Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Spencer
T he morning light slips through the gap in the curtains and lands across the suite in ribbons. For once, I don’t reach for my phone. I don’t think about meetings, emails, or anything waiting on the other side.
Instead, I watch her.
Shelby is still asleep, curled beneath the sheets, one arm flung across my side like she belongs there. And maybe she does.
Last night changed everything. Not just the way we touched but also the way we saw each other. I lift a hand and gently brush a lock of hair from her cheek.
She stirs, eyes fluttering open, and her expression softens when they land on me. “Morning,”she rumbles, voice sleep-rough and warm.
“Morning.”I can’t help the grin that pulls at my lips. “You look good in my bed.”That’s an understatement. If only this were my actual bed, back in my condo in New York.
A flush rises in her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. “I could say the same about you.”
We stay there a little longer, tangled in that silky silence that doesn’t need filling. When I lean down to kiss her, it’s slow and unrushed—like we have all the time in the world.
But we don’t. Our weekend is just about over. Usually, I’d head to the airport as quickly as possible after my work wraps up. But this morning, I’m thankful Linda booked my flight back to New York for tomorrowmorninginstead of today.
Eventually, I push myself up. “I’ve got a short wrap-up with my team this morning. Shouldn’t take long. An hour at most. After that, I’m yours for the day.”
Her eyes spark with curiosity. “And my interview?”
“Ah, yes,”I say, mock-gravely. “The hard-hitting questions.”I toss her a wink. “You’ll have your chance, Miss Bailey. But I get to choose the setting.”
We shower separately. But I’m not the least bit disappointed when she lingers in the doorway, one towel tucked around her body, another working through her damp hair. It’s a small thing, but it makes something shift in my chest. I never thought I’d feel this content and relaxed around another person. A potential partner.
If it wasn’t for my meeting, I’d have her back in bed, but work calls, and the sooner I get it done, the sooner we can spend the rest of the day together, so breakfast is in the hotel dining room where it’s quiet and sun-drenched.
“You order. I’m easy.”Her eyes sparkle with mischievous delight.
I order for both of us. And she smiles warmly behind her coffee as I ask for warm croissants, eggs, bacon, and a dish of that fresh berry compote I noticed she enjoyed so much yesterday.
She looks out the window at the courtyard. “This place is something else.”
“Yeah,”I say, watching her more than the view. “It’s got a way of making you believe time moves slower.”I don’t tell her that’s why I booked the whole shoot here. Orthat Ihaven’t been in one place this long without flying out for some emergency in over a year.
And I don’t tell her that part of me doesn’t want to leave.
“Obviously you’ve been here before.”
“A few times.”
She leans forward, propping her chin on her hand. “So, what’s left for today?”
“Team wrap-up. Shouldn’t be more than sixty minutes. Then you get your exclusive. After that…”I pause, letting the words hang between us. “We make the most of the time we’ve got left.”
Her gaze holds mine, but is that sadness I see in her eyes? “I like the sound of that.”
An hour later,I’msitting at the head of the conference table, my team gathered around me. Shelby is sitting in the same chair she did yesterday. Too far away. After last night, I’d prefer her close, where I can smell the shampoo she used this morning and brush my fingers against her arm. Listen to her breath and take comfort in having her close to me. Did she purposefully decide to keep some distance? And if she did, is it because I’m as much of a distraction to her as she is to me?
The room is filled witha mix ofexcitement and tension, the air buzzing with energy. And it’s not just the two of us.
“Alright, let’s go through the final selections for the holiday edition,”I say, clapping my hands and commanding the room’s attention. “We need to narrow down the models, finalize the location shots, and lock in the editorial content.”
The creative director speaks up. “We’ve narrowed it down to three models for the cover. Each of them brings something unique to the table. We need to decide which one best fits the winter wonderland theme.”
I scan the images on the table. “Walk me through their portfolios. What are their strengths and weaknesses?”
We discuss each model, weighing their pros and cons. I listen intently, asking questions and offering insights. The decision is tough, but we must choose the one who will make thebiggestimpact.
“I think we should go with Model A,”I finally decide. “She fits the theme perfectly and has a strong presence that will capture the readers’ attention.”
Everyone nods in agreement, and we move on to the next topic. The photographerspeaks up, “We need to complete the list of location shots. We’ve scouted a few places that would be perfect for the winter theme. We need to decide on the best ones and where local businesses are involved, speak with them to get their agreement as soon as possible.”
“Let’s go with the historic district. The old buildings and cobblestone streets will provide a beautiful backdrop for the shoot. Make sure we have all the necessary permits.”
The team continues to discuss the details while I guide them through each decision.I’mlucky to have complete confidence in the people who work for me. But I still feel the weight of the responsibility and pressure to make the right choices, choices the board will agree with. But like always, it’s the thrill of creating something stunning that will captivate the readers and honor the legacy of my family’s business that drives me.
