Chapter 23
Margot
Everett sleeps beside me, one arm thrown above his head, the sheet pooled at his waist. His chest rises and falls in steady rhythm. Dark hair falls across his forehead, messy in a way I've never seen watching him command rooms.
My hip brushes against him. Against something that makes my eyes widen and a laugh bubble up in my throat.
His eyes open. Gray. Clear. They find mine immediately, and I watch awareness dawn, followed swiftly by a flush creeping up his neck.
"Morning," he says, voice rough with sleep and embarrassment.
"Good morning to you too." I can't help the grin. "And to your... situation."
The flush deepens. "I'm sorry. It's — morning. It happens. I didn't mean to…"
"In the theater, we have a saying." I trail my fingers down his chest, watching his breath catch. "Never waste good material."
His expression shifts. Surprise melting into heat. "Is that right?"
"Professional wisdom." My hand travels lower. "Would be irresponsible to ignore it."
"Margot…" His voice breaks when I wrap my fingers around him.
"Yes?" Innocence doesn't suit me. I try anyway.
He rolls, pulling me beneath him in one smooth motion. The sheet tangles around our legs. His weight settles over me, familiar now, wanted.
"You're trouble," he murmurs against my mouth.
"You're the one who woke up ready for an encore."
***
I'm wrapped in one of his shirts, drinking coffee at the kitchen counter, when Everett suggests breakfast in town. "Best blueberry pancakes in the Hamptons."
We drive in, Everett navigating familiar streets with easy confidence.
He parks near Main Street and we walk the rest of the way hand in hand.
He points out landmarks as we stroll - the general store where he bought his first kite, the dock where he learned to fish, the ice cream parlor that still makes maple walnut the old way.
I listen. Store the details away. Try not to think about how this version of him - relaxed, nostalgic, unguarded - makes me think of other possibilities.
A couple emerges as we approach the café. Mid-forties, expensive casual wear, the kind of understated elegance money whispers instead of shouts.
"Lockwood?" The man stops. Recognition sparks. "Everett Lockwood, is that you?"
Everett's hand tightens on mine. Then he's smiling, extending his free hand. "Wyatt. Gayle. Good to see you."
They shake. Gayle's gaze shifts to me, curious and assessing.
"We didn't know you were in town," Wyatt says. "You're never here in November."
"Last-minute decision." Everett's thumb strokes my knuckles. "Margot, these are the Andersons. Old friends. Wyatt, Gayle - this is Margot Bennett."
"Lovely to meet you." Gayle's smile is warm. Her handshake firm. "Are you visiting for the weekend?"
"Yes." The word sticks slightly in my throat. "First time in the Hamptons."
"Oh, how wonderful! Are you staying at the house?"
"We are."
"Perfect. You must join us for brunch. We have a table. There's plenty of room."
Panic flutters in my chest. Everett glances at me, question in his eyes. I force a smile. Nod.
"We'd love to," he says.
***
The restaurant interior glows with coastal charm. White walls, pale blue accents, windows framing ocean views. The Andersons lead us to a corner table where two other couples already sit - friends, apparently, also weekend visitors.
Introductions blur. Names I won't remember. Handshakes. Smiles. Everyone is polished, comfortable in their skin and their station.
I'm wearing a cable-knit sweater, jeans, and borrowed confidence.
Everett pulls out my chair and settles beside me. His hand finds my knee under the table, warm and grounding.
The conversation flows around us. Summer plans. Charity galas. Someone's yacht in the Mediterranean. I sip water. Smile at appropriate moments.
"So Margot," Gayle says, turning her attention to me. "What do you do?"
"I'm a playwright." The words come automatic. Then, because honesty matters, "Also an executive assistant. The writing doesn't pay bills yet."
"How fascinating! Have you had anything produced?"
"Not yet. I'm working on it."
"She runs a children's theater workshop," Everett adds. "In Queens. Teaches kids improv and scene work."
Pride colors his voice. Something warm blooms in my chest.
"That's wonderful," another woman - Julia? - says. "Did you formally train?"
I know how to play this scene. I've been playing it for weeks, the version where I account for myself, explain myself, apologize by omission for the gaps in my résumé.
The difference is I no longer know which part is the performance and which part is the thing underneath that's started to feel dangerously real.
"Some training, some life," I say. "Mostly stubbornness."
Gayle laughs. Genuinely. The tension in my shoulders eases one degree.
Business talk takes over. Everett discussing timelines, negotiations, board dynamics. Columbia comes up, Wyatt and Everett comparing notes on overlapping years there. A restaurant in Paris. Someone's second home in Provence.
