Page 55

CAROLINE

I stretch in bed, luxuriating in the warmth, the spent feeling in my muscles, and the faint scent of coffee. Light streams through the seams in the closed white plantation shutters, and the high-pitched melody of chirping birds seeps through the walls.

Footsteps approach, a soft thud telling me he’s barefoot.

The door eases open, and there he is: my husband, bare-chested in low-slung pajama bottoms, holding two steaming coffee mugs.

His hair is tousled from sleep, eyes still carrying that vulnerable softness from our night together. Surreal, but not a dream.

“You found my coffee machine.”

“You like coffee when you wake. I made some.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Your refrigerator is sparse, though. Reminds me of mine back in college. We’ll need to head out for breakfast.”

“We don’t all have a staff to shop for us and keep the refrigerator stocked.” I don’t add the part about a chef to stock fresh, easy-to-heat meals.

“Well, you could if you wanted.” The mattress sinks with his weight, and I push up, positioning the pillows behind my back so I can better accept the coffee.

After I take the mug, his free hand immediately falls to my thigh, covered by sheets and a light coverlet, yet his warmth still penetrates my skin.

“My place in Montecito isn’t far away. But I like your place, too. ”

“You like my house?” I mean, I like my home. It’s a restored cottage close to a walkable district filled with cafés and boutique shops. “The rooms are smaller than your closets.”

“I like the feel of this place. It feels like you.” He eyes me over the rim of his mug. I watch his throat as he swallows. “It feels like home.”

“It almost feels like you’re asking to move in with me.”

“I know you want to go slow, but technically, we’re still married. We’re sleeping together.” He looks pointedly at me.

He’s right. And if I get my way, we’ll have countless repeats of last night.

“My work requires travel. You won’t have to put up with me all the time.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing.” I’m mocking him with my tone, but I understand what he’s saying.

When we grew apart before, his travel was partially to blame.

The media frenzy made my career impractical.

I still remember the isolation I experienced when all of my friends were busy during the day, pursuing their dreams, and I was stuck in our Manhattan townhouse, fearing photographers if I dared to leave.

The memory is enough for me to restate a point I’ve already made this week. “I’m not giving up my job.”

“I wouldn’t want you to.” He stands and cracks open the shutters, peering out at what can only be the bushes separating my lot from my neighbors. “If you like the work you’re doing, you could consider opening your own firm. You don’t need to be an employee.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“We aren’t all entrepreneurs.”

“If you wanted. I’m not pushing you. I’m mentioning the possibilities.”

“Speaking of possibilities, you know, you could still change your mind on a political future.” I’d absolutely hate it, but it is a possibility.

If he were to choose to run, he’d need to begin work on a campaign immediately.

“There’s been so much attention on the bigger events at play…

your connection has been lost. None of the headlines mentions your name. Or your father’s, for that matter.”

His eyes narrow, and he returns to the bed.

“No.”

“You could do good. You won’t be beholden to anyone. If deals were struck to get you into consideration for chief of staff, you didn’t strike the deals. You don’t need to honor them.”

“The chief of staff door closed. You know that. And I wouldn’t change it if I could. Caroline, more than anything, I want you back in my life. And you don’t care for DC. Or for the paparazzi or for the security detail I would force on you.”

“I don’t want you to give up a potential presidential run for me. It’s a chance to follow in your uncle’s footsteps and to refurbish the Moore legacy.”

“Technically, I’m not giving anything up. The path was a pipedream and one that was never guaranteed.”

“Don’t give me that.” He’s the party’s dream. Relatively young, charismatic, well-spoken. And thanks to all of his satellites, he probably has kompromat, to use the Russian word for dirt, on anyone standing in the way of his initiatives.

“Telling you the truth.” He crosses one ankle over the other, relaxing on the comforter. “I love my work at Zenith. That’s enough for me. I’m fortunate. A digital nomad lifestyle is easily within my grasp. But…”

“You’ll need to travel.”

“Yes.”

“How about we compromise?”

“Are you listening? You don’t need to compromise. Tell me what you want. I’ll make it happen.”

“Do you not understand the definition of compromise?”

“What is there to compromise over? I’m offering you?—”

“If you want me to move in...”

