Chapter One
Amelia
Some days you’re fighting to keep your composure while your ex plays mind games with you, and other days you’re hiding in a hotel bathroom at Nashville’s wedding of the year, praying no one saw the period stain on your dress. Today, I’m doing both.
And because my life is a complete mess right now, I don’t have a tampon.
“Shit,” I mutter as I give up on searching in my purse while also contemplating walking out of here with a stained dress. I should have worn the black dress I’d planned on rather than allowing my mother to get inside my head, again, and convince me pale pink was more appropriate.
I’m in the middle of spiraling into a full-blown round of I Should Have when my phone buzzes with a text from my brother.
Tim: How’s the wedding, sis? Have you slept with anyone yet? It’s a wedding. You’re legally allowed.
I relish the distraction from Periodgate and tap out a reply.
Me: It was a beautiful wedding. Fun and down-to-earth. Not a single pretentious toast. James’s friends would have had a coronary. I’m ignoring the sex interrogation.
Colin: Is Sarah having a great time?
Me: She hasn’t stopped smiling. I’m really glad I brought her.
Colin: Why haven’t we seen any photos? I imagine Mom is hanging for one of you in that pink dress.
Me: I’m about to send her a photo of the massive period stain on said pink dress.
Tim: OH MY GOD. I need this photo for the group chat.
Me: I am never taking her advice again.
Colin: Promise?
I sigh. This is a recurring conversation with my brothers. Me trying to extricate myself from my mother’s expectations; them encouraging me to finally do it.
Me: Change of subject before I set my dress on fire.
Tim: No pics of Period Barbie. Got it. Send one of the bride. She’s hot as fuck.
God, I love my brother.
While Colin can be too laser-focused on trying to help me fix problems and make changes to my life, Tim always knows how to lighten the mood and make me smile.
I send them a photo of Sarah grinning like a maniac at the reception.
Tim: Is that the bride photobombing in the background? ZOOM IN. ENHANCE. I need to know if this woman is worth the emotional investment I’ve already made in this wedding I wasn’t invited to.
I grin.
Me: I love you, big brother, but not enough to send a photo of Madeline. Besides, I haven’t taken any of her. She deserves privacy.
Me: And now I must go and figure out how to walk through a ballroom with no one seeing the back of my dress.
Tim: Ninja moves along all the walls. It’s a pity you didn’t choose the black dress to do those ninja moves in. No one would see you.
Me: Very funny. Also, if I’d worn the black dress, Periodgate wouldn’t be as bad.
Tim: Is James dead after this? Please tell me this ends in a funeral.
I release another sigh.
I should have been watching my daughter Sarah bounce with excitement today as her best friend Luna got ready to be a flower girl in her uncle’s wedding. For months, Sarah has been thrilled about us flying to Nashville with Luna and her father to see country superstar Madeline Montana (who she idolizes) marry Luna’s uncle. After a year of watching my little girl struggle through my divorce, her joy over this wedding meant everything to me. But yesterday, my ex-husband shattered those plans when he failed to bring Sarah home in time for our flight to Nashville. This meant we flew here today to make the wedding, but she missed out on spending yesterday and this morning with her bestie.
Colin and Tim are convinced James orchestrated this on purpose as a way of controlling me and Sarah in much the same way he’s been trying to for years now. When he brought her home, he made out like his lateness was unavoidable and that he’d arrange a private flight for the three of us to bring Sarah to the wedding. My brothers are sure he’s doing everything he can to reunite with me, but I’m not convinced. I just think he craves control. He got a rude shock when I refused his private plane and instead allowed Luna’s father to arrange his jet for us.
Me: He’s the father of my daughter, Tim. You know I won’t do anything to ruin her relationship with him.
Me: I have to go deal with my dress. I’ll send you guys more pics later xx
I slide my phone into my purse and steel myself. Of all things to happen today. Period accidents haven’t been an issue since high school, yet here I am. Though I shouldn’t be surprised—it’s perfectly on-brand for the chaos my life has become over the past year. Just one more item on the ever-growing list of disasters.
I slip out of the bathroom without encountering anyone and am halfway along the corridor that leads into the hotel ballroom where the reception is taking place when I spot Luna’s father striding toward the corridor.
Seriously.
Why must he be the person I run into now?
Gage Black, the man who makes billionaire look dangerous instead of privileged, who sees everything whether you want him to or not, and who’s been silently assessing me with those dark eyes since the day we met a year ago.
That was the same day I met his ex-wife, Shayla, who slowly became my friend, and who has shared stories of their relationship that make me want as little to do with him as possible. Though a year of playground pickups, sleepover parties, and birthday parties has shown me another side of him too. The father who knows every one of Luna’s elaborate stories about her stuffed animals by heart, who never misses a single one of her “very important” art shows in their living room. The man who remembered, without being reminded, that Sarah is allergic to strawberries and had a second birthday cake without strawberries made for Luna’s party so her best friend wasn’t left out of the celebration. But those glimpses of warmth make his usual intensity jarring, like a sudden key change in the middle of a familiar song.
He’s wearing one of his trademark black suits that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent. His eyes lock onto mine with that penetrating stare that makes me feel exposed, certain he’s noting my weaknesses. Which, given what I know about him as the head of a global intelligence firm, he probably is.
I paste on my perfect society smile, the one my mother spent years helping me perfect, and try to sidle past him while keeping my back to the wall. “Beautiful wedding, wasn’t it?”
