Chapter 30 Spencer
THIRTY
SPENCER
Nothing could’ve been more perfect.
Three days in Paris with Rhea, and somehow it still feels like a dream. A private dream I didn’t know I was allowed to have—until her hand found mine in a crowded museum, until her laughter bounced off the walls of our suite, until I spilled my heart—along with everything else— that first night.
I told her I loved her.
God, I didn’t mean to. But the words tumbled out like gravity, like truth, like breath. And she didn’t say it back. Not in words, anyway. But she kissed me harder, held me longer, whispered things that made me believe maybe—just maybe—she felt it too.
Now, we’re flying home.
She’s curled beside me in the sleeper seat, out cold before we even hit cruising altitude. Her head rests on my shoulder, her fingers loosely curled against my chest.
I don’t move. Won’t move.
This trip might have been for her, but it was everything for me.
We land in Boston, and I don't even pretend I’m heading home. I follow her to the gate for the puddle-jumper back to Maplewick.
“You should go,” she says gently. “It’s only a 45-minute flight. You really don’t need to escort me. Lacey dropped my car off at the airport.”
But I shake my head. “Not a chance.”
So I fly with her. Sit beside her. Squeeze her hand when the plane touches down. And it’s on the airstrip in Maplewick that we say goodbye. She kisses me—soft, grateful, sweet—and thanks me for the hundredth time.
“No,” I whisper, brushing her cheek with the back of my hand. “Thank you. This was… beyond unforgettable. I don’t want it to end.”
But it does.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m back at my place, shoes kicked off, suitcase abandoned. I should sleep. I’m exhausted. But all I can do is think of her. Of us. So I text her.
You awake?
The dots appear almost instantly.
Yes. Can’t sleep.
I hit call without thinking. She answers on the first ring.
“Have you ever been to Sedona?” I ask.
She laughs lightly. “No, but it is on my someday list. Why?”
“Well, I was just thinking. . . “
“Don’t get any big ideas,” she teases.
I smile into the phone. “Too late. I already do. I’ve got an investor thing there next weekend—Saturday to Monday. I was thinking… maybe you’d come. I’d love for you to see it. To be with you. To even show you off a little, if you’re up for it.”
A pause. A breath. Then her voice, firmer now.
“No, Spencer. I can’t go to Sedona next weekend.”
Something shifts. A wall I didn’t see coming.
“I’m a mom,” she says. “I’ve just been away from Esme for three whole days. I won’t see her until after work tomorrow—today, whatever. I can’t even think of being gone again.”
I try to keep it light. “Okay. I get it. Just a thought.”
“And no,” she adds, sharper now, “you shouldn’t call Laney and arrange it as a surprise.”
That stings. I flinch, even though she can’t see it.
I say quietly. “Okay. I understand. I should’ve thought…”
There’s silence. And then, softer, wearier: “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I’m just so tired. And I miss her so much.”
That I understand. So I pivot. I do what I’ve always done when something feels broken—I try to fix it.
“How about you bring her?” I say. “I can have Gina arrange for onsite care. We can get a suite that has a separate space, and—”
“Damn it, Spencer!”
Her voice cuts through the line like glass.
“I said I can’t. I can’t be away from Esme again, and no—I’m sure as hell not hauling her across the country so we can go off and leave her with some perfect stranger. You don’t get it. You really don’t.”
I don’t say anything.
She keeps going, the words coming faster now, jagged at the edges.
“You have no idea what my life is actually like. It’s not room service and private jets and wine on balconies.
Parenthood is constant and relentless and all-consuming.
And I’m not living in a world where someone else takes over when I’m tired.
She depends on me. And I can’t be her mom and play the part of your jet-set girlfriend. ”
I can’t speak. I don’t think she means to be cruel. But God, it hurts. Like being punched in the gut.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Get some sleep. Maybe we’ll talk later in the week.”
And I hang up. Not because I want to punish her. But if I try to say anything else right now, she’ll hear it.
The hurt in my voice.
The ache I can’t swallow.
As I lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling, suddenly our fairytale weekend in France feels a million miles away.