Chapter 36
Cami
“Can’t believe you’re not holed up with a sad, ugly-cry Taylor Swift playlist right now.” Paxton pushes a fry through a lake of ranch dressing.
We’re sitting on the patio at Brunch Theory, a lively corner spot near his office that smells like espresso and grilled sourdough. People laugh too loudly; a phone rings; silverware clinks. I grimace. Apparently, life just moseys on even while mine’s shattered on the pavement.
“Did that already.” I stir the melting ice in my lemonade. “Turns out ugly crying only makes your soul bleed. Zero out of five stars. Don’t recommend.”
Paxton snorts, but I can’t even find the energy to fake a smile.
Manhattan buzzes around us—horns, footsteps, chatter—and I’m still trying to remember how to exist in it. Thankfully, I’ve been able to onboard from home this week, which means I don’t have to pretend I’ve got it together in front of new coworkers. One small mercy.
“So what’s next?” Paxton smirks, arms folded, that mix of mischief and loyalty only he can pull off. “You gonna write him a love letter, copy it, and mail it to every Knox in America?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
He leans back, squinting at me over his sunglasses. “You’ve been here, what? Five days? You canceled mocktails in SoHo, still haven’t slept, you haven’t unpacked, you barely eat, even when your alarm reminds you to, and you keep staring at that purse like it owes you an apology.”
He’s not wrong.
Even now, my gaze drifts to the purse resting against the chair, expecting my bubble phone to magically appear. I thought I’d shoved it inside my purse after boarding my flight, but I was half-blind with tears. Somewhere between the gate and baggage claim, I must’ve let it slip away.
By the time Dad whisked me from the airport to lunch, then to the apartment for tours and badges and introductions, the world had already swallowed my only connection to Knox. As if fate had its own fucked-up plans.
Hours later, when I finally realized it was gone, I emptied my purse onto the floor, ripped through my luggage, checked every zipper twice, like maybe it was hiding just to punish me.
The next morning, I even called the airport lost and found, but nothing had been logged.
It was gone. Vanished. And believe me, I would’ve called his bubble phone from my real phone.
But thanks to Knox’s bubble security—something about hidden numbers and blocked caller IDs so our real worlds couldn’t overlap—I never had the phone number.
Cute when he said it, frustrating as hell now.
“You really miss him, huh?” Paxton’s question pulls me back to earth.
I nod, tracing condensation down the side of my glass.
“Him and those kittens. I want to kick myself for not getting his real number, his last name. But I made those stupid rules to protect myself, and in the end, Knox didn’t want me to feel pressured.
He wanted it to be my decision to reach out, if that’s what I wanted. ”
Losing that phone didn’t just mean losing a number. It meant losing my chance to tell him how I really feel. Knox probably thinks I chose not to reach out. That I came back to New York and moved on, just like I promised I wouldn’t. And maybe that’s what hurts most of all.
Paxton studies me for a moment, something thoughtful softening his grin. “So what’s the plan? You just gonna mope forever, or you want me to help fix it?”
Not sure what he’d do that I haven’t already tried.
I don’t have Millie’s number, not on my real phone, anyway.
And Paxton snagged the house-sitting gig through some website.
All communication went through their portal, so he never had Millie’s number or email.
I even called the Crystal Cove vet clinic, hoping Dex might be able to help.
But the woman who answered said both Dex and Dr. Ochoa will be out until next week.
She didn’t know Knox, didn’t know me, and wasn’t about to pass along anyone’s number.
Client confidentiality, she said, cheerfully ruining my day.
I lift a brow, chewing the last bite of my Monte Cristo. “As if you can fix heartbreak.”
“Please. I practically have a PhD in heartbreak recovery.” He sits forward, eyes brightening. “Now, you went to Vermont, right? His grandparents’ place?”
“Yeah.”
“So do you remember where?”
