CHAPTER 2
Amelia
The kitchen table was covered in art supplies, homework sheets, and my laptop showing an order confirmation for twenty pounds of stoneware clay.
“Mom, I don’t get this one,” Noah said, tapping his pencil against his math worksheet with enough force that I worried about the pencil tip breaking.
“Let me see, buddy.” I leaned over his shoulder, scanning the word problems. “Okay, so if John has twenty watermelons—”
“I’m done!” Brook announced triumphantly, sliding her completed reading comprehension worksheet across the table. “Can I watch TV now?”
“After your dad gets home for dinner, sweetie.”
Brook groaned dramatically and slumped in her chair like I’d just sentenced her to a lifetime of homework.
I glanced at my laptop screen again, mentally calculating. Forty jewelry dishes and thirty vases for the PTA fundraiser next week. I’d already made about half, but that still left a lot of work. I’d have to pull another late night in my studio after the kids went to bed.
My pottery business started as a hobby three years ago.
Just something to do with my hands while the kids were at school.
But word had spread about my pieces, and now I had a steady stream of custom orders and commissions.
Nothing that would put a major uptick on our income, and thankfully Mark was earning enough for us to live comfortably and luxuriously even if I didn’t work.
But making pottery made me feel creatively satisfied and I loved the way I could transform a shapeless glob of clay into a magnificent work of art.
More than anything, it made me feel like I was more than just “Noah and Brook’s mom.
” Not that being their mom wasn’t everything. It was. But sometimes...
“Mom!” Noah’s voice pulled me back. “Who even buys twenty watermelons? What’s wrong with John?” Brooke and Noah started laughing hysterically.
Right. John’s watermelons.
Twenty minutes later, homework was finally done, and I was updating my clay and glaze order when I heard the front door open.
“Daddy!” Brook shrieked, abandoning her coloring book and racing toward the entryway.
I looked up and saw Mark standing in the doorway, and I knew immediately.
The smile on his face—that particular smile, the one that oozes with mystery and boyish charm . The one that showed all his teeth, and made his eyes sparkle with joy—told me everything I needed to know. I still wanted to hear it from him.
“Did you get it?” I asked, already standing up from my chair.
Mark’s smile widened impossibly further. “Did I get what?”
“The promotion!” I laughed, moving toward him. “Come on, spill it!”
“Yes!” He pumped his fist in the air like a teenager who’d just scored a touchdown. “Head of Marketing!”
I ran the last few steps, and he caught me, lifting me off my feet and spinning me once. Our lips met, and I wanted to kiss him properly, deeply, the way we did when we made love, but—
“Ewwww!” Noah made exaggerated gagging sounds.
“Gross!” Brook covered her eyes dramatically, then reached over to clap her hand over Noah’s eyes too. “We don’t need to see that!”
Mark set me down, both of us laughing. That’s when I noticed the champagne bottle in his hand. It was the expensive kind with the gold foil wrapper that we only bought for special occasions.
He leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. “This is for later.” He squeezed my arm and we both smiled at each other knowingly. I felt heat creep up my neck. Later. Yes. It had been too long since we’d celebrated in the proper way.
I looked at him and felt a surge of affection and love. His tie was loosened, his hair slightly mussed from the long day he must have had, and there was still that brilliant smile on his face. Fifteen years together and he could still make my heart skip.
How had I gotten so lucky?
Mark had been my first real boyfriend, back when I was a junior in college and he was in grad school.
He’d been awkward then, all long limbs and nervous energy, but so incredibly kind.
So genuinely good. And over the years, he’d grown into his looks, into his confidence, and he now looked like a sexy silver fox with his peppered hair and muscular appeal.
I’d seen so many PTA moms eyeing him when he served them wine during our monthly meetings at home, and I’d know what they were thinking.
But I knew Mark had his eyes only on me.
He was faithful, and he loved me. He made me complete.
Our life together was... it was everything I’d ever wanted.
This beautiful, cozy house with its creaky floors and the studio Mark had helped me build in the basement.
These kids who drove me crazy and filled my heart at the same time.
The comfortable rhythm of our days, breakfast chaos, school runs, PTA meets, pottery, homework, dinner, bedtime routines.
It was ordinary and extraordinary all at once.
“Can we celebrate?” Brook asked. “Like, with ice cream?”
Mark laughed. “How about we celebrate with a fancy dinner? I’ll order from that Italian place you like.”
“The one with the breadsticks?” Noah’s eyes went wide.
“The very one.”
The kids cheered, and the evening dissolved into the happy chaos of celebration.
