I saw that intensity in Linc’s eyes last week in the library, the way he looked at me before he let me go. And then without my consent, the memory slips so seamlessly into another. One that’s so vivid it burns the surface of my mind. Linc and I, crammed into the corner of that dingy college bar. The air thick with the sour stench of spilled beer and too much Axe, mingled with dramatic sports commentary and brokenhearted emo songs. The indistinct chatter, all blending together like radio static. It was chaotic and messy, but somehow…it felt like home.
We were there, lost in the middle of it. We sat on those torn-up stools, laughing at the stupidest things like we didn’t have a care in the world, like we weren’t slowly losing the battle with temptation.
That’s the feeling I want back. That time when everything was easy. Just dreaming—no consequences, no pressure.
Howdo I put that on my dating profile?
Savannah closes her mouth, silently observing me. Graciously, she doesn’t intrude on the moment.
“There was someone,” I say, hesitating, choosing my words carefully. “A guy I think I would’ve chosen for myself, if Mom and Cornelia hadn’t been so set on their own plans back then.”
She nods, slowly. “I see. And where is he now?”
“He’s still around,” I say, but it’s Linc’s face that morning, a million years ago, when I woke up in his arms, that flashes across my mind.
Savannah’s question—and those memories—echo in my mind as I leave my appointment. They gnaw at me, replaying over and over all afternoon as I try to stay out of the way back at Madison Manor.
But…Linc.
He’salwayshere.
I swallow, twisting the clip of my pen between my teeth, my attention drifting to him.
He’s in every inch of Madison Manor, moving like a force of nature—sweat dripping from his brow, his thin gray T-shirt sticking and pulling tight across his shoulders and chest. And he doesn’t stop. He just keeps going with a relentless drive as he unloads wood stacks from the trucks. His muscles, draped in rich, dark brown skin, flex and stretch with every movement, each turn of his body taunting me—
“Did you need anything, Ebony?” Vincent catches me staring at Linc, and I almost choke on my pen. I quickly look away, but his cackles erupt into the air as I stumble over electrical cables, rushing back inside to the library, where it’s safe.
Ugh.
“Ebony, get a grip,” I chastise myself. “You cannot be the one who doesn’t pull her weight.Dosomething!”
And for a solid twenty-five minutes, I do a dozen somethings.
Turns out, repressing emotions is excellent for productivity. I double down with the phone to my ear and fingers flying over the keyboard. I follow up on my insurance claim, which is…drum roll…further delayed because the adjuster needs to reach out to Cornelia as the CFO for JDC Livingston Inc., the family’s umbrella company, and the named insured on the policy.Boo to the Gramm-Leach-Bliley blah blah blah Act.The great news is that Hailey’s inbox is on fire.
The dress and tuxedo fittings are scheduled. The guest list is still an ugly battle, but I get it narrowed to a nice, round three hundred, and almost finalized. And, because distraction is apparently grade-A jet fuel, I’m in rare form, chopping it up with Syd’s manager down at that cute little stationery boutique—who, as it turns out, is a fan of the divorcétante.
Won’t he do it!
So, those elegant rose-gold invitations with the sweeping, foil-lined garden crest flourishes that Hailey wanted but thought it might be too late to get? Not only does my new bestie pull a few strings, but they are approved, ordered, and expedited, along with the matching enclosure cards.
At this rate, she might hand-deliver them if I promise to take a selfie with her.
Hailey, your girl is onfire.
No linens, wedding arch, or gorgeous ornate vases yet, because I refuse to replace them before I know I’m being reimbursed by insurance—andfourof my rental supply contacts are booked up on September twentieth—but there’s still time. We do, however, get dahliasandzinnias for the floral arrangements, alcoves, and bouquets. Along with the officiant, I’ve lined up a makeup artist, a photographer, and a string quartet.
Winning is an extremely exhilarating high.
Except the instant I slow down, thinking about my re-debut date and what I’m going to wear for this mystery man, again, I hear Linc’s voice. He’s in the ballroom, organizing the crew, calling out orders, racing from room to room and fixing everything in sight like some hard-wired machine, and it feels strangely symbolic.
I’m supposed to be dating, reinventing myself, starting anew. Yet with every step, Lincoln Bridges reminds me he’s a perfectly viable option. He’s always been right here.
He’ll always be here…anytime I want to take my eyes off my business long enough to let Cornelia Livingston sabotage me.
I stare at the door, my mind drifting back to the conversation with Savannah earlier. To the silence that lingered.
Where is he now?