I hesitate. “Not exactly. But maybe…from the hospital. I think I could find the route if I saw landmarks again.”
Paxton grins like a plan’s already taking shape.
“Then that’s it. ROAD trip!” His loud squeal and clapping startle a couple at the next table.
“I’ll drive. We find the house, then bam, your epic love story finale practically writes itself.
Cue the swelling music, tearful kiss, and me graciously accepting Best Supporting Friend. ”
I slurp my lemonade, head tilted as I consider my bestie’s offer. “Okay. But there’s a gala Friday night. Promised Dad I’d go.”
“No worries.” He shrugs, completely unbothered. “We’ll leave Saturday morning. Vermont or bust. And if this doesn’t work, you and I will take a trip to Crystal Cove and have a chat with Ms. Palmer.”
I shake my head, already beaming inside and out. Somewhere between the city noise and Paxton’s ridiculous optimism, the knot inside me loosens.
Sunlight shifts, gold tones dancing across the sun-warmed iron table, fragile, fleeting, as if my dark shades are suddenly rose-colored.
I lean back and take in the city that’s supposed to be my new beginning.
The world moseys on.
Maybe someday I will, too. If I can keep up with Paxton’s level of hope.
Crystals drip from chandeliers, light flickering over champagne flutes and sequined gowns. The ballroom glows like a heartbeat, all deep reds, golds, and upbeat jazz pulsing through the lustrous crowd.
I smooth a hand over the black satin of my gown, the silver strap glinting like armor polished for show.
Dad’s standing by the stage, laughing with a cluster of executives beneath a banner that reads Nora Beaumont Heart Health Awareness Gala – Presented by Beaumont Group. The logo, a gold heart encircled by light, beats across the massive LED screen like it’s alive.
I didn’t want to come. But Dad asked, and I couldn’t say no, especially when it’s for a good cause: raising awareness for the heart condition that took Mom from us.
Servers weave between tables with trays of sparkling wine, and for a second, I almost reach for one before remembering no alcohol, doctor’s orders. So I clutch a flute of seltzer instead, bubbles fizzing like nerves under my skin.
I drift toward the back of the room, slipping past silk gowns and practiced smiles, wishing I were anywhere else.
Crystal Cove. With Knox.
Where life still felt simple even when it wasn’t.
I make my way through the crowd, the hum of conversation wrapping around me.
Dad spots me before I reach him, grin spreading wide. “There she is.” He leans in, kisses my cheek, and squeezes my hand. “You look beautiful, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
His attention flicks past my shoulder. “Oh, perfect timing. Ryder’s here. You’ll be working together. You’ll like him.”
I turn—and my heart stops.
Knox.
He stands only a few feet away, immaculate in a tux that fits like a second skin, every inch of him composed and familiar. But his eyes, those gorgeous, unforgettable onyx eyes, betray him. Recognition. Shock. Maybe the same punch to the gut I’m feeling.
“Ryder,” Dad continues, oblivious, “this is Frankie, my daughter. And Frankie, this is my business partner, Ryder.”
Knox’s mouth twitches like he’s swallowing words. “Frankie?” He clears his throat, as if the name scraped its way through disbelief.
I manage a tight smile. “Ryder?”
Dad glances between us, curious. “I’m sorry…have you two already met?”
“No,” we lie in unison, too fast, like a reflex we both wish we didn’t have.
I extend a shaky hand. “Nice to meet you. And only my dad, and my late mother, call me that. It’s Francesca Camille. Cami for short.”
Knox clears his throat, his grip firm and warm, electricity unfurling up my arm. God, please tell me Dad didn’t see that.
“Mont here calls me Ryder. Full name’s Knox Ryder.”
“Wait…” A snicker breaks free. “Mont?”
Dad chuckles, proud. “Short for Beaumont.”
“Your father and I’ve never really been on a first-name basis,” Knox explains as if this is the most relevant detail in the room. “When he began calling me Ryder, he immediately became Mont.”
