Chapter 2
2
Gage
Amelia Sinclair may be the most quietly chaotic woman I’ve ever met and that’s not something I’ve picked up on until this weekend. It’s not what she presents to the world, but surveying her hotel suite is giving me a glimpse of her that I’ve not been treated to before. One that completely contradicts everything I thought I knew about her.
Clothes are strewn across the bed, the floor, and over the sofa. Makeup and various beauty bottles clutter the bathroom vanity. Three paperbacks are stacked on the nightstand while two lie on the bed in between the clothes. Coffee-stained sheet music is spread across the floor at the foot of the bed with a pencil placed on top like she was working before she left the room.
It’s an assault to my senses. And to my professional pride.
How the fuck someone can function in a mess like this is beyond me. But what really intrigues me is how I missed this side of her entirely.
My first impression of Amelia a year ago was that she had her shit handled. She was always on time for playdates, school drop off, birthday parties, and sleepovers. Her appearance was always immaculate. Not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her clothes. She never appeared flustered, confused, unsure. And she always approached me with quiet confidence, keeping our interactions politely distant, sometimes bordering on cold. Nothing like the woman who just bared herself to me outside that bathroom. Flailing. Uncertain. Real.
I did my due diligence on Amelia when Luna became friends with Sarah. The facts were all there: Twenty-eight. Successful music composer. Divorced James Kensington, lawyer, a year ago. Irreconcilable differences. Comes from old money. Banker father. Socialite mother. Yale education. One child.
But facts don’t tell the whole story. And while reading people is my expertise—hell, my reputation depends on it—Amelia’s managed to control exactly what I see of her, and for the first time in years, I’m questioning my read on someone. Because, fuck, I would never have imagined the perfectly composed woman I know would exist in this kind of disorder.
Small cracks have started revealing themselves over the last month. Late arrivals for sleepovers. Messy buns and longer bangs than normal. A forgotten playdate last week. Nothing major, but all out of character for Amelia. Signs I should have picked up on sooner.
I locate the black dress in the closet and retrieve underwear from her suitcase, pausing at the unexpectedly large collection of delicate lace and silk for what’s supposed to be a one-night trip. Like everything else I’m discovering about Amelia Sinclair today, her lingerie drawer apparently has hidden depths. I try to push that thought aside while cataloging more details that don’t align with the Amelia I thought I knew.
A worn copy of “The Art of War” mixed in with romance novels, sticky tabs of various colors marking pages like she’s dissecting them for a thesis. Post-it notes on various surfaces around the room, the scribbled messages indecipherable to me. Her laptop open on the bathroom counter amid scattered makeup products, music production software visible on the screen with expensive headphones plugged in like she’d been desperately trying to compose right up until she had to get ready for the wedding.
Being in her private space sends my mind places it definitely shouldn’t go. Especially not about a woman who’s made it clear she wants nothing to do with me. And who’s also the mother of my daughter’s best friend.
The quick store run gives me time to process what I’ve learned. Every detail I’ve noticed is a piece of a puzzle I’ve been trying to solve.
Amelia has held my attention without realizing it since the very first day we met. It was during last year’s Spring Music Enrichment Week at Luna’s school, the day that Amelia was invited as a guest musician to take part in a Q & A with the children and then do a short performance. I was captivated by the way she drew the kids in with her quiet intensity and passion. She started off shyly, but it wasn’t long before she commanded the room, and when she played? Fuck. Her talent is incredible. That was the day Luna fell in love with Amelia and begged to learn an instrument because she wanted to be like Sarah’s mom who “plays music like magic.”
Even her brilliance is something she hides. The latest hit movie she scored wasn’t just successful, but rather it started a trend for how action scenes are scored in new films. The critics called it revolutionary, “fusing volatility and precision like no one before.” But when one of the other school parents mentioned it to her at pickup last week, Amelia brushed it off and redirected the conversation to the class’s art project like it was nothing. I’ve seen her do that countless times at school events and birthday parties. She has a way of making herself invisible even while standing directly in front of you. It’s a skill that would be admirable in my line of work, but I’ve found it damn frustrating while trying to figure her out.
