Chapter 19
Nineteen
It felt like everyone from the night before had shown up to breakfast… maybe more. Kids darted between tables, shrieking with giggles and weaving between legs, like this job had been wired into their DNA.
The air smelled of sausage and maple syrup, and the sound of clattering plates overlapped with at least a dozen different conversations, which blended together as one.
Dean and I stepped into the room and immediately got into line at the buffet. I was nervous this morning. Maybe more nervous than I had been the night before.
A woman with long dark hair stood in front of us, and I recognized her right away—long dark hair, high cheekbones, tall and effortlessly athletic. Dean’s aunt, who reminded me of a fifty-year-old version of Blair.
I reached for a plate, half-listening as Dean and his aunt slipped into an easy conversation beside me.
“I saw you running the trail this morning,” she said, handing him a napkin. “You training for something?”
“Nope.”
“Then why on earth are you running on vacation so early in the morning?” she laughed.
Dean took a breath and shrugged. “I woke up—” he cleared his throat, almost like he hadn’t meant to say anything at all, “—and couldn’t go back to sleep.”
His eyes lifted—and found mine.
Just for a second. Long enough for heat to bloom low in my stomach.
Had he seen me this morning? With my ass in the air, hair a mess, completely oblivious to my surroundings? And then, what? Gone running?
Something shifted in his expression. The barest curve of his mouth. Not a smile—worse.
I turned away too quickly, my face warming as I stared down into my plate, suddenly hyper aware of my body, my breath, the way the air between us still felt charged despite the room full of people.
Thankfully, the line shuffled forward just then, giving me an excuse to put space between us. I focused on grabbing my breakfast—sausage, hash browns, and a generous stack of pancakes—like food was my only safety net.
That’s when a group of men entered the lodge, drawing my attention to a side door.
They wore business suits and polished shoes instead of summer clothes and hiking boots.
I glanced around the room, half-expecting someone to react—to direct them toward another resort, but no one seemed to notice them other than me.
Then I spotted Mason up ahead. His posture tight as he lifted his chin to Dean, as though trying to grab his attention.
Not obvious. Not dramatic. But deliberate.
A message passed without words.
It worked, because a second later, Dean’s voice was in my ear, whispering. “I’ll be right back.”
He set his plate down, and I tracked him across the room, where he, Mason, and Mr. Montgomery greeted the newcomers with smiles that looked a little too practiced.
I picked up a sausage, dragged it through the syrup pooling on my plate, and took a bite, more out of habit than hunger. Something was off—I could feel it in the pit of my stomach.
Dean’s shoulders were tight, his posture too rigid, and when he shook their hands, his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
I added more food to my growing pile—bacon, a biscuit I didn’t remember choosing—but my attention kept drifting back to Dean. It wasn’t my business. I knew that.
But for some reason, I wanted it to be.
Maybe because he looked stressed. Like a man standing in a room full of glassware, afraid that one wrong move—one careless breath—might send everything shattering to the floor.
By the time I reached the end of the buffet, my plate was nearly too full to balance. I grabbed a napkin with a fork rolled inside and scanned the room for an empty seat.
I spotted one tucked into the far corner and was halfway there when a small, confident voice stopped me cold.
“You can sit here, you know,” she said.
I turned to find a little girl in pink overalls staring up at me like she’d just issued a formal invitation and fully expected it to be accepted.
She couldn’t have been more than four. Bright red hair escaped a messy ponytail, freckles dusted her cheeks, and her expression was all seriousness—like she had important business to conduct.
I glanced over my shoulder, certain she had to be talking to someone other than me.
“I said,” she repeated, placing a tiny hand on the chair beside her own, “you can sit here.”
I pointed at myself.
She nodded once. Slow. Decisive.
Something about her tugged a smile from my mouth. Her confidence was impressive—borderline intimidating—and before I could talk myself out of it, I stepped closer, already feeling like I’d been recruited into some sort of secret society.
I set my plate across from hers and took the seat. She watched me carefully, studying me from head to toe.
“Are you the lady Uncle Dean is going to marry?” she asked, stabbing a piece of her already cut-up pancakes with a tiny pink fork.
Uncle Dean.
My eyes darted toward the doors where I’d last seen him, but he—along with the group he’d gone to meet—was gone. I cleared my throat and tried to match her energy. “Yes, I am. My name’s Vivienne. And you are…?”