“Oh.” He straightens as understanding registers. “I guess I did assume we were on the same page about that.”

“See…that’s where we get into trouble.”

His grin is devious. “All right. So tell me. What compromise has this insightful brain of yours cooked up?”

“During the week, we’ll stay at my place. Meaning, we’ll spend the night here. You can work wherever you’d like during the day. I haven’t seen your new place in Montecito, but I imagine it’s probably a preferable place to work.”

“I can find office space down here. Keep going.”

“And on the weekends, we stay in Montecito or wherever you want to go.”

“You don’t work on the weekends?”

“Not normally.”

“So you’re saying yes to moving back in together, but…”

“I’m saying I’m not willing to give up my place yet. I’m saying last time, we moved too quickly, and I gave up a lot right from the get-go.”

“You don’t need to give up anything.”

He’s so sincere. But he’s also wrong.

“That’s part of being a couple. But I’m not ready yet. And we need time. Time to see if we fall back into old habits, and if we do, how we break them. If we can, that is.”

“Whatever you want, whatever it takes. You name it, I’ll do it.”

“Well, first, why don’t we throw on some clothes and grab breakfast? I’ll take you to my favorite place.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Then we can maybe go for a walk down by the beach. And then there’s the holiday office party this evening. You want to join me?”

“Absolutely.”

“So we’ll need to get you clothes.”

“If you’ll ride with me to Montecito, I can pack a bag. What are you doing for the holiday?”

“The Arrow offices close between Christmas and New Year’s. I’ve already told my parents I’m coming home.” I hesitate, searching his face. “Would you have any interest in coming with me?”

His entire being lights up, reminding me of the young man I fell for years ago, before the world got between us.

“I can’t imagine anything I would prefer more,” he says softly.

“You’ve never been excited about visiting my parents before.”

He takes my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. “You’re giving me a second chance. With you. With them. With everything that matters.”

* * *

Snow might be absent from the California coast, but holiday magic fills the air as we arrive at the party. The estate of a prominent actor—coincidentally adjacent to Dorian’s Montecito property—glows with thousands of twinkling lights, transforming the palm trees into something from a fantasy.

Jack and Ava Sullivan stand at the entrance, greeting each employee with the warmth of family rather than bosses.

They’re a stunning couple, Jack with peppered gray hair swept back, spectacles, and a well-tailored suit that communicates understated wealth, and Ava in a deep red velvet sleeveless dress with tattoos lining her arms and thick bangs that crown her enormous, deep-set dark eyes.

They live in San Diego, but I haven’t met Ava Sullivan before.

She’s as beautiful as she is approachable and warm.

Jack takes my hand and introduces me to his wife.

“Ava, this is Caroline, the one I’ve mentioned so often this past week.” I smile at the skillful absence of a last name, given my no-longer estranged husband is at my side. “And this is Dorian Moore.”

Dorian and Jack exchange firm handshakes.

“It’s wonderful to meet you,” Ava says, her attention focused solely on me and not the tall, attention-grabbing man at my side. “I understand we’re indebted to you.”

“Well, the investigation is still ongoing,” I answer, although her statement makes me wonder what exactly her husband has shared.

“I’ve been assured that the FBI is confident in their case against Cromwell. This has been a good year. Arrow’s done good work,” Jack says.

I tilt my head, curious about his statement, not certain I agree it’s been a good year.

The US media had focused on the extremist groups responsible for the domestic attacks, but by the end of the week, the leading headlines shifted to stock rebounds and holiday sales forecasts.

The international media headlines have shifted to international cooperation and calls for increased security initiatives.

In our last briefing, the FBI and NSA were both working on procuring evidence of links between Cromwell and the extremist groups he co-opted for his purpose.

The prosecution team didn’t share their strategy, nor will they, as they are in the initial stages of processing the case, but it’s widely expected they will pursue individual prosecutions, which means Cromwell’s case will not depend on the prosecution of any other involved members.

“You don’t look like you agree,” Ava comments thoughtfully.

“No, I do,” I say, as it’s a holiday party, and I don’t wish to dwell on dark subjects, like my concerns surrounding current events and if we can truly say it’s been a good year.

But with Dorian at my side, and given I might not get the opportunity again, I ask Jack, “Did you determine if your brother had any involvement?”