Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 43239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 216(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 216(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
“No, I never want to see him again.”
He laughs once more and wraps his arm around my shoulder. “Let’s go out to celebrate before we drive home.”
THIRTY-NINE
ELIZA
Weeks Later
I’m still checking my phone.
Not obsessively, not every second—but enough to embarrass myself. I keep hoping for an apology. A call. A text, even.
But there’s nothing from Harrison.
And it hurts.
I haven’t had time to fall apart, though. The resort’s booked solid for the next eight months. While Jackson handles interviews for new staff, I’m covering everything from front desk duties to early morning tours.
I’m in the garden house when I spot a familiar silhouette on the other side of the screen door.
Lance?
His eyes meet mine, but he still knocks—standing there like a stranger, like the years between us are too thick to cross with just a doorknob.
I open it anyway.
“Hey, Lance.” My heart stutters. “You checking in this week?”
“You know damn well Jackson still has me blocked from making a reservation here,” he says, grinning that same crooked, boyish grin I remember from summers before everything went sideways.
“I just came to say congrats,” he adds, holding out a bottle of wine—cheap, gaudy, and something Harrison would definitely disapprove of.
So I’ll be drinking it tonight.
“Janey told me this stuff tastes expensive.”
I take it from him. “Thank you... Is that all you came here for?”
“Not really.”
He picks up a pair of shears and starts helping me cut down dried stalks, like no time has passed at all.
“Two things,” he says. “One—I’m sorry.”
The words are simple. But the silence that follows? Heavy as hell.
“For leaving the way I did. For checking out of the family. For not coming back sooner.”
I glance down at the wine bottle. Then back at him.
“You know what sucked more than you leaving?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“You didn’t even let me hate you properly. You just disappeared. No fight. No goodbye. Nothing.”
He winces.
“But I’m not angry anymore,” I say, softer now. “I get it. You needed distance. I just wish I didn’t have to grow up overnight because of it.”
“You did more than grow up.” He pulls me into a hug. “You became the most talked-about businesswoman in agriculture overnight. All my old friends at other farms have been raving about you after seeing you in New York. Mom would be proud.”
My throat tightens.
“She’d be proud of both of us,” I manage. “And Jackson, too.”
“I owe Jackson a few punches to the face,” he mutters. “The second I finish helping y’all however I can the next few months, he’s getting every last one.”
“Don’t do it for me,” I say quickly. “Please. I can’t handle any more pain right now.”
“Fine...”
We fall into silence.
We keep cutting stalks, saying nothing. Just passing the wine back and forth while the sun sinks behind the fields, casting gold through the dusty windows.
“What was the other thing you wanted to say?” I ask eventually. “You mentioned two.”
“Oh. Right.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Are you still with that Manhattan guy?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I ran into him a few times while hosting meetings at his building. He looked… rough. Like, maybe hiding a drug problem rough.”
I stiffen. “Harrison has a personal tailor for every suit he owns. You must have him confused with someone else.”
“I figured you’d say that.”
He pulls out his phone and holds up a photo.
It’s Harrison.
Eyes bloodshot. Slumped in a chair. Staring into space like he hasn’t slept—or cared—in days.
My stomach twists.
“Good,” I say, cold. “It’s what he deserves.”
“I can fly back up there and give him the punches I was saving for Jackson, if you want.”
“No… that’s okay.” I sigh, trying to sound indifferent. “It’s just good to see him in some kind of pain after dumping me like what we had meant nothing. Like I was just another project to him.”
“His loss.” Lance exhales. “Fuck him.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
I start a new pile, desperate to find a different subject.
FORTY
HARRISON
My penthouse is too quiet these days.
There are no clacking footsteps, no sarcastic commentary, and no glitter scattering on the floors.
It’s just cold, curated silence, and I never realized until now that I don’t have any personal pictures hanging on these walls.
I haven’t touched Eliza’s room since she left—haven’t even let Reba clean it. I tell myself it’s out of respect, but that’s bullshit—I’m afraid. Afraid that if I walk in, I’ll find a single thing that still smells like her and completely lose it.
It happens anyway.
I spot a corkboard resting against the inside of her closet door. One she must’ve forgotten in her rush to pack. I pull it out without thinking.
It’s covered in pinned ideas and color palettes, scraps of lace, miniature printouts of wedding venues…
And pictures of us.
Candid ones. Me laughing. Her curled up beside me in one of my sweaters. One from the wine tasting where she got every answer wrong and didn’t care.