Chapter 30
LIAM
I don’t go back to sleeping on top of the covers.
That night, when I move to sleep on the comforter, Peyton huffs in displeasure and beckons me underneath.
We don’t even pretend we’re going to stick to our sides.
She curls up against me, dropping her head on my chest as she thanks me for being so great with her parents.
I wrap an arm around her. “They seemed happy about the move?”
“We’re a family of beautiful liars.” She draws little lines over my pectorals, and I try not to let it distract me. “I didn’t find out my dad had arthritis until three years after his diagnosis.”
“How comes?”
“They kept it from me so I wouldn’t worry.” Peyton sighs. “They’re putting on a brave face, but they love their house. They’ve built their entire lives there; I can’t imagine it’ll be easy to let it go.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll help them find a cottage, a place they’ll love. And use my contacts to help their new office get going.”
“Thank you.” Another heavy sigh. “I still wish I’d never met Matt. That I’d never fallen for his fake charm. I wish I’d said no when he proposed.”
I don’t know what possesses me to ask the next question, but I suddenly, adamantly need to know. “Do you wish you’d said no when I proposed?”
Peyton goes rigid in my arms for a second, then she tilts her head up. “You’ve been the only thing keeping me sane this week. Thank you for being such a great friend.” She settles back down on my chest. “We are friends, aren’t we?”
The word feels too small. It’s a narrow box for the sprawling, shapeless thing expanding behind my ribcage. “Yeah, of course we are.” I drop a kiss on top of her curls and close my eyes. And close my mind to the bitter reality that I want us to be more.
* * *
Her parents stay in town for a few more days.
By the time they leave, they’ve fallen in love with Blue Crescent Harbor and are determined to go through with the move.
It’ll take them a few months to settle their affairs in Springfield—close their remaining client accounts, sell the house, transfer her dad’s medical care—but they’re committed.
Peyton seems happy about it, even if she’s more on edge around them than she is with anyone else.
She hates lying to them. I hope that when it becomes a daily requirement with them living near us, it won’t be too much for her.
After her parents drive off on Wednesday morning, life settles back into our routine.
Our new normal. The rest of the week blurs past in a stream of meetings and data reviews.
I barely register the passage of time until suddenly it’s Friday after lunch and I’m walking back to my office, my mind still half-occupied with the projections Peyton has emailed me.
My door is open.
I’m three steps from the threshold when I hear voices inside—my father’s deep timbre overlapping with Peyton’s lighter tones. She sounds calm, measured, but with an edge underneath. That frequency she hits when she’s gearing up for a fight.
I should go in. Announce myself. It’s my office, after all.
But an instinct stops me. A hunch that tells me I need to hear this conversation without my presence changing it.
I step back from the doorway, positioning myself against the wall to listen in, glad it’s Friday afternoon and the office is empty. Everyone, including my secretary, has already left ahead of the Bobcats game.
“—been hearing about the regional strategy,” my father is saying.
His version of small talk always sounds condescending, even when he’s being nice.
“Your husband has roped you into his little development project, I understand. Retail analytics isn’t the most exciting work,” Charles continues, that familiar patronizing quality creeping into his voice.
The one that makes my shoulders tense even if I’m not the target.
“But I’m sure Liam appreciates having someone to indulge his experiments. ”
Silence stretches for a beat. Two.
When Peyton speaks, her voice is ice.
“The regional curation strategy is not a ‘little project.’” Her tone is clipped, stripped of any deference. “Calling it that diminishes months of research, analysis, and strategic planning. Liam is a visionary who’s saving the company from becoming obsolete in a changing market.”
My breath catches. I step closer to the threshold, pulse hammering against my eardrums.
But Peyton’s not done.
“The projections back Liam’s strategy,” she continues, her tone gaining heat.
“The data studies confirm it will be a success. Every metric we’ve analyzed supports the shift toward local curation over an e-commerce expansion.
And if you spent a little less time being so full of yourself and convinced of your own brilliance, you might actually see what an amazing son you have. ”
My heart jumps into my throat. No one talks to my father like that. No one. Not the board members who’ve known him for decades, not the executives who report to him, not even my grandfather, who built the company Charles now runs. And certainly not anyone who wants to stay in his good graces.
But Peyton isn’t finished.
“Liam works himself to the point where it’s unhealthy to impress you.
” Her voice rises, gaining a fierce, protective edge that digs its claws into my chest. “Maybe if you offered a kind word every once in a while instead of constant criticism and condescension, you’d realize how lucky you are to have him running the company.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Peyton says, still sounding worked up, “I have to get back to work.”
