They thought they’d been careful, discreet.
“Are you ever planning to tell your ‘friend’?” I toss up the best air quotes I can manage with my coffee in hand, then I turn toward the exit.
Naturally, she’s on my heels, stalking after me.
As I reach the door, I grab the handle and step back to hold it open for her, but she stops me cold in my tracks.
“I’m not sure what youthinkyou know—”
“No, I’m certain.” I chuckle.
Fire blazes in her eyes, but after a beat, realization snuffs it out, leaving only devastation in its wake.
“More than anyone else, I thoughtyouwould understand.” She watches me, her lips quivering. “Everyone knows you’ve wanted Ebony Livingston forever, and if she’d given you the chance to be with her, Iknowyou would’ve—”
“No.” I shake my head. “I wouldn’t have. We’re not the same, Hillary.Iwould never take part in ruining her marriage.I’dnever betray my best friend.”
She swallows, blinking back tears. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”
I shrug, releasing the door and stepping out onto the pavement as she turns and walks away. Hillary makes it maybe ten feet away before she comes back, hopping mad.
“It’s funny. Ebony told us that after college, before she came back to Ellswood, you asked her to choose you.” She smiles, smugly. “She didn’t want you then, and guess what? She’s divorced, single, with no husband in the way, and still not rushing into your arms. Nothing’s changed.”
I nod, speechless, giving her the space to take her frustration out on me.
But then she shifts her weight. “So, you can stand there on your little soapbox, judging me, if you want. But if you think I’m the only one who’ll be burned by the Livingstons…” She snickers. “Well, you’ve got another thing coming, Lincoln Bridges. Watch your back.”
With that, she stalks off, leaving nothing but curses in the air and a thousand unanswered questions.
By the time I get to Madison Manor, the nitro cold brew is buzzing on my tongue, the caffeine jolt enough to jump-start the work in the grand ballroom. I dive into the restoration, my hands moving over the plans and tools with a frantic energy that I can’t quite shake. Brushstrokes, sanding, and the hum of power tools blur the hours and lines. I can’t tell if it’s the coffee firing through my veins, the realization we’ve got just three months to finish the manor, Ebony’s quiet presence in the library, or Hillary’s words echoing in my head that keep me focused.
“What are you running from, Linc?”
For a split second, I freeze, my heart racing as I stare at the freshly smoothed plasterwork, wondering if the old legends are true and that these walls can magically talk.
Maybe next time, I’ll skip thenitro.
But then I hear the tapping of a pair of patent leather loafers and groan. “Vincent.”
“The one and only,” he says, his tone taking on an impatient lilt. “Now, if you’re ready to collaborate with your professional partners today, that would be great, because I’ve got sketches, swatches, and color schemes galore, and they need your approval.”
I huff out a sigh. “Can you come back in an hour?”
“Well, since you said that an hour ago, and the hour before that, no.”
Vincent Baker doesn’t waste time waiting for me to descend a ladder, set down my spackling knife and putty, and give him my undivided attention. That would be too sensible an ask. Instead, he takes even strides across the ballroom, plants his sharp, structured plum-purple suit against my wall, and wields his judgy expression into my line of vision.
“For the last time, I’m going to ask: what’s bothering you?” he says.
“Is that a promise?” I scoff.
His precision-arched eyebrows shoot up to the edges of his tapered fade.
“Oh, so you got jokes?” He releases a downright sinister chuckle. “So, this isn’t about Ebony Grace Livingston—”
“Shh.” I practically glide down the ladder rungs to whisper-yell at him. “Are you crazy? She could hear you.”
Vincent’s glossy lips screw up to the side. “Mm-hmm. That’s what I thought.”