Back at the hotel, I find her in the ladies’ bathroom, leaning against the counter, engrossed in reading something on her phone. Her eyes lift to mine, and for a moment, there’s no mask. Just softness. Like I’ve caught her mid-thought, walls lowered, and all I see is quiet hope and exhaustion tangled together. It’s the kind of unguarded expression that makes me want to lock the door behind us and ask every question I’ve been swallowing down since the day I met her.
“Here.” I hand her the bags, watching as relief replaces the tension in her shoulders. “I hope my selection at the store is suitable.”
She slows for a moment, like she’s trying to reconcile this gesture with whatever preconceptions she has about me. Because, if there’s one thing I am certain of, she does have an opinion of me, and it isn’t favorable. Not with the way she does her best to avoid me. “Thank you.”
I could leave, give her space to change in private. Instead, I find myself resting my ass against the bathroom counter next to her, crossing my arms and one foot over the other, and saying, “I’ll wait and make sure you have everything you need.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I know.” I pause before adding, “I’d hate for you to be without something crucial that would force you back to wallpaper research.”
She stares at me, her big blue eyes drawing me in like they were made to do that, making me wonder if I could drag myself from them even if I wanted to. Finally, she blinks, quietly says, “I think I’ve done enough architectural research for one day,” then moves toward the stall.
When she emerges in the black dress, the transformation is striking. Not just in the way the dress fits her, though that certainly commands attention, but in how she carries herself, like she’s reclaimed her armor.
“Much better,” she says softly, more to herself than me as she eyes herself in the mirror.
I maintain my position against the counter, watching as she gathers her composure along with her things. “The black dress was always the right choice.” Because it was her choice.
Her eyes meet mine, gratitude softening them, and fuck if I wouldn’t trade anything for another look like that.
She smooths her hands down her dress. “Thank you. For everything.” A smile threatens. “Though you really didn’t need to buy me multiple brands of tampons and pads.” Now, she allows the smile to settle in place. “It tells me you’ll be great when Luna’s older and needs her father’s help surviving period hell.”
“I seriously doubt that shopping for supplies for you is enough training for a teenage daughter’s period hell.”
She rolls her eyes but there’s amusement there too. “Only you would use the word ‘training’ when it comes to raising children.”
We’re interrupted when the bathroom door is pushed in and two wedding guests enter, sisters who are friends of my parents, both in their sixties.
The older sister comes to a halt as she assesses Amelia and me. Then, with an arrowed, brow, she greets me, judgement threading its way through every letter of my name.
She thinks I’ve fucked Amelia in here.
It’s a fair assessment based on some of the shit I got up to in my early twenties that became gossip fodder in Manhattan. A Black son not following in his father’s or older brothers’ respectable footsteps was a hot talking point that my parents were never happy about, but not one I ever cared to change. Watching buttoned-up socialites cast disapproving looks my way always amused me. Particularly since I knew what some of the husbands in New York were getting up to behind their wives’ backs.
However, the way Amelia straightens lets me know she’s not finding this as amusing as I am, so I take charge of the situation to put things right.
“Deborah.” I push off the counter and move toward her. “This isn’t what it looks like. Amelia had a dress malfunction and required my help.”
Her expression tells me she’s not buying a word of what I said. “I can imagine.”
“I can see you don’t believe me, but?—”
“I got my period,” Amelia blurts. “And it . . . well, my dress was ruined.” She holds the garment bag up. “Gage came to my rescue and brought me a new dress.”
Compassion immediately fills Deborah’s face. “Oh, dear, we’ve all been there.” She shakes her head. “Periods were the bane of my existence, and as I got older, they only got worse. Actually, they were horrendous, often flooding my underwear and staining my outfits.”
“Right,” I say, glancing at Amelia. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Her eyes crinkle with enjoyment. “What? You don’t want to stay and further your period training?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her I’d happily further my period training if it was just the two of us here, but I don’t want to utter those words in front of one of the biggest gossips in this city. “I’ve got years before I’ll need that training.”
The last thing I see before I leave the bathroom is a smile gracing Amelia’s face. It’s warm and genuine, and it leaves me wondering just how many layers she’s hiding behind that carefully constructed facade.