Chapter 20 Spencer
TWENTY
SPENCER
She’s so damn beautiful.
And funny. And kind. And real.
I watch her swirl the last of her wine, trying to figure out where to start. When she finally looks up at me, she says, “So, it’s been a long time…”
I swallow.
Wanting to be careful.
Wanting to do this right.
“I meant what I said earlier. I should have reached out. The very next day.” I pause. “I regret that I didn’t.”
She studies me. Eyes full of caution, like she’s trying to assess the likelihood that I’m being honest—or just another man rewriting history to make himself more palatable.
At last, she says quietly, “I did.”
My heart stutters. “You did?”
She doesn’t blink. “I texted. About a week later. And then, again… a couple of months after that.”
I go cold.
“Texted,” I repeat, already reaching for my phone like an idiot. “I—I don’t think I ever got any texts from you.”
And just like that, I sound like every other asshole who ghosted a woman and then pretended he had no idea. I’m scrolling. Fast. Pointlessly. It’s been nearly two years.
I consider telling her about the accident.
It’s my instinct. But I worry it will come off as a play for sympathy. Anyway, it doesn’t account for not calling her that first day. Or even the second.
She watches me with that same expression—guarded, hurt, and trying not to show it.
“Well,” she says, her voice light but forced, “maybe your assistant intercepted them.”
“No.” I shake my head. “She doesn’t screen my texts. I gave you my number because I hoped you would reach out. I remember you tucking it into your purse, making a joke—something about book recommendations—but I hoped you would. I hoped it wasn’t a joke.”
Still, she’s silent. Her eyes are glassy now.
I reach across the bar and take her hand. “I kept your note,” I whisper. “I still have it.”
I don’t wait for her to ask. “Aimer, c’est agir.” I remind her.
Her eyes are wide, as if I’ve startled her. Then tears come silently slipping down her cheeks.
“You did?” she asks, her voice a thread.
“I did.”
And then Carter shows up. Of course.
I gently pull my hand away. “Your brother’s about to check in on us,” I say as she wipes her cheeks and forces a smile.
“Hey,” Carter grins, strolling over, “what are you two up to—talking strategy for your big Step… Together… Step down the aisle tomorrow?”
“You caught us,” I say, managing a grin.
“Hey, sis,” he says, turning to Rhea. “Did you ever get anything to eat? They’re boxing up extra chicken and risotto—it’s cold, but it’s all paid for.”
“Actually,” Rhea chuckles, “I’d love some cold chicken and risotto.”
She looks suddenly tired. Vulnerable. But not one bit less beautiful.
Carter turns to me. “How about you, big guy? You into the leftover scene, or does Gina not allow that?”
I laugh. “Why not? I’ll have what she’s having.”
He nods and heads off.
Rhea looks at me, brow pinched. “Gina?”
“My assistant,” I say, then sigh. “The woman who tries to run every corner of my life. The one who once worried you might come back around, looking for a payout.”
Her face changes. I can see it. Tightens. Withdraws.
I rush to explain. “I didn’t agree with her. I told her you weren’t like that.”
She doesn’t speak.
“She called the morning after the gala. She has spies everywhere,” I say, trying to add some humor. “I told her you weren’t like that. I knew it then, and I know it now.”
Still nothing. Just that flicker in her eyes. A step backward in real time.
Then Carter’s interrupting again—with the damn food—and he pulls up a chair. Rhea slips back into cheerful sister mode, all composure and good humor.
When he finally disappears, I lean closer. “Hey. What I said earlier… about Gina…”
“It’s okay,” she says quickly, cutting me off. “I get it. It’s her job to protect you from women like me.”
I flinch. “Women like you?”
“Yes. Women who have less, but might want more.”
My jaw tightens. “It’s not like that. You’re not like that. I know you’re not.”
But I can already see it in her eyes—I’ve missed something. Something important. I said something wrong. Again.
She stands. “It’s time for me to turn in. Big day tomorrow. It’s been good to… catch up a bit.”
Panic rises in my chest. I can’t let this be the end. I stand too, trying to stay casual, trying not to let my angst show.
“Let me walk you to your room,” I say, instantly regretting it. Everything that comes out of my mouth tonight makes me sound like Mr. Smooth.
“I’m okay,” she says—too quickly. Like she’s trying to convince us both.
I reach out and touch her shoulder, just enough to get her to face me.
“That came out wrong,” I say. “I just. . . how about breakfast? Can I take you to breakfast tomorrow? Or lunch if you're not a breakfast person? Hanover’s a great town. Lots of good food.”
She studies me again, like I’m a map she’s trying to figure out how to read. Whether or not I’m safe terrain.
At last, she says, “Okay. Sure. I’d like that.”
“Great,” I say, smiling. “How about you text or call in the morning and let me know what works? I think we have to be picture-ready by 2:30.”
She laughs. “Actually, the women get to start playing beauty shop at 11:30, so… breakfast it is. I’m an early riser.”
I laugh—partly because I’m happy. Partly because I know what’s coming next.
I pull out my phone. “I’m not sure I have your number…”
She waves me off with a smirk. “I’ll text you. Just to remind you whose name my number belongs to.”
She pulls out her phone and types aloud:
Spencer, my name is Rhea. We met at the Pixel and Paper Gala in Washington, D.C., two years ago in June. Turns out I’m Carter Ellingson’s kid sister.
We’re both laughing when she hits send. The little swoosh sound rings from her end.
But on mine? Nothing.
“I’m not getting it,” I say, still grinning. “Damn. Now I’ll never remember who you are.”
Then I see her face change.
“What’s your number?” she asks. Her voice is suddenly tight. She looks pale, like she’s just seen a ghost.
I give it to her digit by digit, while she stares, her hand rising slowly to her forehead.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “Spencer… I’ve had the wrong number. I had the last digit as a 1, not a 7.”
Her distress is so immediate, so real, I try to lighten the moment.
“Probably my damn handwriting,” I say. “It gets worse by the year. You know—old-school pixel vs. paper dilemma.”
But it’s like she’s not even hearing me.
“I can’t believe it,” she says, voice breaking. “I had the wrong number. And the woman… the woman was your sister.”
That stops me cold.
“What woman?” I ask slowly.
“When you didn’t respond to my texts, I went to your company’s website to see if I could find another way to contact you. And there you were. At some kind of family appreciation picnic. With a woman and a child. I just assumed…”
“That it was my wife and kid,” I finish for her. My voice is like gravel. “Of course you did.”
Because that’s what the optics were designed to do. One fucking PR stunt after another. Keep the vultures away. Keep me untouchable.
But this time? This time it cost me.
“It was the next day.” Her voice trembles. “The photo was dated the next day. I thought you’d gone straight from me… to a picnic with…them.” She’s crying now, “But Isabelle told me it was your sister and nephew.”
I don’t hesitate. I reach for her, pull her close, and she collapses into my chest, sobbing. Her entire body shakes against mine. And somewhere beneath the ache in my ribs, I feel the sting of my own tears.
Two years.
Two lost, aching, wasted years.
The hardest years of my life—and I could’ve had her beside me.
If only I’d written more clearly.
If only I’d reached out first.
If only I hadn’t let the PR team drag me into one more perfect, staged lie.
If only.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, holding her tighter. “I’m so goddamn sorry.”