“Emma,” she said without hesitation. “I’m four. My favorite color is pink.”
I smiled despite myself. There was no filter there—no practiced politeness or restraint. It was rather refreshing.
“It’s nice to meet you, Emma,” I said sincerely.
Before she could reply, a voice floated over my shoulder.
“Emma!”
Trisha appeared through the crowd, coffee cup in hand, relief written across her face. “Sweetheart, I turned my back for two seconds. If you wanted to sit here, you could’ve just told me.”
Then her gaze landed on me, immediately apologetic. “I hope she’s not bothering you.”
“Not at all,” I said quickly.
Before Trisha could respond, Thomas’s voice carried across the room. “Hey, babe—can you come here for a second?” He lifted his coffee in a half-wave in my direction, then turned back to the group gathered near the windows, who looked like they were in some sort of heated debate.
Trisha swept a curl from Emma’s forehead before turning to me. “You don’t mind if she sits with you for a minute, do you?”
“Not at all,” I said easily. “I’m enjoying her company.”
Emma watched her mother walk away, then turned back to me, her feet swinging under the table like she didn’t have a care in the world. “I thought you’d be taller,” she said, grinning around a mouthful of pancake.
I laughed despite myself. “Why’s that?”
She shrugged. “My Uncle Dean is way bigger than you.”
I hid my smile behind my napkin. “I’m five foot nine.”
She blinked as though unimpressed, then stabbed another piece of pancake and shoved it into her already full cheeks.
“Do you think you should slow down—?” I asked, nudging her cup away from her elbow so she wouldn’t knock it over.
Just then, Blair passed by our table in a rush, skin pale, shoulders hunched, gaze fixed straight ahead as she headed for the bathroom.
My stomach tightened instantly.
I’d seen that look before. The panic behind the eyes. The way her body moved as though she were trying to outrun something that was about to erupt from inside her.
I glanced around the room, half-expecting someone to stand. To follow her. To notice…
No one did.
Laughter continued. Conversation flowed like nothing had happened at all.
I told myself to stay where I was. That it wasn’t my place. But something prickled along my spine.
She didn’t just look like she was about to throw up.
She looked scared.
Against my better judgement, I placed the napkin over my plate and pushed back my chair. “Will you excuse me?” I said to Emma, “I’ll be right back. I forgot to wash my hands.”
I flashed her a reassuring grin and moved before she could ask to come with me.
The moment I stepped inside the bathroom, my pulse quickened. The air was cool and smelled faintly of lavender, and the hum of silence broke with the sharp, miserable sound of someone retching.
My own stomach lurched reflexively.
I turned back toward the door, locked it behind me, and then stepped closer to the stalls, my footsteps quiet and careful. “Blair?” I asked. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything? Some water maybe?”
A pause. Then a muffled voice, “I’m fine.”
But she wasn’t fine.
Not even a little.
I stayed where I was, leaning against the opposite wall, giving her space while silently hoping she’d decide to let me help.
She’d looked so unsteady earlier that I pictured her knees buckling, her head hitting porcelain, and the image alone was enough to make my palms damp.
Then the stall door creaked open.
She stepped out slowly—cheeks flushed, skin sallow beneath the unforgiving lights.
She crossed to the sink without looking up at me and gripped the counter like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
But in the reflection of the mirror, I could see that her eyes were glassy… like she’d been crying.
“Too many margaritas last night,” she said quietly.
And that’s when it hit me. My mind flashed back to last night, when everyone in attendance had a drink in their hand—except Blair, who'd held onto the same bottle of water all night long.
In that moment she didn’t have to tell me she was pregnant. I knew. Maybe it was the fear in her eyes, or the soft way she cradled her stomach. Not in a way that said she was sick, but in a way that was almost… protective.
Then suddenly I was back there again—alone in my apartment with the electricity shut off, rocking a newborn I couldn’t keep.
“How far along are you?” I asked, forcing myself to stay where I was, even though every instinct in me wanted to cross the room and pull her into my arms.
At first, she didn’t answer. Her back stiffened, and she took a deep breath—but then her shoulders sagged, like whatever she’d been holding together finally slipped through her fingers.
“Six weeks,” she said quietly, but the words were nearly swallowed by the sound of running water.
My stomach twisted, and I gripped the wall behind me in an attempt to steady myself. “Does anyone else know?”