Chapter 29 Rhea
TWENTY-NINE
RHEA
“Rhea, I love you.”
He says it just as we fall over the edge, every part of him tangled with every part of me.
Three words—soft, breathless, stunned into the dim silence of the morning light. Like he didn’t mean to say them out loud but couldn’t help himself.
As we collapse onto the bed, his arm and leg still around me, my mind is spinning.
I have no idea how to respond.
Not because I don’t feel something. God, I feel everything. But because I don’t know what the truth would look like if I said it back. Not with what I’m holding inside.
He doesn’t know the whole truth. The truth about Esme, his daughter.
He must sense it—that I’ve gone suddenly still. Because a beat later, he murmurs, “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I wasn’t planning to say that. It just... was there.” He runs a hand through his hair,. “It’s not… I mean, it’s not that it isn’t true.”
More silence from me. More fear. More uncertainty.
“I am falling in love with you, Rhea. I can’t hide from that. But it wasn’t fair to drop that on you. I’m not trying to rush you.”
“I don’t think you’re trying to rush me.” I say, squeezing his hand. “And there’s certainly nothing to apologize for.”
Still, I know it’s not enough, so I add, “Spencer, there’s no place I’d rather be than here with you. And not just France, I mean anywhere. As long as I’m with you.”
He exhales and pulls me close. “You’ve lived in my head for over two years. That’s not your fault. It’s just the way it’s been.”
He smiles, but I can see the layers of him beneath it. This man, who always seems composed, looks so vulnerable.
And it’s beautiful. He’s so beautiful.
“No pressure. No expectations. I promise. But I do need one thing from you.” He says.
“What’s that?”
“Promise me you’ll let go of whatever worry is weighing you down. Just for the next two days. Just while we're here. Let’s just be here, in the moment, for two more days. Whatever else needs to get figured out, it can wait until we’re home.”
It’s both the permission I crave and the promise I know I shouldn’t make. Permission to keep my secret a bit longer. The promise to continue deceiving him while we’re here.
My throat tightens, “I promise,” I whisper, kissing his hand, but I don’t keep my eyes from glassing over.
“I think I’m just... it’s Esme. I worry…I realized in the night how far away I am. If anything were to happen—”
He’s already reaching for his phone.
“It’s about nine at home,” he says. “Use mine. Call Laney. Check in. I’m going to jump in the shower.”
He disappears into the bathroom, and I just sit there, holding his phone.
And my heart.
And the truth.
Because when, exactly, do you tell someone something like this?
I call Laney.
I hear Esme’s sweet chatter in the background. And I push the truth to the back of my throat again, where it’s lived for two years. Where it’s sharp and painful and begging to be set free.
And then we go out.
I don’t tell him the truth while we sip espresso in the quiet morning café near Rue Cler, or when we stroll hand in hand through the Musée de l'Orangerie, standing in front of Monet’s water lilies like they might whisper answers if we’re still enough.
I don’t tell him while we climb the winding steps of Montmartre, our fingers laced, or while we pause for crepes beneath the shadow of Sacré-C?ur.
And I certainly don’t tell him while we sit across from each other at that candlelit bistro on the Left Bank, a string quartet playing something delicate in the corner, and he lifts his glass to toast “to second chances and the woman who made Paris feel new again.”
On Sunday morning, Spencer has something even more unexpected planned.
We leave the city by car this time, Spencer at the wheel, gliding through golden morning light as Paris fades behind us and the countryside opens wide.
He doesn’t say much, just reaches for my hand every so often, thumb brushing mine in a soft rhythm that settles my nerves.
We turn off the main highway onto a narrow two-lane road, hemmed in by golden fields and rows of towering poplars. The landscape is quilted with vineyards and sunflower patches, each turn revealing a new postcard view.
Soon, the road winds us into a quiet village—cobblestone streets, slate roofs, and white stone walls washed in the soft light of early afternoon. There’s a small square with a fountain in the center and a café where two men sit playing pétanque.
It feels suspended in time.
Spencer slows to a stop near a weathered sign that reads: Bienvenue à Saint-Rémy-sur-Couronne.
No traffic, no rush.
Just the sound of birdsong and the occasional clink of ceramic cups from the café patio. I step out of the car and breathe in something that feels impossibly clean, like warm stone and lavender and fresh bread.
“This way,” Spencer says.
We walk slowly, hand in hand. He points out a narrow stucco building with blue shutters and window boxes overflowing with geraniums.
“That’s where I stayed,” he says, gesturing to a small ground-level door tucked beneath a flowering trellis. “Modest living space, a small kitchen, a little bedroom, and a bathroom. Small but sweet and... safe, somehow.”
He pauses, a smile tugging at his mouth.
“The landlord lived next door with his big ugly dog, whose name was Chocolat’ and growled every time I said bonjour. I don’t think he liked my accent.”
I laugh, picturing him here, limping down these quiet streets, learning the rhythm of another life. I can feel how deeply this place lives in him. And strangely, it begins to live in me too.
Around the corner, we pass a tiny épicerie with dusty wine bottles and jars of honey in the window. Just beyond that is the bakery.
It’s a low stone building with ivy creeping up the walls and faded red shutters. The scent of warm bread drifts toward us before we even reach the door. A hand-painted sign swings gently above the entry: Boulangerie Henri.
Everything about it feels like a memory I never had.
And just like that, I’m back in my own living room—watching Esme on the floor, barefoot in her pajamas, carefully lining up the wooden croissant, baguette, and pain au chocolat from the Boulangerie Esme play set Spencer sent.
She presses the toy croissant to her lips, grinning as she declares, “Yummy! Yummy!”
Her voice echoes through me now, warm and high and certain, as if it’s stitched into the walls of this place I’ve never been. My heart aches for missing her.
A bell jingles as Spencer pushes the door open, and we’re instantly wrapped in warmth—and the scent of butter, caramelized sugar, and something nutty baking in the back.
“Henri! It’s me—Spencer!” he calls out, his voice bright with affection.
A little round man with a gruff voice and a generous dusting of flour on his shirt emerges from the kitchen, spectacles sliding down his nose.
“Only an American would barge in, interrupt a man’s work, and announce himself like royalty,” he mutters—but there’s a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.
Before I can say a word, Henri pulls Spencer into a brief, firm hug, clapping him once on the back.
Spencer straightens. “Henri,” he says, “this is Rhea.”
Henri’s demeanor softens. He steps forward, takes my hand in both of his, and presses a light kiss to the back of it. His eyes study me for a moment, curious, like he’s solving a mystery.
“Rhea,” he says, drawing out the name like a melody. Then he turns to Spencer and murmurs, in French, “Pas étonnant que ton c?ur ait été si brisé par son absence.”
I assume Henri doesn’t think I can understand every word.
No wonder your heart was so broken by her absence.
He brings us pastries—almond croissants, pain au chocolat, and a dense little tart he says is made with mirabelle plums from his wife's recipe.
We sit on the patio behind the bakery, beneath a wisteria vine just beginning to bloom. The table wobbles, and the plates are mismatched, but I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.
I take a bite of the tart and close my eyes. “Oh my god,” I murmur, “This is…”
“Perfect?” Spencer offers.
“No.” I open my eyes, lock them on his. “Better.”
And that’s when it slips out—so quiet I don’t even realize I’ve said it aloud.
“Wouldn’t it be great to just stay here. You and I...and Ez?”
He reaches for my hand and squeezes it, and without hesitation, says, “Yes.”