Chapter 31
Madeline
The morning air in Philadelphia is wetter, heavier than the clean, pine-sweet breezes I’m used to in Montana or Aspen.
The jet lands just after seven, and by the time I’m standing and waiting for my baggage to unload, my legs feel like overcooked spaghetti.
I slept maybe two hours—half-dozing against the tiny window while my mind spun in tight, punishing circles.
I promised myself I’d eat something, maybe nap on the plane, but instead I kept replaying everything. The wedding. The kiss. The contracts. Benedict’s eyes on me like they were forged from steel.
Even here, miles away, after telling him I need space—he’s all I can think about.
My stomach flips, and it’s not just from the turbulence of memory. Our little girl has been making herself known—quietly, subtly, but enough that I can’t ignore it anymore.
“Do you have a car waiting for you?” the flight attendant asks. She’s watching me closely, a note of concern in her eyes as they scan my tired body.
“Oh, um… no. But I’ll wait inside and call one.”
Her gaze flicks to the airport, which we’re on the very edge of. Already a little cart is motoring out toward us. The attendant doesn’t look too sure of my answer, and it makes me wonder if somehow Ben knows where I am, hasn’t freaked out, and asked someone to keep an eye on me.
But no… he won’t know until Hugh feels guilty enough to let it slip. He probably hasn’t even noticed I’m gone.
That’s not true, a tiny voice in my head reprimands. The combination of exhaustion and inner turmoil makes my eyes water, and I thank the attendant and pilot with a wavering smile before climbing into the cart. Moments later we’re careening toward the airport, hand protectively covering my belly.
Philadelphia International is a low, sprawling airport with massive glass walls and busy lines of people pushing through.
The driver lets me out at an entrance for private travelers, and I slip inside as well as I can with a huge belly, ignoring the growl of my stomach when the food court scents assault me.
My phone buzzes, and my heart lurches.
It’s just Jack.
Staring tiredly at the screen, I read: Here yet?
Just offloaded, I type back, fumbling and feeling off-kilter from the people shifting all around me. Meet you out front?
After a little thumbs up comes back, I take a moving walkway (with relief) to the part of the airport where everyone meets with loved ones, hurries into business cars, waits for shuttles to hotels.
I clutch the strap of my carry-on, scanning the crowd.
For one aching second, I imagine it’ll be Ben striding toward me, cutting a path through the travelers with that commanding presence of his. My chest tightens painfully.
But it’s not.
“Mad Dog.”
I whip around.
There he is.
Jack McAllister, in all his easy, boy-next-door glory.
His hair is shorter than the last time I saw him, a precise military cut.
His shoulders are broader too, the kind of build that looks earned, not inherited.
He grins, and suddenly I’m not thirty going on ancient, I’m fifteen again, sneaking out of the ranch to go to the county fair with him.
“Jack.” I laugh, a little broken, and let him pull me into a hug. His arms are strong, steady, and familiar. Home in a way that doesn’t hurt.
“God, it’s good to see you,” he murmurs into my hair before pulling back. His eyes sweep over me, not like a man checking out a woman, but like a brother making sure his sister hasn’t fallen apart. “You look tired.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I say, managing a smile.
He takes my bag before I can protest, slinging it over his shoulder with practiced ease. “Come on. I know just the place to fix that face.”
Phone pinging again, I glance down at it in my lap, and a real smile turns my lips upward.
“Stella says high.”
Jack’s brows rise as he chuckles around a mouthful of hash. “Tell her I say hi back. What’s she up to these days? Staying out of trouble?”
We both grin at the memory of sweet Stell, the one my parents should have kept an eye on but never managed to. If anyone was going to get the family name in those Montana tabloids it was her. Jack and I saved her butt more than a few times, covering for her or taking the blame.
“She still owes me,” he says, as if reading my mind, “for saying I was the one who left the gate open at the Dewy Ranch.”
The memory flickers through my head: dozens of horses running at sunset, thinning as they thundered out of the paddock, then spreading out against the great rolling ranchland.
Matt Dewy was a bully who gave Stella hell growing up.
She got back at him—his whole family, really—and Jack, who was briefly a hand on their ranch, took the blame for that debacle.
It was a whole week before they got the last horse back home.
“Are you going to eat?” Jack asks, chucking his chin at the menu.
