Chapter Fifty-Eight
Olivia
I check everything on the gently rocking deck ten times to make sure it’s all in order. My heart beats wrong. Even my blood seems to flow wrong with apprehension and anxiety.
I can’t remember the last time I was this nervous. Not even when I was an eighteen-year-old girl trying to start my own business. I figured if it failed, it wasn’t meant to be, and I’d just find something else to do. I stare at the gorgeous dinner setting on the yacht.
–London: Your hubby is so grumpy. I can’t believe I thought he was hot. What’s wrong with a yacht date? Everyone loves them, and I told him he didn’t even need to pay!
I laugh softly.
–Me: Maybe he isn’t a boat person.
–London: He was on the sailing team at Stanford! The auctioneer said so. If he didn’t want to have dinner with anybody, he shouldn’t have agreed to auction himself.
He isn’t normally this moody, but I know why he’s like this now—me. I sigh. I’ve really been a horrible wife.
–Me: Just think of your godchild.
–London: True! You have to send me all the updates! And I’ll go with you to every OB-GYN appointment! This is so exciting!!!!!!
–London: Also I forgive him because he said he can’t stay out late due to being married. A man who’s loyal is worth keeping.
Her effusive mood lifts mine, and the last text gives me hope.
If he still considers me his wife, surely he won’t turn away when he discovers it’s me here on the yacht.
Although Max’s revelation that Liam sent oranges—and Angelo—was kind of a shock, maybe he did it out of protection for the baby rather than me.
It was obvious from the start that he was crazy about the baby.
I roll my shoulders. Tonight I’m going to give him the answer I couldn’t when he asked me what he meant to me.
I look up at the darkening sky. Everything will be fine. Everything. I refuse to believe that the boundless love he held for me has just…vanished.
There must be some left. My job is to get close enough to rekindle it.
The bottle of Billecart-Salmon Blanc de Blancs sits in the ice bucket, waiting to be uncorked so we can start the evening. I regard it and wonder which of us is sweating more.
My phone buzzes.
–Angelo: He’s on the tender now.
I drag in air. Okay. Liam will be here in less than ten minutes.
I smooth my hair, then the flowing sleeveless white chiffon dress I’m wearing.
There’s a fresh pink camellia tucked in my hair, which is knotted into a loose chignon at the nape of my neck.
I have my mom’s diamond studs for luck, and Liam’s rings to show him I’m his and we belong to each other.
I’m not letting him go when I’ve finally figured out what I want for my post-revenge life.
The waves slapping at the yacht soothe my jagged nerves, the sound reminding me of Point Dume. The whirring engine of the limousine tender grows louder. I let out a long and steady breath.
Showtime.
I head over to greet him, but he’s faster. He’s already out of the tender and climbing on board.
He whips his head around, then freezes. His eyes go wide. “Olivia?”
“Hi,” I say, my mouth dry.
He blinks in confusion, then looks back at the tender, which thankfully is pulling away as instructed. Liam isn’t leaving until I say what needs to be said.
“What the hell?”
“The date you owe.”
“To London.”
“She gave it to me.” I shrug, holding my hands together to hide the trembling.
He stares like I just told him the earth is really a cube. “No way. That lying—”
“She’s my friend, Liam. From childhood, before Deena and Brielle barged into my life,” I say mildly.
He shuts up, his face turning slightly pink under the lights.
“Come on. You’re stuck here for a while, so let’s have dinner.”
He licks his lips, eyebrows knit. There is a very, very long pause. “What about your nausea?” he finally asks.
“It’s fine. Come on.” I hold out my left hand, angling the Rubedo so he can’t miss the glinting red stone.
He stares at the diamond and hesitates. My heart beats erratically. A sour tang floods my mouth as my courage starts to falter.
What if he doesn’t want anything to do with me? What if I’ve overestimated my importance in his life? What if—
His bigger, warmer hand wraps around mine. Relief turns into a small sob in my throat, but I immediately swallow it and straighten my spine. I gaze into his churning eyes.
This isn’t over, not even close. But as long as he’s willing to hold my hand, we have a chance.
We walk onto the middle of the deck. I pour him a flute of the champagne. He frowns, then closes his eyes for a moment as though in pain. “You can’t drink that.”
“I got a sparkling pear cider from Nieve.” My smile is shaky despite my best effort to look calm. “London bought me a case, and it’s excellent.” I pour myself the cider.
Exhaling harshly, he takes the flute and considers. “What are we toasting to?”
To our forever. “What would you like it to be?” I whisper.