He stops walking. “Interesting technique you’ve got there.” His voice holds a note of amusement that makes my cheeks heat. “Is this some new kind of walking meditation?”
“I’m just”—I gesture vaguely with one hand while pressing myself closer to the wall—“appreciating the wallpaper.”
One dark eyebrow lifts. “The wallpaper.”
“Mm-hmm.” I’m not even sure there is wallpaper. For all I know, the wall’s painted. “It’s very . . . architectural.”
“Right.” He takes a step closer, and I automatically try to retreat, only to remember I’m already against the wall. “You know, in my line of work, when someone’s acting this suspicious, it usually means they’re hiding something.”
I resist the urge to touch my hair, a nervous tell I’ve been trying to break for years. “I’m not hiding anything. I’m simply examining the hotel’s design choices. For future reference.”
“Future reference,” he repeats, in that maddeningly calm way of his.
“Yes. I might . . .” I frantically search for a plausible reason. “. . . need to upgrade my studio’s soundproofing.”
His lips twitch. “With wallpaper.”
“It’s very thick wallpaper,” I say with all the dignity I can muster while plastered against a wall.
He takes another step closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne, something expensive and masculine that I try to tell myself I absolutely do not like. “Sarah seemed to have fun today, despite the late arrival.”
The mention of Sarah momentarily distracts me from Operation Wall Fusion. “She did. Thank you for helping arrange the last-minute flight changes.”
“Luna would have been devastated if Sarah missed it entirely.” His eyes do that thing where they seem to see straight through me. “Though I’m curious about the last-minute change.” His tone is casual, but his eyes miss nothing. “Seems unlike you to alter plans where Luna and Sarah are concerned.”
I lift my chin slightly. “Sometimes co-parenting involves schedule adjustments.”
“True,” he agrees, and the quietly assessing look on his face makes me wonder if he’s filing this information away in that mental catalog I’m sure he keeps of everyone’s behavior.
“I should really . . .” I try to slide sideways, but he doesn’t move.
“You should really what?”
“Go check on Sarah.”
“Sarah’s currently teaching Luna and three other kids how to do the Macarena. They’re fine.”
Of course, he knows exactly where our daughters are. He probably has the room mapped out with threat assessments and escape routes. It’s what he does, keeps tabs on everyone and everything. Luna once told Sarah that her daddy has “special codes” for every situation, from Starbucks runs to playground visits. Every outing has its own security protocol, complete with check-in requirements and pre-approved safe zones. The man treats a trip to Central Park like it’s a military operation, though Luna’s found ways to turn her father’s security obsession into her own private game.
“Well, then I should . . .” I take a step, trying to keep my back against the wall.
His eyes narrow slightly. “Amelia.”
“Yes?”
“Why are you walking like you’re in a heist movie?”
“I’m not,” I start to protest, then catch his expression. He’s not buying any of it, and I’m running out of wall. I close my eyes briefly and whisper, “I had an accident.”
“What kind of accident?” His voice sharpens with concern.
“A wardrobe malfunction. Of the feminine variety.” My face burns. “On my dress. My pink dress. That my mother insisted I wear instead of the perfectly good black one I had planned.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by something that looks suspiciously like a suppressed smile.
“It’s not funny,” I hiss.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it very loudly.”
Now he’s definitely fighting a smile. “What do you need?”
“To disappear into the void?” I suggest hopefully.
“Second choice?”
I bite my lip, then decide things literally cannot get more mortifying. “I need someone to go to my room and get my backup dress. And . . . other necessities.”
“Other necessities?”
The human body is seventy percent water, but I’m pretty sure mine is currently seventy percent embarrassment. “You know. Some new . . .” I wave my hands in what I hope translates to “underwear” but probably looks more like I’m conducting an invisible orchestra while having a nervous breakdown.
His eyebrows arch. “Are you trying to mime the word ‘underwear’ in charades right now?”
“Oh my god.” I press my hands to my face. “Yes. Fine. I need new underwear.”
“Key card?”
I peek through my fingers. “What?”
“To your room,” he says patiently. “I’ll need your key card.”
I slowly lower my hands. “You’re going to help me?”
“Unless you’d prefer to continue your wallpaper appreciation session.”
I fumble in my purse for the key card, then realize something else. “I also need . . . um. Someone to go to a store to buy supplies.”
I swear his lips twitch right before he says, “I’m fascinated to see the charade for this.”
“You could at least pretend this isn’t the highlight of your day,” I mutter, handing him my key card.
Amusement is clear in his eyes as he takes the card. “Where will I find the dress?”
“It’s in the garment bag in the closet. And the underwear is in my suitcase.”
“Any specific preferences for the store run?”
This is definitely what hell feels like. “Just regular. Not super.” I close my eyes briefly. “And if you smirk right now, I swear I’ll tell Luna what really happened to Mr. Bunny’s bow tie.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Consider it handled. Wait here.”
“Where else would I go?” I grumble.
“Fair point. Try not to get into any other accidents while I’m gone.”
“You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But his eyes are definitely laughing as he turns and strides away, leaving me to contemplate how exactly this became my life.
I press my forehead against the wall. “I should have worn the black dress.”
My phone buzzes in my purse.
Tim: How’s the ninja mission going?
Me: It got worse. Gage Black is now buying me tampons.
Tim: I don’t know what to do with that information.
Me: Join the club.
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