Chapter 14 Spencer
FOURTEEN
SPENCER
The inn is exactly what I expected.
Stone walkways, manicured hedges, a little too much lavender in the landscaping. The kind of place where money doesn’t shout—it whispers in teak lounge chairs and custom monograms on the cocktail napkins.
Isabell - playing her role as my girlfriend this weekend—slips her arm through mine as we step into the pre-rehearsal happy hour.
“Do we look convincingly smitten?” she murmurs.
“You’re nailing it,” I reply under my breath, as we approach the arched doorway leading into the cocktail hour.
The scent of citrus and champagne greets us first.
Then Carter.
“C. Banks! How the hell are you?” he calls out, arms spread wide.
Isabelle glances at me, confused. “C. Banks?”
“Nickname from college. ‘Cash Banks.’ Carter thought it was hilarious. Mr. Money Bags himself.”
She laughs, then extends a hand to Carter. “Isabelle. It’s a pleasure.”
He takes it. “Likewise. You’re a brave woman, spending the weekend with this guy.”
“I can handle it,” she says, winking at me and squeezing my hand.
“So, are you ready for this?” I ask Carter. “The big leap?”
He shrugs, casually. “I don’t know. It just feels like the next step, you know?”
Isabelle beams. “Well, if Serena looks half as stunning walking down the aisle as she did in that engagement photo, it’s going to be a fairytale.”
“Damnedest part of this whole event?” Carter adds. “No time for a round of golf.”
“Actually,” I say, “I’ve hung up my clubs.”
Carter pauses. “What the hell do you mean?”
“I took a little tumble in a bike race. Nearly two years ago now. Didn’t quite cost me my life—but between the shoulder and the knee, it definitely cost me my swing.”
“Shit,” he says. “If I’d known that, I’d have already cut you out of my address book.”
We laugh, and for a moment, it’s easy. Familiar.
Then Carter glances toward the far end of the room.
“Ah, perfect timing,” he says. “Cash, we’ve paired you with my sister in the wedding party.”
He turns to Isabelle. “Don’t worry—she’s a single mom. Not really Cash’s type, I’m pretty sure.”
Then, raising his hand, he calls out, “Rhea!”
And I freeze.
The name hits me like a snapped string.
Rhea?
No. It can’t be.
But then I see her.
Stepping into the room, framed by warm lamplight and the hum of early evening laughter, her hair gathered loosely, eyes scanning the crowd. And then her gaze— landing on us.
Landing on me.
The room tilts on its axis.
What the fuck?
Rhea Sinclair is Carter’s sister? Carter fucking Ellison’s sister?
I feel my limbs go cold.
She’s even more beautiful than I remember—radiant in a simple dress that does nothing to disguise her elegance. Her mouth parts when our eyes meet, and in that one look, everything crashes back into me.
The night at the gala. Her glow.
Unzipping her dress. Watching it fall to the floor. Exploring every inch of her.
Exchanging French phrases.
The note I kept in my wallet for over a year.
And now, here she is. Walking toward us. The woman I’ve tried so hard to forget.
My what if.
And Carter’s little sister.
Shit.