Mark ordered enough food to feed an army—lasagna, chicken parmesan, three types of pasta, and yes, extra breadsticks.
We ate until we were stuffed, the kids telling Mark about their day in overlapping sentences that barely made sense but somehow conveyed their excitement.
Then we all feasted on ice-cream- Vanilla with chocolate sauce, and Mark’s favorite— Rocky Road.
After dinner, Mark started clearing the table. “I’ve got cleanup tonight. You take these monsters upstairs.”
“We’re not monsters!” Brook protested.
“Yeah!” Noah agreed. “We’re... we’re dinosaurs!”
He roared and charged at Mark, who caught him mid-leap. Within seconds, they were on the kitchen floor in a tangle of limbs, Brook joining in with delighted shrieks.
I stood in the doorway watching the three of them, my whole world, and felt something swell in my chest. This. This was happiness. This exact moment.
Eventually, I herded two giggling, over-sugared kids upstairs for baths and bedtime. It took longer than usual—they were wound up from the celebration—but finally, both were tucked in with stories read and teeth brushed.
When I came back downstairs, Mark had transformed the kitchen. The champagne was open and breathing, two glasses waiting. He’d found the fancy cheese board my parents gifted us on our last anniversary, and arranged brie and chocolate-covered almonds—my favorites—on it.
He stood there with his arms open, and I walked into them, feeling his warmth, breathing in his familiar scent, his musky soap that I can recognize from across the room.
“Hi,” he murmured into my hair.
“Hi yourself.”
Then he was kissing me, properly this time, no audience of judgemental children.
His lips moved slow and deliberate against mine, one hand cupping the back of my head, the other at the small of my back, pulling me closer.
He kissed along my jaw, down to my neck, that spot just below my ear that made my breath pause with anticipation.
“I love you so much,” he whispered against my skin.
“I love you too.” I pulled back just enough to look at his face. “Congratulations, Mr. Head of Marketing of Beauté éternelle!”
He grinned and handed me a glass of champagne. We clinked them together, the crystal ringing in the quiet kitchen.
“There’s more,” Mark said after we’d each taken a sip.
“More? Better than Head of Marketing?”
“Different.” He set his glass down, suddenly looking nervous. “The position comes with a six-month assignment. In Paris. To launch a new lipstick line.”
My face must have shown my shock because he hurried on. “I know, six months is a long time. But—”
“Six months?” I repeated. “In Paris? By yourself?”
“No!” He shook his head quickly. “No, that’s the thing. Most people in my workplace who take these assignments bring their spouses. We could go together, Amelia. Both of us.”
The disappointment that had been crushing my chest suddenly lifted. “Together? Really?”
“Really. Six months in Paris. Just you and me.”
“But what about the kids?”
“We could leave them with your parents. The timing works perfectly—we’d leave right when summer break starts. They’d have the whole summer with their grandparents, and then once school opens, they’d be in school most of the day anyway. And Mary Lynn—”
“Mary Lynn would be there,” I finished, already thinking it through.
Our babysitter was more than hired help.
She was practically family at this point, and had been watching Noah and Brook since they were babies.
The kids adored her, and she adored them.
And my parents, they’d practically leap at the opportunity of keeping Noah and Brooke for six months, spoiling them to no bounds.
Six months. In Paris. With Mark.
When was the last time we’d done something like this? Just the two of us, no kids, no responsibilities beyond each other? Our honeymoon, maybe, fifteen years ago on that beach in Mexico where it rained half the time but we didn’t care because we had each other and a hotel room and nothing but time.
Paris. The most romantic city in the world. Mark and I, walking along the Seine, eating croissants in sidewalk cafés, exploring museums, making wild love without worrying about little footsteps in the hallway.
It could be like an extended honeymoon cum adventure.
Mark was watching my face carefully, waiting for my reaction.
“Yes!” The word burst out of me. “Heck yes! Let’s do this, Mr. Davis!”
His relief was visible, his whole body relaxing.
We both started laughing, giddy with the possibility of it, and then we were kissing again, and I was already imagining us in Paris, imagining the version of ourselves we could be there, away from the routines and responsibilities that had slowly, imperceptibly, made us forget sometimes that we were more than just parents and partners—we were Mark and Amelia, the people who’d fallen in love over coffee and conversation all those years ago.
We pulled apart, both breathing hard, and I reached for my champagne glass.
Then Mark cleared his throat.
“There’s... there’s one more thing.”
The way he said it—the hesitation, the slight drop in his voice—made something cold settle in the pit of my stomach.
I set my glass down carefully. “What thing?”