They all summer somewhere. I summer in Brooklyn, which apparently is also a Hamptons estate these days. I let them keep that version.
Everett's hand stays on my knee the whole time.
***
We say goodbye on the sidewalk an hour later. Promises to get together soon. Gayle hugs me, genuinely warm. Wyatt claps Everett on the shoulder.
"Great to see you happy, old friend. It's been too long."
We walk back toward the car in silence. My mind churns.
His world laid out over two hours, every detail easy and unremarkable to everyone at the table except me.
The casual mentions of ivy-league years, the globe-trotting, the way they all moved through space as if it had always been arranged for them.
Everett fits there. Seamlessly. Effortlessly.
My foot catches on uneven pavement. I stumble, pain shooting through my ankle.
"Margot." Everett catches me. "Are you hurt?"
"Just twisted it." I test weight. It protests mildly. "I'm fine."
"Sit." He guides me to a bench outside a closed boutique, and I let him, because I could use a moment to stop walking and just be still.
"Wait here. I'll get the car." He stands, concern etched across his features. "Five minutes."
He jogs toward the parking area. I watch him go.
I sit with it. Sit with the gap between his world and mine, real and undeniable and somehow still not enough to make me leave.
That's the part I can't write a clean ending for.
That I've looked directly at the distance and I'm still here, ankle throbbing on a bench in the Hamptons, waiting for him to come back.
His car pulls up. He gets out before I can stand, comes around, offers his hand.
"You didn't have to…"
"I wanted to." He says it simply. No performance in it.
I take his hand.
***
The afternoon unfolds in quiet domesticity. We settle on the deck overlooking the ocean. Everett brings ice for my ankle and I prop it up on a chair, playing the part slightly more than necessary.
He reads merger documents. I pretend to scroll through my phone. The waves crash. Seagrass sways. The sun tracks across a cloudless sky.
It should be peaceful. Perfect.
Instead, tension. Every time he glances at me, doubt stirs.
His phone rings. He glances at the screen, frowns. "I should take this."
"Go ahead."
He disappears inside. I stay on the deck, watching waves roll toward shore, trying to inhabit the ease of the afternoon, the warmth still in my hand where he held it.
Through the open door, his voice carries. I'm not trying to eavesdrop. Sound travels.
"…in the Hamptons for the weekend… No, I didn't mention it…"
A pause.
"…managing the situation… leaked relationship information created complications…"
My stomach drops.
"…not serious. Crisis management. Bomb dropped, so I'm handling the fallout…"
The words punch through me.
Not serious. Crisis management.
I stand, ankle protesting. I walk to the doorway.
"…few more weeks. Let the merger close. Then we can…"
He turns. Sees me in the doorway.
Our eyes meet.
Everything in his expression shifts. Realization. Panic. The phone drops from his ear.
"Margot."
"Don't." Ice crystallizes in my veins, spreads through my chest. My voice comes out cold, flat. "Don't explain."
"That's not … you didn't hear the context…"
I cross my arms. "Pretty clear context."
"I was talking to -"
"I don't care who you were talking to." The words cut like glass. "You told them we're here for damage control. That you're handling the situation until the merger closes."
"That came out wrong."
"Did it?" Heat burns behind my eyes. I refuse to let it become tears. "Or did it come out honest? Were you telling them the truth while you've been lying to me?"
"I haven't lied to you."
"Last night." My voice cracks on two words.
"Don't." His voice drops, low and raw. "Don't twist what happened between us into something cheap."
"Then tell me what it was. Use different words than the ones I just heard."
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
"That's what I thought." I turn toward the stairs.
"Margot, please."
"Perhaps we should head back to the city." I keep my voice even, each word placed with surgical precision. "Get back to business. No charge for the weekend's extras."
The color drains from his face. "You don't mean that."
"Don't I?" I look at him. The whole of him, the man who held my hand on that bench and the man who said not serious into a phone thirty minutes later. "I'll pack. We can leave within the hour."
"Margot."
"Unless you'd prefer I find my own way back. I wouldn't want to inconvenience you with more crisis management."
I climb the stairs. Each step hurts. My vision blurs. I blink hard, refusing to break until I reach the bedroom.
Everything from last night. Every whispered confession, every vulnerable moment, every time he made me believe this meant something beyond paper and signatures - crumbles.
I was right to be scared this morning.
I was wrong to sit on that bench and decide the gap didn't matter.
The ocean crashes outside the window. Indifferent. Endless.
I always knew the difference between a performance and the real thing. This time spent in his orbit and I forgot which one I was watching.
That's on me.