When we arrived ten minutes or so ago, my stomach was still tied in knots. I’d asked the waitress to give me a second, but Jack went right for his usual—corned beef hash, eggs benedict, and a cranberry orange muffin.
I gaze longingly at his coffee, then browse the menu quickly. When my stomach rumbles again he smiles gently at the bump. “Sounds like someone is hungry, even if you aren’t.”
The diner is small, tucked into a corner lot with neon signs still buzzing faintly in the early morning light.
The bell over the front door jingles as a crew of older men—retired, judging by their outfits and demeanors—stroll in and head to a massive corner booth.
It smells like fried bacon, coffee grounds, and syrup, the kind of smell that sticks to your hair and clothes for hours.
My stomach growls again, and Jack signals the waitress.
“What’ll it be? Philly cheesesteak for breakfast?” he jokes as she nods that she saw and will head over shortly.
“Gross,” I say automatically, then hesitate. “Actually… you’re going to laugh.”
“Try me.”
I bite my lip, cheeks heating. “Pickle juice slushies.”
Jack blinks. Then his grin spreads like wildfire. “No way. You mean you want, like, shaved ice and pickle brine poured over it?”
“Yes.” My hands fly up defensively. “Don’t judge me. It’s a thing.”
“Oh, I’m judging. Hard.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course it’s you. You always had the weirdest taste. Remember when you put peanut butter on steak?”
“That was an experiment!”
“That was a crime.”
I snort and roll my eyes, but my chest loosens for the first time in days. “Hugh used to make them for me in Aspen. Secretly. He’d blend ice and pour the juice over it, like some kind of bartender-slash-enabler.”
“Hugh,” Jack echoes. “That's the assistant guy, right? Not your husband?”
He’s playing innocent, as if he doesn’t know exactly who Benedict Bronson is. But even Jack, the most blue-collar guy I’ve ever met, has heard of the resort mogul.
“Yeah.” My throat tightens. “He’s… loyal. Too loyal, maybe. He would do anything for Ben, but he keeps my ridiculous cravings a secret.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re not the only one he’s loyal to. You sure you’ll be okay here, Maddie?”
I nod my head quickly, focusing on the sticky menu between us.
My past with Jack is tangled enough without weaving Ben into it, but I need him to know—“It isn’t anything like that.
I’m not running,” even though that’s exactly what I’m doing, “and if Hugh tells Ben, I’m sure he’ll be fine with me coming here. ”
Jack stares me down across the table. “But he doesn’t know about me.”
All I can do is shake my head. Because it’s true; I walked into this marriage an open book, except for this one chapter. An early one; one written in secret with just the two of us, Jack and me.
“You don’t think he’ll freak out when he finds out?”
I know Jack McAllister well enough to know what he’s really asking: You don’t think you’ll punish you when he finds out?
And this I can answer honestly: “No.”
Things between Ben and I might be complicated right now… but I know he’d never hurt me, or our baby.
The waitress comes, gum snapping, and Jack orders another coffee and a side of pickles on ice. I ask for a short stack and a spinach omelet. She doesn’t even blink, just scribbles and walks away. God bless Philly.
When we’re alone again, Jack leans forward, forearms braced on the table. “Okay. Talk to me. What’s going on, Mad Dog? You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Because I am.”
We talk slowly at first, then faster as the decaf tea warms me. About home. About the ranch. About the way we used to lie in the grass behind the stables, staring at the stars and dreaming about getting out.
“You wanted to be an event planner in New York,” Jack recalls.
“I wanted to plan weddings in Paris,” I correct, grinning. “You wanted to fly jets.”
“And here we are.” He spreads his arms, mock-grand. “I fly jets. You…” His expression softens. “You plan other people’s lives.”
“Not exactly how I pictured it,” I admit. “And not really. I stopped when I got married.”
His face clouds over, an already-familiar look, a silent Is he treating you right? Before he can ask aloud, I add, “Benedict actually restructured part of his company… he created a role to bind and lead all the events at all the resorts. For me.”
A pebble dropped into the ocean of things Ben has done for me. I wish with all my heart I could somehow share every memory I have of him with Jack—make my oldest friend understand that this new, unexpected man in my life, almost twice my age, is good for me.
And it hits me—all this time I’ve been focused on what’s lacking. Looking for issues.
Jack nods approvingly. “Good. I’m sure Bronson can afford a nanny, and you’re the kind of person who needs purpose in their life, Maddie.”