Eggs & Evergreens
Chapter fifty-five
Eslin
The morning after, I wake to the smell of bacon and the soft crackle of a skillet. For a moment, I just lie there, cocooned in warmth, listening to Grant hum low under his breath as he moves around the kitchen. When I finally pull myself from the bed and wander into the great room, I pause.
The scene is like something out of a Christmas card—minus the snow.
The lake glitters beneath the pale winter sun, pine trees sway outside the tall glass windows, and the house feels alive with the glow of the fire and the smell of breakfast. Even without garlands or twinkling lights, it feels like Christmas. Cozy. Magical. Mine.
I have never thought much about the kind of Christmases I’d have as an adult.
I grew used to a patchwork of borrowed traditions—whatever hodgepodge of a celebration I’d been invited to, whatever table had room for me that year.
But if I had dared to picture something for myself, something pulled straight from my wildest dreams, it would be this. This place. This man. This feeling.
Grant stands at the stove in nothing but a pair of low-slung sweatpants, spatula in one hand, coffee mug in the other, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be half-naked in this massive luxury lake house flipping bacon…
for me. His hair is a mess, sticking up every which way, and I can’t stop smiling.
It’s perfect. For once, everything feels uncomplicated.
“Good morning,” I say, smiling, and he greets me with that beautiful grin of his.
“Good morning, Sunshine. Sleep well?” he asks, lifting his mug for another sip of coffee.
“I did. Those pillows are magical.”
“Glad you liked it.”
“You’re pretty magical too,” I tease, stepping beside him as he flips an egg—over easy, just the way I like it.
He bends and presses a kiss to my forehead. “The magic only comes alive for you, Eslin Saunders.”
“And you better keep it that way, Mister. I’d hate to have to cut a bitch.”
His laugh rumbles through the kitchen. “I can’t say I’ve ever had violence used as an expression of love, but I kinda like it.”
The word love makes my gaze snap to him. My lips part, my heart stutters. “You know…you said you loved me last night?”
“I’m aware,” he grins, eyes steady on mine.
“And that—” The words dry out, falling flat on my lips.
He leans down, fingers tilting my chin, and kisses me softly. “And I meant it.”
Relief and joy flood through me, and I smile. “Good. ’Cause I think I love you too.”
His brow lifts. “Think?”
I shrug, half nervous, half playful. “I can’t say I’ve ever been in love before.”
“And what makes you think you might be now?”
I sigh, checking items off my love list one by one. “The impossible pull you have on me. The way I feel instantly at ease with you, like I can actually be myself. And the fact that you cut a bald spot into my head and I’m still here, giving you my body like some weak-willed woman.”
That makes us both laugh, the sound bouncing warm off the massive lake house walls.
“I love it here,” I admit, my grin softer this time. “And…I love you.”
He kisses me again, lingering. “Say it again.”
“I love you, Grant Mills.”
Another kiss, deeper. “I thought I was your mister?”
“You like sounding like my paid escort, huh?”
“No,” he says, his lips grazing mine. “I like sounding like I’ve got something from you no one else does. My name. My claim.”
“Fine. I love you too, my Mister.”
And then it happens—the sharp crunch of tires against gravel outside. The sound slices through the air, shattering our fragile, morning-after peace.
I move toward the window just as the door bursts open, cold air sweeping inside. And there they are—Marlow, eyes wide and wild, and Declan, jaw tight, shoulders squared like he’s ready for war.
And all I can think as I spin around is that Grant Mills is standing in the kitchen half-naked, frying bacon, while I’m still in his T-shirt.
Marlow’s gaze sweeps the room, sharp and cutting, until it lands on me—then on Grant. Her whole face twists, her shock boiling into rage.
“What the actual fuck?!?” she screams, her voice sharp as glass. “This is where you’ve been? With him?”
Her hand flings toward Grant like an accusation before snapping back to me. “Daddy? Her?!”
The words hit harder than the cold gust of wind rushing in behind her. My chest caves, the air sucked right out of me.
I move past Grant, my hands half-raised, desperate to reach her. “Low, I can explain.”
She jerks back like I’ve burned her. “Explain? He’s shirtless. You’re wearing said shirt. No explanation needed, Eslin!”
“Marlow, please,” Grant says behind me, his voice careful, as if stepping closer to a wild animal on the verge of breaking.
But she only turns back to me, her eyes glassy, furious.
“Shaun Kennedy had one more trick up his sleeve before he was shipped off to Europe. My marriage to Declan is now splashed all over the fucking media. And you? You’re here. Fucking my father?”
Grant moves closer, the weight of his presence shifting the room, his voice edged with both confusion and temper. “I’m sorry. Did you just say you were married?”