I jump backward, ducking into the adjoining conference room just as she storms out. Through the gap in the door, I watch her march down the hallway, shoulders squared, curls bouncing with each aggressive step. She’s so consumed by her own righteous fury that she doesn’t even glance in my direction.
I stand frozen in the empty conference room, my heart doing complicated and painful twists in my chest like it needs to rearrange itself around this new reality.
No one has ever stood up for me to Charles Rockwood. Not even Lila, who’s known me since we were kids and has witnessed every dismissal, every disappointment, every moment when I fell short of his impossible standards.
I take a breath. Then another.
I give myself a ten-count. Then I walk casually into my office.
My father stands by the window, his back to me as he contemplates the lake.
“Hi, Dad.” I keep my voice light. “How can I help you?”
Charles turns.
And the look on his face stops me cold.
It’s strange. Unfamiliar. An expression I’ve rarely seen directed at me: respect. Maybe even a hint of awe.
He doesn’t mention Peyton or the conversation I overheard. Instead, he clears his throat and says, “I’ve been hearing great things about the new strategy.”
I blink. Wait for the other shoe to drop.
“The preliminary reports are promising,” he continues, his jaw working as if the words cost him. “You’ve done solid work building out the metrics framework.”
I stare at him. This is not how our conversations go. This is not how he speaks to me.
Then, after a beat of hesitation, he adds, “I’m proud of you, son.”
I rock back on my heels, wait for the punchline. The caveat. The “but you could do better” that follows any scrap of approval he tosses my way.
It doesn’t come.
My father moves toward the door, and I think that’s it. The conversation is over. He gave me the rarest of gifts—unreserved praise. We should quit while we’re ahead.
But Charles stops at the threshold. Turns back.
I brace myself. Now the criticism will come. The note about Peyton’s insubordination, her lack of respect, her failure to show proper deference to the patriarch of the Rockwood empire.
Instead, he says, “Your wife is a remarkable woman.”
I go very still.
“She’s the kind of partner a man is lucky to find.”
He leaves.
I stand alone in my office, staring at the open door, processing what happened.
My father is proud of me. He likes my wife. And he acknowledged that I’m doing something right.
And every bit of this impossible, wonderful validation is because of Peyton.
The realization settles over me like a physical weight. Or maybe shines on me like light. I’m not sure which.
I already knew, on some level, that I struck gold with her.
That she’s brilliant and fierce and funny and brave and a dozen other things that make my chest feel too full whenever I think about them.
But hearing it from my father, seeing the effect she has on everyone around her, drives home the truth I’ve been trying not to examine too closely.
I’m falling for her.
Have already fallen? Past the point of no return? Into territory I haven’t mapped and don’t know how to navigate.
But whatever it is I’m feeling, I want to tell her. To break us out of the pretense. Call me crazy, but I want to ask my wife on a date.
Lila was right. The only risk is letting Peyton slip through my fingers while I’m too afraid to reach for her.
I spend the next hour distracted. The quarterly projections blur on my screen. My mind keeps running through scenarios: how to bring it up, what to say, whether to be direct or ease into it.
I’ve negotiated million-dollar deals with less anxiety than this.
On the drive home, I work up my courage.
Peyton is in the passenger seat, scrolling through her phone, humming along to a pop song on the radio. The mid-afternoon sun catches in her hair, turning the dark curls golden at the edges. She looks content. Happy. Beautiful.
I clear my throat. Open my mouth.
Close it again.
I try twice more during the drive, and each time I lose my nerve.
This is not a conversation to have while driving. I’ll tell her when we get home.
By the time we turn onto our street, my palms are sweating against the steering wheel.
When we pull into the driveway, an unfamiliar car is parked next to Peyton’s, and a woman is sitting on the front steps, a large duffel bag at her feet.
She has blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail and is wearing jeans and an oversized hoodie.
When she spots us, she stands and brushes off her butt.
“Do you know who that is?” I ask, even if from Peyton’s expression—half delight, half panic—I can guess the answer.
“Yep.” Peyton’s tone is apologetic. “It’s Emma, my best friend.”
The woman on the porch waves at us. A bright, friendly gesture that couldn’t have come at a worse time.
The words I’d planned to confess die in my throat.
Whatever I was going to say to Peyton, whatever honesty I was working up to, it will have to wait.
I kill the engine and paste on my most charming smile.
Time to perform again.