Chapter 48
WORTH
“Ilove you, Worth.”
I replay the words in my head for the hundredth time as I shut off the kitchen lights and head upstairs.
Mya’s voice was sleepy-soft, slurred at the edges, the way she gets when she’s half under.
But she said it. Not in a jokey or a “love ya, buddy” way.
It was pulled from somewhere deep, a place she keeps locked up. And I got to hear it.
I’m grinning like an idiot. I can feel it on my face and I don’t even care.
She might not remember it. I know that. She was on the verge of passing out, voice all warm and drowsy, barely aware she was still on the line. If I were to bring it up, it would probably spook her. So I won’t.
But I heard it, and I’m going to sleep with it.
I crawl into my own bed and stare at the ceiling. It’s become way too big and way too cold without Mya. I hadn’t planned on calling her. I really hadn’t. But then she answered my text.
And I was there, in my living room, with nothing but the ache of missing her, and all I could think was: I want to hear her voice.
I was just going to check in. Instead, I heard Paris in the background, her laugh, and the way her breathing sped up when I flirted back. And then Mya went and set my whole world on fire with four sleepy words.
God, I miss her.
I roll onto my side and glance at my phone. I could’ve talked to her all night.
What I didn’t tell her is that I’ll be in Paris next week.
We were in that stupid perfect bubble where the annulment didn’t matter and nothing else existed and we were just us.
I didn’t want to shatter it or freak her out. She’s finally happy. The last thing I want is for her to think I’m flying across the ocean to corner her.
I’ve got meetings with clients, a site walk, and lunch with the Paris partners.
Plus, Brianna will be with me this time. Spring break lines up, and she’s been nagging me about the Eiffel Tower and croissants ever since Mya and I eloped, so I said yes.
There’s another part of me that’s picturing finding Mya on a Paris street and kissing her like no time has passed. Like that night in Nantucket didn’t crack us all open.
I exhale, long and slow.
One step at a time, Miller.
Tonight, I got “I love you.”
Next week, I go to Paris.
And if fate—God, universe, whatever—decides to put us in the same room again?
I’m not letting her leave without knowing exactly where I stand.
Suitcases are lined up by the front door, passports on the console, and Maggie is fussing in the kitchen like we’re leaving for a year instead of a week. I’m in my room doing a last-minute check when there’s a knock.
“Yeah?”
Brianna slips in, hands behind her back as if she’s hiding something.
“What are you up to?” I narrow my eyes.
“Nothing.” Which of course means something. She climbs onto my bed and finally brings her hands forward.
It’s a small navy velvet box.
My chest tightens. “Where’d you get that?”
“In your closet,” Bri says, unapologetic. “In the black box you thought was hidden.”
I sigh. “You can’t break into my stuff, Bri.”
“You didn’t lock it.”
Touché.
I take the box from her and flip it open.
The ring catches the light. A simple gold band with a yellow pear diamond slightly off-center. It’s elegant—and exactly Mya. I saw it one day and just knew it was made for her. Even though we were already separated, I still bought it, and stuck it in the back of the closet.
“Why are you giving me this?”
Bri shrugs, all innocent. “You should take it with you.”
I huff out a laugh. “We are not at that level, Bri.”
“But what if you get to ring level?” Her eyes go big. “What if you talk and you need it?”
“It doesn’t happen like that.”
Bri has been on me to talk to Mya ever since she left for Paris, so I’m not even surprised my daughter is this optimistic about maybe seeing her while we’re there.
“It could,” Brianna says wisely, like she’s been alive for forty years and seen things. “You always say to be prepared.”
I point at her. “That’s low. Using my own lines.”
She grins. “Just bring it, Dad. You don’t have to give it to her. But if you don’t and then you do need it, you’ll be mad.”
My daughter is not wrong.
I look at the ring again. I bought it hoping that maybe one day Mya would look at me and not see the man who dragged her into a fake marriage—but the man she chose.
“Fine,” I say finally, snapping the box shut. “But this is not for now. It’s for when and if Mya’s ready. Let’s just bring it as a sort of lucky charm.”
Brianna beams. “I like that.”
I walk to my carry-on, unzip the inner pocket, and slip the box inside.
When I turn back, Bri is watching me, hopeful. “Do you think Mya’ll be happy to see us?”
“I hope so.”
“Me too,” she says, hopping off the bed. “I miss her.”
That one lands square in the center of my chest.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I do too.”
The second we walk out of Charles de Gaulle, Brianna is jumping about as if she just ate a boatload of sugar. By the time we’re in the car and heading into the city, she’s pressed to the window.
“Dad, look—look! That building has, like, gold on it.”
“That’s Les Invalides.”
“It’s shiny.”
“It is.”
We drive across the Seine and she practically climbs into my lap. “Dad, is that the tower? Is that it?”
“Yep,” I say, grinning; her excitement is contagious. “That’s the Eiffel Tower.”
Bri straight-up screams. The driver laughs. I shake my head.
“It’s so big. Can we go? Today? Now?”
“We’ll see, we just got off a long flight.”
My phone rings. It’s Adrian.
I answer. “We’re in the car.”
“Great. I’m at the hotel. Your room is ready. Bring me my niece.”
“Be there in ten minutes.”
“See you soon,” he says, and hangs up.
I glance at Bri. “Guess who’s waiting?”
“Uncle A?” She lights up even more somehow.
“Yep.”
We pull up to the hotel, one of those old Haussmann buildings with black iron balconies and too many mirrors in the lobby. Adrian is right there, in a tailored coat, leaning on the marble check-in desk with his cane.
“UNCLE A!” Brianna yells, bolting out before I can even thank the driver.
He opens his arms and she hugs him, carefully. He lifts her up just a tad off the floor. “Ah, mon petit loup. You’ve grown.”
I clap his shoulder. “Nice to see you again, brother.”
In the room, Bri runs straight to the balcony and gasps at the view.
Adrian watches her, before glancing at me. “I booked a private tour of the Louvre for me and my niece. Friend of a friend. We go now before the crowds.”
I look at my kid, bouncing, jet-lag forgotten. “You want to go with Uncle A?”
“YES.”
“Take her,” I say. “Don’t let her steal anything.”
“I make no promises.” He winks at Bri. “Come, we will look at naked statues.”
“Ew.” She squeals, delighted.
They leave in a rush and the suite goes quiet.
I sit on the edge of the bed in the master, looking out at Paris, and, of course, I think about Mya.
She’s somewhere in this city. Maybe at the office, maybe on a site, maybe walking home with a baguette under her arm like every other person here. I’m in her city and she doesn’t even know.
I pull out my phone. I could text her and ask her to come for dinner, but the other night was fragile, and I don’t want to bulldoze it.
Still, I don’t want to sit here and do nothing.
I scroll to my Paris concierge contact—someone the office uses—and type out a message.