
“What?”
“You’re starting to smell.”
“And this is what you call wooing?”
“No, it’s an intervention.” But he ran a thumb down her cheek. “The wooing comes after the shower.” He winked.
Oh boy. This was better than wooing. This was Pete Brooks, giving it his all to keep her from losing her mind as she waited for news on her father. She didn’t know what to name his attention over the past twenty-four hours. Wooing? Maybe. Or perhaps simply being her friend.
A very good friend who had arrived on her doorstep with the most terrible news of her life, ready to catch her, to hold her up.
“I’m so sorry,” he’d said as he pulled her to himself. “We have to call the hospital.”
She’d hung on to his amazing shoulders, sinking into the fact that he’d raced over to step into her messy world.
“No.” She’d pulled away from him, ignored the confusion in his eyes, and walked back into the house. “I’d have to tell the hospital who I am, and word will get out. The next thing I know, press will be on my doorstep, demanding my side of the story. A side I’m not allowed to tell.”
He’d come in, closed the door, and followed her into the family room, where she’d turned on the television. Stood in silence as the news played out the entire story.
A heart attack, a triple bypass surgery scheduled. She glimpsed her mother, distraught, as she waded through the press to the hospital.
“I should be there.”
Pete’s arms found her again and he pulled her back to himself.
“Call your mother,” he said, his lips moving against her hair.
Jess said nothing, just shook her head.
But his words dug a hole through her until she finally fell asleep on the sofa, her head on Pete’s shoulder.
She’d woken to the smell of bacon. To Pete, freshly showered, wearing an apron, a spatula in hand. And his proposal lingering in the back of her mind.
“Do you love me?”
Yes, she needed to make a decision.
He’d spent the day with her, swinging into remodel mode as the news droned in the background. They’d hung pictures and given a second coat of paint to a dresser. She wasn’t sure if he planned on spending another night here, but she wasn’t going to kick him off her sofa.
“Just make the call,” he said now, again, softly.
She shook her head, looked away. “Pepperoni.”
He said nothing for a moment. Then he kissed her forehead. “Okay, pepperoni.” He dialed his cell phone as she sat on the sofa and channel-surfed through the news programs. “Any updates?”
She shook her head. “Stupid news channels. Who cares about some stupid baseball tournament or a new bridge in Minneapolis? I need an update.”
“Maybe it’s not news unless something bad happens.”
She glanced at him.
He held up his hands. “Which means, in this case, no news is good news, right?”
She pinched her lips together, then leaned back, scrubbed her hands down her face. “If he dies, I can’t even go to the funeral.” The words emerged in a whisper. “I always thought . . . maybe there would be a way for me to go back . . .”
Pete got up and sat across from her on her chipped coffee table. Took her hands away from her face. “Why isn’t there?”
“My mother hates me, Pete. She’ll never forgive me for testifying against my father. Even if I had no choice.”
He held her hands in his, his beautiful eyes searching hers. “No choice?”
She looked away. “He told me to.”
“Your father told you to testify against him?”
“Yes! My brother was going to be indicted, so my father told me key information that I traded to keep my brother, and me, out of jail. My father just wanted to be done with the entire thing. In fact, he told me it was a relief when he was arrested. He’d been waiting for years for the Feds to find out.”
Pete just stared at her as she got up, picked up the remote, and muted the television.
He might as well know it all. “This isn’t his first heart attack. When I was seventeen, he had a mild attack and fell down the stairs and broke his hip. I was the one who found him. I called 911, but he was really groggy and kept apologizing. I think he thought he was going to die.” She sighed. “I knew something was wrong, starting then. It was after that he started to get sloppy with his accounting. As if he wanted to be caught.”
“I’m sorry, are you saying you knew about the scam?”
“Not the details. But I knew he’d done something illegal. Something . . . awful. But I was too afraid to find out. So I just . . . I went away to college and focused on getting my medical degree.”
“That’s why your father told you. Because he knew you would do what you had to do to save your brother. Because you’d kept your mouth shut about his crimes.”
She nodded.
“Wow. That’s tough, Jess.”
“Now you know why I just wanted to leave it behind. Start over. Pretend it never happened.” She gave a wry smile, touched his chest. “It was never about not trusting you, Pete.”
He caught her hand. “I know that now. But . . . that’s part of your life, Jess. Selene Jessica Taggert. She was you, and I want to know that person too.”
Oh Pete. See, this was why she should say yes to his proposal. Why it didn’t matter that, technically, they had never dated. Why she loved him.
The thought swept through her, shook her. She’d loved him probably since the day she met him, and seeing him standing here, no judgment in his eyes when she confessed the truth . . .
“You wouldn’t have liked Selene, Pete.”
“I doubt that very much.”
“She was a little spoiled.” She walked away from him. “She took vacations in Europe, had a personal assistant even as a teenager, and rarely left the house without some kind of bodyguard.”
“You had a bodyguard?”
“It all made sense when we started getting death threats after my father was arrested. But if you look at why he defrauded people, you see a deep fear there of losing everything. That included my brother and me. We were pretty sheltered.”
“Yeah, okay, I get the urge to protect you,” Pete said as he followed her.
“I can take care of myself, thanks,” she said but let him put his arm around her.
But then he kissed the back of her neck and she couldn’t help herself. She turned, put her hands on his face. “I don’t deserve you,” she said, then kissed him. She’d meant it as something sweet and short, but he was just so . . . so safe. And warm. And he tasted of coffee, smelled of the soap he’d used in the shower, and the kiss turned languid.