As the meeting wraps up, my gaze sweeps around the table, landing momentarily on each team member. “Great work, everyone. We’re on track to create something amazing. Let’s make this issue the best one yet.”
After a few final comments, we end the meeting, and I can focus on the woman sitting a few feet away, distracting me the entire time.
Over the last hour, I watched Shelby scribbling notes in her leather-bound journal. Every so often, her gaze lifts to meet mine, andtherest of the room becomes static noise.
She doesn’t say a word as the others filter out of the room. She simply tucks her notebook under her arm andcomes to standbeside me as I collect my things. Looking at her, I notice something quiet and knowing in her expression.
“You okay?”she asks.
She must have sensed something, and I hesitated a second before admitting it. “I’m realizing I don’t want this weekend to end.”
She doesn’t tease me or smile like I expect her to. Instead, she reaches for my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Then let’s not let it end just yet. Let’s go for a walk.”
I take my things up to my room before we head out into the late morning; the sun is already high, andthe sky is a crisp shade of blue that makes the old stone of the city walls almost glow. There’s a slight chill in the air this morning, starkly different than the nearly oppressive heat of the last few days. Shelby walks beside me wearing a light cardigan, her fingers tucked into mine like they’ve always belonged there.
We wind through the cobblestone streets of Old Quebec, past the boutiques and bakeries of Rue Saint-Jean. She pauses to admire a display of handmade soaps and postcards in a shop window.
“Mmm… it smells like butter and sugar and history.”she says, her voice dreamy.
I laugh. “We can stop for anything you want.”
She glances at me sidelong. “You’re just trying to delay the interview questions.”
“Guilty,”I admit. “I like seeing you like this.”I want to give her anything and everything her heart desires.
“Like what?”
“Happy. Enjoying yourself.”
While we wait in line at Café La Maison Smith, tucked in one of the little corners of Place Royale, she pulls out her notebook. I order us each a coffee and a scone, and we find a spot on a bench outside in the sun.
“All right,”she says, pen poised. “I think I need a bit more info about your business. As I understand it, your family actually owns multiple businesses, correct?”
“Absolutely. The Hollis Group is all about content creation and cultural influence. We tell visual and editorial stories across various platforms. Think of it as a stylish empire shaping what’s next in fashion, media, and pop culture. We have two flagship magazines that drive brand recognition and cultural influence. The modeling agency was originally developed to support the fashion magazine and ensure control over the talent, exclusivity, and branding consistency. The production company produces everything from magazine cover shoots to fashion shows, influencer campaigns, behind-the-scenes series, documentaries on fashion or art, even scripted drama series. The whole idea my grandfather created was to allow him and his siblings control over all media content from concept to delivery. There’s even a publishing company on my grandmother’s side of the family called Kismet Publishing.”
“I’ve heard of them. That’s very cool. You’re quite connected, it seems.”
“I really don’t know much about Kismet. Only that I have a bunch of cousins involved in that world.”
“So, the models you used this weekend?—”
“Are part of our agency, yes. They work for the magazines and Hollis Studios.”
“So, they are constantly employed.”
“They are.”
“Impressive.”
“Didn’t I read that you went to law school?”
“I did. And I thought that I’d one day be part of the company’s legal team.”
“What changed your mind?”
“My father died, and I had to step in and learn about all the operations. I discovered I really enjoy the creativity that’s involved with the magazines.”
“Think you’ll go back to legal?”
I shrug. “I’m still involved of course, and there’s plenty of legal issues that come with the magazines. This way I get to play in both worlds. Plus, I get to travel and meet beautiful women.”I wink at her.
“I’m pretty sure that’s the whole reason I’m here.”
“Not only.”Not anymore, anyway.
She blushes. “What does a typical holiday issue require?”
I pause to sip my drink, thinking. “We start planning six months out. The theme, tone, color palette. December is one of our biggest—it has to be both festive and elegant. You want sparkle, but with depth.”
She writes, nodding.
“This year,”I continue, “I wanted to feature something different. Something rooted in place. Quebec in the winter has a magical quality about it with the old-world charm, lights strung across narrow streets, snow that doesn’t feel like a burden. It’s cinematic. Romantic.”
“You sound like a man who’s spent time falling in love with this city,”she says, not looking up from the page.
I never contemplated falling in love. Certainly not with somebody I barely know. But in my gut, I feel different around Shelby. Better. Happier. Content. “Maybe I have.”
Her pen stills, just briefly.
“We shoot in October to hit the December printing deadline. The shoot yesterday was just to narrow it down.”
“And how do you decide on the final cover?”
“That’s the hardest part.”I smile. “We test. Mood boards, mock-ups, reader panels sometimes. But ultimately, it’s a gut call. I look at the photo and ask myself: does this stop someone in their tracks? Does it say something?”
