Chapter 20
CHRISTINA
Eight weeks since Violet was born, and Christina had finally worked up the courage to leave the cottage for something other than a pediatrician appointment or a walk around the lake.
The morning air was crisp when she stepped out of her car, carrying the first real hint of fall. She pulled her cardigan tighter and adjusted Violet’s carrier on her arm, making sure the light blanket covered her daughter’s legs.
“We can do this,” she murmured. “It’s just groceries. In and out.”
Spilled Milk’s doors whooshed open, releasing the smell of fresh coffee and something baking—Mary’s apple cider donuts, probably, the ones she made every fall. Christina’s stomach growled. She couldn’t remember whether she’d eaten breakfast or not.
The store was quiet this early on a Tuesday morning, just the soft hum of the refrigerator cases and the distant sound of someone stocking shelves in the back. She grabbed a basket and headed for the dairy section, keeping her head down.
Bertha stood near the produce section in her early-fall tutu—burnt orange with gold ribbon trim—methodically working her way through a few local apples that had fallen on the floor. The goat lifted her head as Christina passed, fixing her with that unsettling stare before returning to her snack.
The milk she needed was in the back. She navigated past the cheese display, past the yogurt, past—
She stopped.
The magazine rack stood at the end of the aisle, stuffed with glossy covers promising fall fashion secrets and celebrity gossip and recipes for the perfect Thanksgiving turkey.
Christina usually walked past without looking.
She’d trained herself not to look, not since she’d discovered who the father of her child actually was.
But today her eyes caught on a flash of familiar dark hair, a face she’d tried and failed miserably to forget, and her feet stopped moving before her brain could tell them to keep going.
Marco Castellano on the cover of Celebrity Weekly, his arm around a woman so beautiful she hardly looked real.
The supermodel—Christina vaguely recognized her from perfume ads—wore a dress that was made of sheer lace, her hand resting possessively on Marco’s chest. They were at some party, some gala, somewhere with crystal chandeliers and champagne towers.
The headline screamed in hot pink letters: MARCO’S NEW LOVE? Fashion Heir And Model Can’t Keep His Hands Off Stunning Supermodel!
Christina’s chest tightened. She told herself it didn’t matter. It wasn’t like she had any claim on him, she hadn’t even told him her name. Some stupid part of her had wondered, had imagined—what? That he thought about her? That their night together had meant something to him too?
“You’re the first real thing I’ve touched in years,” he’d said in Miami, his hands cupping her face, his green eyes dark with something that had felt like honesty. She rolled her eyes. He probably said that to every woman he went out with.
The supermodel’s smile was perfect. Her teeth were perfect. She looked at Marco as if he were the only person in the room, and he looked at the camera with that devastating smile Christina remembered all too well.
Violet made a small sound from the carrier—not quite a cry, more like a chirp of awareness. Christina looked down automatically, the way she’d been doing a hundred times a day since the hospital, and found her daughter’s eyes open and fixed on her face.
Those eyes.
Still blue-gray, the way all babies’ eyes were supposed to be. But there was something around the edges now, something Christina had started noticing in the past week. A warmth creeping in from the outer ring that had nothing to do with the Singleton side of the family.
Christina’s throat closed. Every time she looked at Violet, she saw pieces of herself—the shape of her nose, the curve of her chin.
But she also saw pieces of him. The set of her eyebrows.
The particular tilt of her head when something caught her attention.
And now, maybe, the beginning of those distinctive eyes.
She couldn’t keep this secret forever. She’d known that from the beginning, but knowing it and feeling the weight of it were two different things.
“Christina! Oh my goodness, look at her!”
She flinched. Mary had appeared from the stockroom, her Spilled Milk apron slightly askew, her face bright with delight.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Mary was already peering into the carrier, making soft cooing sounds. “She’s gotten so big! What is she now, eight weeks?”
“Almost.” Christina forced a smile, shifting her body to angle the carrier away from the magazine rack. She couldn’t look at Marco’s face and her daughter’s face at the same time. She couldn’t.
“She’s beautiful. Those eyes!” Mary leaned closer, examining Violet with the clinical interest of a woman who’d raised four children of her own.
“My grandmother always said you could tell what color they’d end up by looking at the ring around the iris.
Looks like she might go green. Or maybe hazel? Hard to tell at this age.”
Christina’s stomach dropped.
“They could still change,” she managed. “My mom’s side has blue eyes.”
“That’s true. My youngest was born with eyes so dark they looked black, and now they’re light brown.
Babies are full of surprises.” Mary straightened, apparently oblivious to the cold sweat prickling Christina’s back.
“Do you need anything special today? The Hendersons just brought in their first apple harvest—Honeycrisps. And we got a new shipment of those frozen pizzas Ryan likes.”
“A couple of pizzas would be great.” But she was already moving, her feet carrying her toward the exit even though her basket was still empty. “Actually, I think I—I left something in the car. I’ll come back later.”
“You sure? I can hold your basket—”
“No, it’s fine. Thanks, Mary.”
