Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
By early evening, the sky has darkened to indigo, and we drive through neighborhoods glittering with Christmas lights. Ryan presses his face to the window, gasping at each new display.
“Look! That house has a dinosaur wearing a Santa hat!”
“Clearly the height of Christmas sophistication and creativity,” Ronan says dryly, but his eyes crinkle with affection in the rearview mirror.
“What’s so ... soff ... that word?” Ryan asks.
“Sophisticated,” I say. “It means fancy.”
“Like Daddy’s work parties?”
“Exactly like that,” I say, turning to smile at him. “Are you excited to see your grandma tonight?”
He lifts his small shoulders. “I guess. But I wanted to stay with you and Daddy.”
My heart cracks a little. “Your grandma and grandpa miss you. And we’ll see you again soon.” It’s a lie, but I can’t bear to tell him the truth—that after tonight, I’ll probably never see him again.
We pull up to a modern townhouse in an upscale neighborhood. Maggie opens the door before we even reach it.
“There’s my boy!” She kneels, arms open.
Ryan runs to her, his earlier reluctance forgotten. “Nana! We saw Santa and I got candy canes and Rayne tried on dresses and she looked like the night sky!”
She laughs, hugging him tight before standing to face us. Maggie gives me a quick hug and smiles. “Have fun at the gala. I know he’s had dinner, but there’s a cookie in his future if he’s good.”
Ryan pumps his fist.
“Say goodbye, buddy,” Ronan says.
Ryan throws his arms around my waist. “Bye, Rayne! I hope you have fun at the boring grown-up party.”
I hug him back, throat tight. “Thank you for being my fashion expert today.”
As we drive away, I stare out the window, blinking back tears.
Ronan’s hand finds mine. “He really adores you.”
“I adore him back.” My voice wobbles. “He’s an amazing kid. You raised him well.”
“He is.” Ronan’s thumb strokes my knuckles. “You’re good with him. Thank you.”
The simple praise warms me. “It’s not like it’s hard. He’s so open and warm.”
“Unlike his father?” Ronan’s tone is light, but his eyes are serious when I turn to him.
“You have your moments of openness.”
His lips quirk. “Only with you.”
The admission hangs between us, heavy with implications I’m afraid to examine too closely.
The Bergman Christmas Gala transforms a historic hotel ballroom into a winter palace. Crystal chandeliers drip with silver icicles, massive Christmas trees dripping with ornaments flank the entrance, and strings of white lights create a canopy overhead. A string quartet plays carols in the corner while waiters circulate with champagne.
I grip Ronan’s arm tighter as we enter, suddenly conscious of every eye turning our way.
“Breathe,” he says close to my ear. “You’re throwing everyone else to the shade.”
In my borrowed finery—the midnight blue dress, diamonds at my ears and throat that Ronan insisted were “just on loan,” and heels that add inches to my height—I should feel confident. But these people belong in this world. I’m just playing dress-up.
“Everyone’s staring,” I whisper.
“Because I never bring anyone to these things.” His hand settles possessively at the small of my back, warm through the thin fabric. “And because you’re stunning.”
Before I can respond, we’re approached by an older couple, the woman dripping in jewels, the man’s handshake firm as Ronan introduces us.
“Thomas Bergman, his wife Eleanor. The hosts.”
“Ronan! We were beginning to think you’d skip this year too.” Eleanor’s eyes sweep over me with interest. “And who is this lovely creature?”
“Rayne Silva,” I offer my hand, praying it isn’t sweating.
“Charmed,” she says, though her expression suggests she’s reserving judgment. “How did you two meet?”
Ronan smoothly intercepts. “At a charity function. Rayne works with children.”
It’s not entirely a lie—I did work at a daycare before being laid off—but the ease with which he invents our story unsettles me.
“How wonderful,” Eleanor says without enthusiasm. “You must meet our daughter, Elise. She’s just returned from Europe.”
The evening progresses in a blur of introductions. Ronan keeps me close, his hand rarely leaving my waist. I sip champagne, careful not to drink too much, and try to memorize names and faces. Most people are polite if distant, clearly curious about the woman who broke Ronan’s pattern of attending events alone or not attending at all.
“I need to speak with Bernard about a contract,” Ronan says after nearly an hour. “Will you be all right for a few minutes?”
“Of course.” I smile, though anxiety flutters in my stomach. “I’ll just admire the decorations.”
He kisses my temple, a casual claiming that makes my pulse jump, before striding toward a group of men in the corner.
I drift toward one of the massive Christmas trees, admiring the artful arrangement of ornaments, when a male voice breaks into my thoughts.
“You must be something special to have caught Ronan Ward’s attention.”
I turn to find a man, probably slightly older than me, blond hair swept back, holding two champagne flutes. He offers one to me.