Chapter Thirty-Seven New Beginnings
Chapter Thirty-Seven
New Beginnings
Frankie
“Mrs. Goldstein, I understand your concerns about the Mediterranean cruise, but I promise you—the railings are perfectly safe.”
I’m sitting in my tiny office above a bagel shop in Hoboken, talking an eighty-year-old woman off the ledge about handrail height regulations while simultaneously trying to ignore the smell of everything seasoning wafting up through the floorboards.
Two months ago, I was sleeping on Tessa’s couch and entering data about toilet paper purchases. Now I’m the proud owner of Golden Adventures, a luxury travel company for seniors who want to see the world without breaking a hip.
It’s not exactly what I planned, but turns out Charles’s money came with a purpose. Who knew?
“And what about the food?” Mrs. Goldstein continues. “My Harold has very specific dietary needs.”
“We work with the cruise line to accommodate all dietary restrictions. Harold’s low-sodium, gluten-free requirements will be handled by the executive chef personally.”
“Executive chef? How fancy.”
I grin. “Very fancy. Think of it as Downton Abbey, but on water. With better Wi-Fi.”
She laughs, and I know I’ve got her.
After we hang up, I lean back in my office chair and stare at the vision board Tessa forced me to make. Pictures of exotic destinations. Happy elderly couples holding hands on beaches. A photo of Charles and me in Provence that makes my chest ache every time I look at it.
My phone buzzes. It’s an email from another potential client.
Dear Golden Adventures,
My wife and I are interested in your “Romance in Rome” package for our 50th anniversary. We’re both in our seventies and want to recreate our honeymoon—only now we have bad knees and a better budget.
Please advise.
Best, Richard Allen
I’m typing a response when I hear footsteps on the stairs. Heavy. Deliberate. Definitely not Mrs. Kowalski from the bagel shop coming up to complain about my music again.
The door opens.
My fingers freeze over the keyboard.
Hayes Winters stands in my doorway of my tiny office, wearing a charcoal gray suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent. His hair’s shorter than I remember, and there’s something different about his face. Less rigid. Like someone loosened a screw I didn’t know was there.
“Hi.”
The word comes out smaller than I intended. My heart’s doing this stupid hummingbird thing against my ribs.
“Hello, Francesca.” He steps inside, closing the door behind him. “Nice place.”
I glance around my shoebox office with its mismatched furniture and motivational posters. “It’s not much, but—”
“I wasn’t being sarcastic.”
Our eyes meet. Hold.
God, I’ve missed looking at him.
“What are you doing here?”
“I heard about your business. Golden Adventures.” He moves closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne. The same one he wore on the yacht. The one that still makes my brain short-circuit. “Congratulations.”
“How did you hear about it?”
“Charles left me his subscription to Travel + Leisure. There was an article.”
Travel + Leisure wrote about me? Holy shit.
“Small piece,” Hayes continues, like he can read my thoughts. “But they called you ‘innovative’ and ‘compassionate.’ Said you were revolutionizing senior travel.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “It’s just . . . I wanted to do something that mattered. Something Charles would have been proud of.”
“He would have been.”
The certainty in his voice makes my throat tight.
Hayes glances at my vision board, his gaze lingering on the photo of Charles and me. “You look happy in that picture.”
“I was.”
“And now?”
The question hangs between us like a loaded gun.
“Now I’m . . .” I gesture vaguely at my office. “Building something. Moving forward.”
“Good. That’s good.”
We stand there, staring at each other. Two months of missing him crashes over me all at once. The way we bantered. How he’d frown when he was concentrating. The sound of his laugh when I caught him off guard.
How he held me when Charles died.
“Frankie—”
My desk phone rings, shattering the moment.
“I should . . .” I reach for it, grateful for the interruption.
“Golden Adventures, this is Frankie.”
“Ms. Anderson? This is Patricia Gallagher. I’m calling about your ‘Tuscan Dreams’ package.”
Patricia Gallagher. As in, Gallagher Textiles? As in, billionaire widow who could fund my entire company with her jewelry budget?
I meet Hayes’s eyes and mouth important call.
He nods and settles into the chair across from my desk. Not leaving. Just . . . waiting.
“Mrs. Gallagher, how can I help you?”
“Well, I’m planning a trip for twelve of my closest friends. We’re all in our seventies, and we want to celebrate my late husband’s birthday in style. He always loved Italy.”
Twelve wealthy widows. In Tuscany. My brain starts calculating commission rates.
“That sounds wonderful. When were you thinking?”
“October. We’d require private villas, reservations at Michelin-starred restaurants, personal sommeliers, but we’d want to make sure we were getting a deal.”
I’m trying to focus on her requirements, but Hayes is sitting three feet away, watching me work. His presence fills my tiny office until there’s barely room for anything else.
“Absolutely. We can arrange private cooking classes with renowned chefs, wine tastings at family-owned vineyards . . .”
Hayes’s mouth quirks up at the corner. He’s impressed.
“And transportation?” she asks.
“Private luxury coaches with experienced drivers who know the region intimately.”
“And the pricing?”
“I’m confident we can work within whatever budget you had in mind.”
“Perfect. When can we meet?”
“I’m free tomorrow afternoon—”
“Actually,” Hayes interrupts, “tomorrow’s not good.”
I blink at him. Mrs. Gallagher’s still talking, but all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears.
Did he just . . . ?
“Mrs. Gallagher, could I call you back in one hour to confirm our meeting time?”
After I hang up, I slowly turn to face Hayes.
“Did you just interrupt my phone call?”
“You can’t meet with her tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re having dinner with me.”
The words hit me like a slap. Not a request. A statement.
“Excuse me?”
Hayes stands up, moving around my desk until he’s close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“I said you’re having dinner with me tomorrow night.”
“That’s incredibly presumptuous.”
“Is it wrong?”
My mouth opens. Closes. No words come out.
Because the truth is, if Hayes Winters asked me to dinner tomorrow night—or any night—I’d probably say yes. Even though he broke my heart. Even though he ran away when things got real.
Even though I’m terrified of letting him close enough to hurt me again.
“Why?” I manage.
“Because I’ve spent two months missing you. Because I’ve been going to therapy and learning how to not be a complete emotional disaster. Because I’m tired of pretending I don’t think about you every single day.”
My heart stops.
“And because,” he continues, leaning closer, “I’m pretty sure you’ve been missing me too.”
He’s right. God help me, he’s so right it hurts.
“One dinner,” I hear myself say.
“One dinner.”
“Not a date.”
His smile is pure sin. “Definitely not a date.”
He turns to leave, then pauses at the door.
“Wear something nice. But not too nice. And Frankie?”
“Yeah?”
“Cancel your afternoon meeting. You’re going to be busy tomorrow.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with the smell of bagels and the terrifying realization that Hayes Winters just steamrolled his way back into my life.
And I’m not even mad about it.
Shit.