She didn’t run. Running would draw attention. But she walked fast, faster than she should with an eight-week-old in a carrier, past the checkout lanes and through the doors and out into the September morning.
The car was twenty feet away. She made it fifteen before her eyes started burning.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry in the parking lot.
She got Violet buckled into the car seat, hands shaking as she fumbled with the straps. Her daughter watched her with those eyes—those changing, impossible-to-hide eyes—and made another small sound, this one closer to a whimper.
“I know, baby. I know. We’re going home.”
The car smelled like the air freshener Ryan had hung from the rearview mirror, artificial pine mixed with the baby powder scent that clung to everything Christina owned.
She gripped the steering wheel and stared through the windshield at Spilled Milk’s brick facade, at the hand-painted sign advertising apple cider and pumpkins.
She’d built a life here. A fragile, precious life full of her mother’s cooking and Ryan’s quiet help and Emily’s practical advice. A life where Violet was surrounded by people who loved her. And it could all come crashing down the moment someone looked too closely at her daughter’s face.
She pulled out of the parking lot without buying anything. The groceries could wait. Right now, she needed to get home, needed to close the door behind her and hold her baby and figure out what she was going to do.
The road back to the cottage wound through the mountains, past the turnoff for the inn, past James Roberts’ property with its weathered fence. Christina drove on autopilot, her mind churning through scenarios she’d been avoiding for months.
What if somehow Marco found out? What if his family found out?
She’d read enough tabloids to know what the Castellanos did to protect their interests.
Lawyers. Private investigators. The kind of resources that could crush a single mother who’d made the mistake of spending one night with the wrong man.
They would take Violet. Or they’d try. They’d drag Christina through courts and custody battles, would paint her as a gold-digger who’d gotten pregnant on purpose.
But she hadn’t known. She hadn’t known who he was until weeks later, until she’d seen his face on a magazine cover in this very grocery store and nearly collapsed in the pasta aisle.
Christina pulled into the cottage driveway and cut the engine.
Through the windshield, she could see Angus in the front window, his tail wagging at the sight of her car.
Smoke drifted from somewhere nearby—one of the vacation people must be cooking out.
She turned around to look at Violet, who had fallen asleep during the drive, her tiny fists curled against her chest.
“I’ll figure it out,” she whispered. “I promise.”
She unbuckled Violet’s car seat and carried her inside, past Angus’s eager greeting, to the bedroom where the bassinet waited.
Violet stirred but didn’t wake as Christina set her down.
She stood over the bassinet for a long moment.
Then she pulled out her phone and did something she’d promised herself she’d quit doing.
She searched his name.
The results loaded instantly. Dozens of articles about the supermodel, about speculation over whether this was “the one” who’d finally tame the Castellano heir. Photos of them dancing, drinking champagne, leaving together in the back of a black car.
Christina scrolled past all of it until she found what she was looking for—his schedule. Appearances. Events. Places he was expected to be.
There. Milan Fashion Week. Late September through early October. Then a string of appearances in Europe—Paris, London, Rome.
Thousands of miles away. Nothing to do with anything on the East Coast. She closed the browser and let out a breath.
Safe. For now.
But she needed to talk to someone. Her mother, maybe. Someone who could help her think through the what-ifs, the plans she’d need if everything went wrong.
She pulled up her mother’s contact and stared at the screen. How did you tell your mother that your baby’s father was one of the richest men in the world, and you’d been keeping it secret for fear of losing everything?
Violet made a sound from the bassinet—that soft chirp again.
Christina set the phone on the nightstand and went to check on her daughter. The message to her mother would have to wait. Right now, Violet needed to be fed, the laundry was piling up, and somewhere in the kitchen was a casserole that needed to be put away before it spoiled.
She lifted Violet from the bassinet, settling into the rocking chair by the window.
Outside, the afternoon light was golden, slanting through leaves that were just starting to turn.
A cool breeze stirred the curtains. Inside, her daughter latched on and began to nurse, her tiny hand pressing against Christina’s chest. Angus turned around three times and settled by her feet.
The conversation with her mother couldn’t wait forever. Violet’s eyes couldn’t stay hidden forever. But those problems belonged to tomorrow, or next week, or whenever Christina could find the words.
For now, there was just this—the weight of her daughter in her arms, the creak of the rocking chair, the sound of Angus settling on the floor with a heavy sigh.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from her mother.
How was the grocery run? Need me to bring anything over?
Christina freed one hand and typed back.
Forgot a few things. Can you pick up milk and the frozen pizzas Ryan likes?
Sure, we can talk about the inn. Only a week away now!
The inn. September eighteenth. Marco would be an ocean away, preparing for Fashion Week.
Sounds good. See you tomorrow.
She set the phone down and looked at Violet, who had finished nursing and was staring up at her .
Later she’d talk to her mother. Not about Marco—she wasn’t ready for that—but about the inn, about the future.
Violet’s eyes drifted closed, milk-drunk and content.
Christina kept rocking.