I shake my head. “No, I loved it. It’s still hanging in my room upstairs.”

He blinks. “Really? You kept that stupid present? I’m surprised you even remember it.”

“It wasn’t stupid. And of course I remember.” Realizing how mushy that sounds, I hurriedly add, “That was the night you totaled your first car on our way to the country club, and I offered to walk with you so you wouldn’t feel weird. But then we ended up waiting for a bus because I didn’t realize how hard it would be to walk five miles in high heels. I was an hour and a half late for my own birthday party.”

“But do you regret spending that time?” Noah asks, his eyebrows raised playfully.

“I sure as hell regret trying to dance the tango with you afterward. My feet hurt just thinking about it.”

Although I also remember the breezy, full-moon summer night, Noah smiling at me, my friends being jealous that I’d made a dramatic entrance with such a handsome senior who didn’t even go to our school . . .

“Speaking of gifts,” Dad says, “what about the time when you were in third grade and Noah gave you a set of diamond-and-platinum earrings? You didn’t even have pierced ears yet. And then it turned out that Noah had ‘borrowed’ them from his mother’s jewelry box.”

Prescott clears his throat impatiently. “Not to interrupt, but could we get back to discussing the contract?”

Wait, he’s right. What the hell am I doing? We’re here to talk about the heir clause and how to salvage our inheritance. How did I get sucked into family-story hour? I’m reminiscing about my past relationship with Noah when what matters is our company’s future.

I shake my head as if I can dislodge all this silly nostalgia. “I agree with Prescott. Why are we talking about this stuff? We’re not here to sing ‘Kumbaya’ and share cute anecdotes. We’re here to clean up a serious mess . . . a mess that you had a lot to do with, in case you forgot.”

And with that, the slowly lightening mood plunges back into grave silence.

“I wouldn’t have phrased my objection in quite those words,” Prescott says after an awkward second, trying to be delicate.

“You asked how Bill and I knew you two were meant for each other,” Dad says gently.

Abruptly I stand up, pushing out my chair with a squeak of wheels. I can’t do this right now. I wanted to, but I just fucking can’t. My brain won’t work with Dad and Noah looking at me. I have to get out of here if I want any hope of sorting out my own feelings and figuring out what I want to do next . . . assuming I can even do anything at all.

I tamp down my instinct to apologize for making the atmosphere tense, for cutting our meeting short, for everything. I’m not the one who screwed up here—Noah is.

Instead, I just mutter, “Excuse me. I have a lot to think about.”

And with that, I turn and leave Dad’s study, my head buzzing so loudly I can’t hear whether anyone calls after me.

Chapter Four

Noah

“Can you pass me the orange juice?”

Those are the first words Olivia’s spoken to me in days. Ever since the confrontation in her father’s study, she’s been as cold and icy as ever. Not that I can blame her. I did try to conquer and pillage her uterus like it was my own private jungle gym.

“Here you go.” I hand her the carton across the counter. She’s seated at the breakfast bar with her laptop and bagel while I’m at the stove frying an egg.

It’s our first weekend back home together since everything went down, and I still have no idea where we stand or what to do to win her back.

Instead of brainstorming about how to right this mess, the meeting with her father turned into a sweet reminiscing session, which Olivia promptly shut down.

“The gala’s tonight,” I comment, sliding the lone egg onto a plate. Weeks ago when we RSVP’d, it was assumed that we were attending the charity banquet together—with Olivia as my plus one, my partner in crime. Sure, it was a work event, but there’d be dinner, champagne, and dancing. It was a date, for all intents and purposes.

“Yup,” is all she says, her eyes still on her laptop screen.

“Okay. I have a car coming at seven.”

“I’ll be ready,” she says coolly.

She’ll play the part well—doting wife, professional CEO, happy banquet-goer. Her mask will be firmly in place tonight. My goal will be to break through the facade.

“See you then.”

I grab my keys from the counter and head out. No way I’m sticking around in her deafening silence today. I’ve said my apologies, groveled to her, even included her father in the conversation, and she’s still holding on to anger.

That’s her choice. From this point onward, we’ll either work this out and make it as a couple—or not. The ball’s in her court.

• • •

“So this is how one of Manhattan’s best attorneys lives? Nice place.” I stand in the center of Sterling’s newly renovated studio apartment in the heart of Manhattan, appraising the recent remodel.

“It should be for what I paid, but thank you.”

Sterling purchased the top floor of a historic building that was undergoing renovations more than six months ago. By the time he finished gutting the entire thing, it boasted a modern kitchen, brand-new bathroom, sleek polished wood floors, and cool neutral colors on the walls. It’s decorated well with pieces of art and stacks of coffee-table books and even some patterned throw pillows on the slate-gray sofa, but it’s not feminine. Just well put together, like it’s had a woman’s touch. It makes me miss home.