My pulse ricochets. My glass trembles, bubbles racing upward like the air’s too thin for this bizarre new world I’ve fallen into.
One where my summer fling and my dad already have nicknames.
A world where our epic love story finale doesn’t end with swelling music or a tearful kiss.
No. This one ends with my overprotective father’s disapproval.
Because no version of Oliver Beaumont will allow his business partner to fall for his daughter.
Knox’s gaze meets mine over the rim of his glass, and it holds an unspoken reckoning neither of us can outrun.
The room tilts.
Or maybe it’s me.
Heat climbs my neck, and suddenly the glittering chandeliers blur into streaks of light. The crowd’s laughter turns hollow, echoing in my ears like I’m submerged underwater.
I mumble something—an excuse, I think—and slip away, heels clicking too loud on marble flooring that leads to the ladies’ room.
Inside, it’s more marble and mirrors and women reapplying lipstick like the Earth hasn’t started to sway. I grip the sink, splash cold water on my face, and meet my own reflection head-on.
Is this what real-life crossover feels like? Crash. Full-speed. No survivors?
I press a towel to my face, forcing slow breaths. I can’t fall apart here. Not in front of donors and executives and whatever gods of irony orchestrated this mess.
Tucked against the far wall, a velvet-upholstered lounge waits, obnoxiously plush, lending spa vibes to a room funded by five-figure donations. I sink into it, heels slipping off, heart hammering.
I should text Paxton. Let him know our weekend plans are canceled.
Me: Scratch Vermont. You’ll never believe who’s at the gala.
His reply is immediate.
Paxton: Should I be sitting for this?
Me: Knox. Who is apparently my dad’s business partner. They’re literal work husbands with nicknames. Ryder and Mont.
Paxton: GIRL. What the actual hell? Are you okay??
Me: Nope. I need tequila. But I can’t drink. So I ran to the ladies’ room instead. I have to pull it together and go back out there.
Paxton: Wait. Does your dad know his beloved work bro has been doing the horizontal limbo with his daughter?
Me: Knox and I deserve an Oscar for how well we played it off.
Paxton: What a messy little heartquake.
Paxton: Want me to come rescue you?
Paxton: Start a small fire?
Paxton: I have a lighter and a tendency to overreact.
Me: NO. Haha. I just need to not pass out. And maybe erase the last three months of my life.
Paxton: Oh honey… Deep breaths. Chin up. You’ve got this. Text me updates.
When I finally step back into the ballroom, my pulse has calmed enough to fake composure. Dad’s still talking with Knox near the stage, both of them looking far too at ease. Maybe if I walk slow enough, this night will undo itself. Maybe if I breathe…
Steeling myself, I cross the room and tap Mont’s arm. “Hey, Dad. I think I’m gonna head out.”
He frowns. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just tired. Been here a while.”
“Are you still headed to Vermont with Paxton tomorrow?”
I freeze.
Knox’s glass pauses halfway to his lips. “Vermont?”
Dad chuckles, even more oblivious. “She wants to reconnect with some old friends up there before reporting to the office Monday.”
Knox rocks back on his heels, masking a smirk that can’t quite hide the flicker in his eyes.
“I’ll call an Uber,” I tell Dad quickly.
He waves a hand. “Sweetie, don’t be ridiculous. Stan’s only twelve minutes out. I’ll have him take you home.”
“Dad.” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Your driver doesn’t need to take me.” I flash him my phone. “Uber’s five minutes away.”
“Or”—Knox interjects, that heroic edge threading through—“I can take her.”
My heart trips, his raspy tenor pulling me straight back to Crystal Cove.
Dad turns to him, clearly pleased. “You sure? Upper West Side. The Langley.”
Knox nods. “Of course.”
Dad smiles at me, tenderly, completely unaware of the storm twisting through my chest. “I trust Knox with my life, and yours too.”
If only he knew.