“And do you ever second-guess yourself?”
“All the time,”I admit softly. “My grandfather had a vision. My father did things differently. He made mistakes, personally and professionally. Since the day I took over, I’ve questioned whether I was doing the right thing or not. I’ve had to learn about each aspect of the business, each individual company, and try to figure out what works in their best interest.”
“Do you want to run them like he did?”
“No. I want to make them successful again.”
“Theyaren’t?”
“They are, but not because of him. At least not the last few years. Thankfully his staff kept things together.”
She finally looks up. Her eyes are soft, but there’s something sharp beneath as she sees all of it. The good. The guarded. The man behind the name. “I think there’s more to your story,”she says.
After our brief recess, we wander uphill toward the Chateau Frontenac, the crown jewel of the skyline. Shelby insists ontaking a photo ofit from every angle, and I don’t stop her. I like watching her eyes light up, her hair catching the sunlight as she spinsin placeto get the perfect shot.
We duck into Le Chic Shack for lunch—a local spot I love for its elevated comfort food. And it also happens to be owned by one of the owners of L’Auberge Saint-Antoine, the hotel where we’re staying. Inside, it’s warm and welcoming, all wood beams and brick walls, with the hum of quiet conversation wrapping around us like a blanket.
We settle into a table by the window. The server brings us menus, but Shelby sets hers down quickly, eyes flicking to mine.
“You’ve been good about answering my questions so far,”she says. “But now I want to ask something that’s… maybe less on the record.”
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “You’re not even pretending to be objective anymore?”
“I gave up the illusion somewhere between the first kiss and the last orgasm.”
That earns her a slow, sexy grin. And whether she knows it or not, a promise of more of both. “All right, then. Hit me.”
“What drives you, Spencer? I mean really motivates you. Beyond the magazine, beyond the image you’re trying to create. Why do you do what you do?”
It’s not the question I expected.
I glance out the window. The street is alive—tourists with cameras, kids licking ice cream cones too fast, couples walking hand-in-hand like we did just an hour ago.
“I guess I like the idea of legacy,”I say slowly. “I want to make sure the family members that come after me have something to be proud of. I want to build something that lasts. Not just the magazine, but the stories we tell, the moments we capture. I want someone to open a December issue twenty years from now and feel something. Wonder who that model was. Imagine the snow. Taste the season.”
Shelbysits andstares at me quietly like she’s trying to read my mind. “That’s unexpectedly poetic.”
I chuckle. “You bring it out of me.”
The food arrives—burgers piled high, hand-cut fries,anda bottle of chilled cider between us. We eat slowly, laughing between bites. Shelby tells me about her early days of working with her now sister-in-law. And then, when that ended,howshe freelanced in Kingston, writing fluff pieces and obituaries, and how she once covered a town council meeting where the highlight was a heated debate over squirrel-proofing bird feeders.
“Riveting journalism,”I tease, and she throws a fry at me.
After lunch, we stroll along the Terrasse Dufferin, the boardwalk that wraps around the front of the Chateau. The St. Lawrence River stretchesout beforeus, vast and glittering under the sun. Buskers play violin and accordion nearby, and the mid-afternoon breeze smells like summer, sweet and fleeting.
We stop, taking it in.
“I’m going to miss this,”Shelby says, almost to herself. “Not just the city. This . Us .”
My heart tugs. “So am I.”
“I leave early tomorrow morning.”
“So do I.”
She turns to face me, her expression suddenly serious. “What happens now, Spencer?”
I wish I had a polished answer. A line. But this feels like the kind of moment that deserves the truth.
“I don’t know,”I say honestly. “But I know what I want.”
“And what’s that?”
“You. Not just for a weekend. I want to see where this goes.”
Her eyes search mine. “Even with the distance?”
“The distance doesn’t scare me.”What scares me is Shelby not wanting the same thing I do.
She doesn’t answerright away, but she steps in closer, her hand finding mine, her fingers curling between mine, warm and steady.
We walk back to the hotel slowly, not ready to let go of the dayjust yet. Neither of us says much on the elevator ride up, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence.It’sfull of awareness of the hours left and what we both know is coming.
Back in my suite, she strolls over to the window while I pour each a glass of sparkling wine from the bottle we didn’t finish last night. The view is stunning, but I only have eyes for her.
When I hand her the glass, our fingers brush. She looks up at me, and there’s something in her gaze, searching and bold all at once.
“We leave tomorrow.”
I nod. “But we still have tonight.”
She steps in, wineglass forgotten on the table behind her. “Then let’s not waste a second of it.”
I set my own glass down, reaching for her, pulling her in with an urgency that matchesthe waymy heart is beating.
Her hands slip under my jacket, tugging me against her chest, and I kiss her like I already miss her.
There are no words, no hesitation. Just this connection betweenus,and the unspoken understanding that come morning, everything will change.