She could just curl into him, hold on. He had a strong, amazing body, and when he wrapped his arms around her and made a tiny noise in the back of his throat, she just wanted to sink onto the sofa, pull him back into her arms, and let him take them someplace safe, protected.
Lost.
And in that place maybe forget the fear that her father would slip away without her being able to say good-bye.
That thought snuffed out all her ardor. She pressed her hand to his chest. “I can’t.”
He leaned back, then reached up, thumbed a tear that had gathered by her eye. “Speedy, you’re killing me.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to start something—”
“Jess. Please.” He shook his head. “That’s not it. I hate seeing you cry.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. It’s torture for you to simply sit here and wait.” He took a breath, then let her go and swiped up her phone from the table. “If you’re not going to call your mother, then I will.”
“Pete!”
He turned his back to her, scrolling down her list of contacts.
“Pete, please—she doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“It’s your right to find out about your father.”
“No, it’s not! I walked out of his life—their lives. I can’t expect them to welcome me back like I might be the prodigal son.”
“And yet, you are the prodigal son, Jess. You long for that life back—I see it in your eyes.”
His words stopped her cold, and she drew in a breath.
He gave her a wry, sad smile. “Sorry. But . . . that’s why you can’t say yes to marrying me, isn’t it?”
She swallowed. But his words thundered inside her.
“I . . .”
“Jess.” He slipped the phone into his back pocket and rested his hands on her shoulders. “I know about trying to walk away from your regrets. I did that, remember? It doesn’t work. It follows you in a thousand tiny ways. The smell of coffee, and that time your father took you out for breakfast. A song on the radio, and the sound of his voice. A random someone who has the same haircut, or build, or even says something just a certain way and suddenly you’re stuck, all the shards of your regret cutting through you.”
She couldn’t move. “We used to come here, you know. To Montana. Sometimes I think that I came back here because there was a part of him here.” She pressed a hand to her mouth. “I miss him so much, Pete. I thought I was okay, that I could just say good-bye, but—” Her eyes filled. “I just want to see him before . . . just to say I’m sorry.”
She closed her eyes. Felt Pete’s arms go around her. She sank into his chest.
“I know my dad did a terrible thing, but he’s my dad. He was good to me. He loved me. And . . . we had a good family.”
Pete ran his hand down her head.
“We never had a nanny like other kids. My mom took us skating in Central Park, and I remember once my toes turned numb. She brought me home, filled a warm bath for my feet, and made me hot cocoa.”
Pete was nodding.
“If I came back, her life would be chaos, again. The media would be back to camping on our doorstep, all the old accusations and op-eds fresh and brutal. Sometimes, before the trial, she’d lock herself in the bathroom. I could hear her crying . . .”
“But she’d have you.”
“No. She’d have the daughter who she thinks betrayed her.”
Pete sighed. “But you saved your brother.”
“And they gave my father 150 years because of my testimony. Without it, who knows but his sentence would have been lighter. There’s a thousand what-ifs that I stole when I testified against him.”
She leaned back, met Pete’s eyes. “I can’t be Selene Jessica Taggert again. This is my life now—and . . . it’s the life I want, Pete.”
The words thrummed inside her. The life I want.
The man she wanted.
“I choose you, Pete,” she said softly.
He blinked, frowned.
“I don’t want my regrets to hold us captive like they have Sierra and Ian. Yes, I miss my family—but I don’t miss that life. I don’t miss the money. And I don’t miss the fame. I choose you. You, and this life.” She touched his face, met his eyes, now unblinking in hers. “I love you.”
She saw her words resonate on his face. Watched as a frown, then a hint of smile, tugged at his mouth. “Are you saying—”
Yes. I will marry you.
But the words didn’t make it past the chime of the doorbell.
“Pizza man,” Pete said. “Terrible timing.”
No, probably perfect timing because here she was, jumping ahead of Pete again. Assuming. Hadn’t he said he wanted to wait and ask her again, when he knew she loved him?
She wouldn’t steal that moment from him.
But she refused to let the past invade her future one more second. Refused to let it appear like a phantom to destroy everything she’d built.
Refused to give in to the desire to run back home, pretend she’d never left.
She couldn’t get back what she’d lost—and she had to accept that.
Pete had walked to the door, pulling out his wallet. She went to the kitchen to grab plates.
She was returning to the family room when she stopped in the hallway.
Pete stood at the open door with a petite young woman with short black hair, piercings up her ears, and such luminous blue eyes they held Jess captive for a moment.
“Can I help you?” Jess said, casting a glance at Pete, who seemed frozen in place, just blinking at the woman.
“Yeah,” she said, frowning at Pete. She turned to Jess. “I’m looking for Sierra Rose. She gave me this address . . .”
“She’s out of town right now, but you might be able to call her.”
The woman shook her head. “I tried that. A few times. It keeps going to voicemail. I was hoping to see her before . . . well, um . . .” She sighed.
“I . . . wow,” Pete said, coming out of his silence. “You look so different from your photos.”
“I used to have blonde hair,” she said simply. “And now I go by the name Shae Johnson.”
Jess stilled, her stomach beginning to churn. “What was your previous name?”
The woman cleared her throat, then caught her lower lip in her mouth. Looked over her shoulder. “Can I come in?”
Pete nodded and closed the door behind her when she stepped over the threshold.
Shae stood in the hallway of Jess’s home, glanced at the television on in the other room. Then at Jess. “So, um . . .”
“I believe we need to get ahold of Ian,” Pete said quietly.
Jess’s eyes widened.
Shae nodded. “Yeah, that would be good.” She held out her hand. “Shae Johnson. I used to be known as Esme Shaw.”