Chapter 32 Spencer
THIRTY-TWO
SPENCER
I don’t know a damn thing about children.
But I do know this little girl might be the most beautiful human I’ve ever seen—after her mother, of course.
I came tonight committed. Committed to stepping into Rhea’s world, to really seeing her life. And I know without a doubt: that means knowing Esme.
I grin when I see the gift I sent—a miniature French bakery play set—spread out across the floor. Wooden baguettes, tiny jam jars, a fabric croissant with hand-stitched flake detail.
Esme holds out her hand, offering one to me.
“Yummy,” she says, proudly. “Sant.”
“Croissant?” I ask, crouching to her level. “Looks delicious.”
She beams and hands it to me like it’s the finest offering in the world.
Her eyes are Rhea’s—soft and stormy—and her energy is entirely her own: bubbly, bright, humming with curiosity. She laughs to herself, then looks to me, waiting for my reaction like I’m already part of the joke.
Rhea is attempting to tidy up. I can tell, but I pretend not to notice.
The scent of melted cheese and something vaguely herby drifts toward me.
“I didn’t know librarians could cook, too,” I say, as she walks back into the room.
She rolls her eyes with a crooked smile. “Yes, we’re full of surprises. And our Friday night specialty is frozen pizza. Lucky for you, we always keep a spare in case someone seeks shelter from the rain.”
She slips back into the kitchen, and I hear the clatter of a dishwasher being either emptied or loaded. Then she’s back.
“Can I offer you a beer?” she asks sheepishly. “I have exactly two in the fridge. Both Coronas. Kind of fancy. Or would you prefer wine with your pizza?”
“A Corona is my preferred pairing for frozen pizza,” I say with a wink.
Dinner is… fun.
The three of us gather at a little drop-leaf table tucked into the kitchen nook. Esme sits proudly in her high chair, pizza slice in hand.
Except—she doesn’t eat it like any human I’ve seen. First, she scrapes the toppings off with her fingers and eats those. Then, she licks the sauce clean off the crust. Finally, she gnaws on what remains, occasionally ripping it into pieces with surprising determination.
“This is great entertainment,” I say, laughing. “Seeing Esme do it this way makes me realize how boring I’ve been—always eating pizza in the same, predictable order.”
Rhea smiles, but her eyes stay on Esme. Always scanning.
“Uh-uh,” she says suddenly. “Too much. Spit it out.”
Esme doesn’t.
Before I can blink, Rhea is up, crouched beside the high chair, lifting Esme’s little arms above her head. And just like that—pop—out comes a soggy chunk of crust.
Rhea exhales, pressing a kiss to Esme’s curls like she’s grateful just to breathe again. I feel it, too, in my chest—the invisible weight of what it means to watch every moment because you’re the only safety net your child has.
After dinner, Rhea runs a bath while Esme starts what I quickly learn is a ritual: she goes to the toy box, selects something random, marches it over to me for commentary.
“Ah, yes,” I say solemnly, holding up a plastic banana. “A fine specimen. Clearly imported from the south of France.”
She giggles.
Next, a rubber duck. “Is this... Monsieur Quackers?”
More giggles.
No matter what I say, she laughs. Like I’m the funniest man alive.
And then, I notice Rhea standing in the archway. Watching us.
Her arms are crossed. There’s a softness in her expression, but also something faraway in her eyes.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
She nods, but it doesn’t feel entirely true.
Bath time is chaos and bubbles and joy. Then it’s bedtime stories.
“Choose some books,” Rhea says, and Esme promptly goes to a shelf in the corner like she’s clocking in for duty at the Maplewick Mini Library. She inspects each title, carefully pulling some out, sliding others back. When she’s done, she announces, “All done.”
Rhea peeks at the stack. “Five. Let’s count.”
They count together, tapping the covers. But when Esme grabs an extra book from the shelf, Rhea stays firm.
“Five, Ez. You know the rule.”
I laugh. “But six or seven would be so much more fun.”
Rhea gives me a sideways glance. “No need for commentary from the peanut gallery.”
Then, as she heads for the rocker, Esme grabs my hand.
“Books,” she says, tugging.
I glance at Rhea.
She smiles. “Wow. Lucky you. You’ve been selected as the guest reader. Here—this is the designated reading chair. But remember, we have a strict five-book limit. Any deviation, and we’ll have to revoke your privileges.”
I take a seat, and Esme climbs up into my lap like she’s done it a hundred times. But it’s my first time. And I’m… stunned.
I’ve read to my nephew before—silly voices, exaggerated drama—but never like this. Never holding someone so small. So trusting.
And something about it—her tiny body against my chest, her eyes scanning the pictures as I read—feels so good it scares me a bit.
Rhea takes Esme back to her room to tuck her in, and while they’re gone, I take a slow lap around the little home..
It’s sturdy. Cozy. Lived in.
There are signs of her everywhere—her taste, her presence, her life. Dog-eared books stacked on a side table. A drying rack by the heater filled with tiny socks. A to-do list stuck to the fridge with a crayon magnet that says “Maplewick Reads!”
This is real life.
Her life.
And I’m not just glad to be here—I’m honored.
When Rhea returns, I don’t hesitate. I pull her into my arms and kiss her. Hard. Long. Like I’ve been waiting all week to feel her again.
When I finally pull back, I brush my lips against hers and whisper, “She’s pretty wonderful, you know. Definitely second fiddle to Sedona.”
There’s something in the way she looks at me—wide-eyed, unreadable—but underneath, I see it: vulnerability. And I want her to know. I need her to know.
I’m here.
So I kiss her again, more fiercely this time, backing her into the wall. My desire sparks fast and hot, urgent now, all-consuming.
I’m getting hard from just the taste of her, the thought of what might come next. I slide my hands down the front of her body, pausing at her breasts, gently kneading, fingers teasing over the lace beneath her shirt, before moving down to her waist.
She arches toward me, her hips meeting mine, and the small sounds she makes nearly undo me.
I drop to my knees.
My hands find the button of her jeans, then the zipper. I tug the denim down, slowly, revealing black lace and warm, soft skin.
But just as I lean in, she freezes.
“Stop,” she whispers. “Spencer, stop.”
I look up, startled.
Her hand finds my chin, gently guiding my gaze back to hers.
She buttons her jeans. Zips them.
“Come with me,” she says. “Come sit down. I have something to tell you.”
Her voice is soft. Steady. But there’s a tremor underneath that sends a chill down my spine.
I stand up, trying to change gears.
“What is it?” I ask. “Is everything okay?”
But I already know.
Her eyes won’t meet mine. And the dread hits me fast—tight and hot and ugly.
It’s another man. Has to be.
Esme’s father. Of course. Why else would she stop me like this?
She’s still not speaking. Her silence is sharp, like she’s calculating every syllable.
My chest tightens. My voice is sharper now. “What is it?”
She closes her eyes for a second. Inhales. “I should’ve told you sooner. I know that. And I’m sorry I didn’t. I’m so, so damn sorry.”
My stomach flips. There it is. Definitely another man. The heat rises in my throat, a mix of jealousy, rage, and a gnawing sense of betrayal.
“Told me what?” I say, flat and low.
She’s literally wringing her hands now.
“Spencer… that night at the gala…”
“What about it?” I cut in, my voice edged with frustration. Just say it.
She meets my eyes. “That’s the night she was conceived,” she says quietly. “Esme.”
My ears start to ring.
My vision blurs.
The room tilts.
“You’re her father, Spencer. You’re Esme’s dad.”
I cannot breathe as the entire world narrows down to those three words.
You’re her father.