Marlow
I woke up at 4 a.m. to my phone buzzing off the nightstand like it’s possessed. A barrage of calls, texts, emails—every single one of them screaming at me to look. Most from Tatum, others from PR staff, a few from numbers I don’t even recognize. My stomach drops before I even swipe the screen.
I ignore all of them except Tatum and call her back immediately, tiptoeing out of bed so I don’t wake Declan. My voice is barely a whisper. “What the hell is going on?”
“Go to The Cinnamon Grove Sun’s website. Now.”
“Shit. What is it?”
“See for yourself,” Tatum says.
My pulse thunders as I scramble for my laptop.
But of course, because irony is a bitch, my bladder decides now is the perfect time to remind me who’s really in charge.
So I end up in the bathroom, laptop balanced on my knees while I sit on the toilet and let go, multitasking like only a woman in crisis can.
Within seconds, the front page fills my screen and I feel like I’ve been punched in the face. Images from our wedding night. Our drunken vows. Video clips of the pop-up visit Chelsea Raymond swore up and down no one would see until next year.
I press play on one of the clips, my hands shaking. Chelsea’s voice comes through, clear and cutting. “So, of course by the time this airs, people will have learned about your marriage, but as of right now, it’s all pretty hush, right? What do you think your teammates will say when they find out?”
And then Declan—my sweet husband—pulls me into a kiss and says into the camera, “Fuck ‘em. I don’t care what anyone has to say or thinks about what we have.”
They cut it there.
The next part—the part where I rush to clarify, where I tell Chelsea we can’t be worried about what people think when we’re still trying to figure out what this all means ourselves—gone.
The soundbite leaves us looking careless.
Reckless. Like Declan doesn’t give a damn about the Strikers or his teammates, when that couldn’t be further from the truth.
I try to three-way in Eslin. Straight to voicemail. Over and over.
“Yeah, she wasn’t answering for me either,” Tatum mutters, frazzled.
“Fuck!” My voice cracks. “My father! I have to get to him before he sees this or gets word!”
I hang up with Tatum and call Daddy. No answer.
By then Declan is awake, hair tousled, voice rough with sleep. “Marlow? What is it?”
That’s when it all spills out—the video, the fallout, the timing, mother fucking Shaun Kennedy. My words tumble over each other, frantic, and my hands won’t stop shaking.
“Declan, I know me and my father’s relationship isn’t the best right now,” I choke out, “but he’s my best friend. And he needs to hear this from me. From us. Before some reporter shoves a soundbite in his face and twists it into something worse.”
He pulls me into his chest, arms wrapping around me with that unshakable steadiness that always manages to ground me. “We’ll fix it, Americana,” he says with quiet certainty, pressing a kiss to my temple. “We’ll go to him.”
And so we do.
***
Declan convinces me to wait for the sun to rise before ambushing my father, and I suppose he’s right. Storming his penthouse in pajamas wouldn’t exactly be the power move my image needs right now.
But when we finally make it to his building, the doorman greets us with an apologetic smile, letting me know my father left last night and hasn’t come home since. Panic spikes sharp in my chest. Where the hell was he? And why, when everything is blowing up around me, is he nowhere to be found?
The proud daughter in me wants to believe maybe he and Malina Matthews finally hooked up—that my meddling had actually worked for once.
But, unfortunately, this isn’t the time to check in on the progress of my match-making endeavors.
My life is currently exploding, and all I can do is try to keep the pieces from scattering too far.
By the time we walk back out onto the street, reporters are already gathering, cameras flashing, microphones shoved in my face.
I duck my head, tugging Declan with me back into the building.
There’s no way we can drive ourselves without the risk of being followed.
So, I call my driver to come get us and Declan calls Matteo to grab his car so we can make an escape.
“Let’s head to the back entrance in the parking garage,” I tell Declan.
“Okay, and then what?” He asks. “Where are we going?”
In nothing but the clothes on our backs, I have our driver take us to the lake house at Lake Oconee.
No one will ever find us there. And since no one ever comes until Christmas, it feels like the perfect place for Declan and me to hide out while we figure out a plan—how to face the fallout, how to breathe through the mess that just detonated our lives.
And maybe for me to tell him about the secret that is growing inside me, literally.
But the second we pull up, I notice it—thin curls of smoke rising from the chimney, blurring into the gray morning sky. My stomach twists tight, unease clawing up my throat.
“Weird,” I mutter, more to myself than to Declan. “I wonder if Will or Xavier is here.”
But when I push open the door, it isn’t Will. It isn’t Xavier.
It’s them.
The sight hits me like a blade, straight through my chest. Betrayal and stupidity tangle together until I can hardly breathe. My best friend. My father.
And all I can think is—how could they?
How could she?
How could he?