Page 99 of Free to Judge

Before I can answer, he asks me a second question. “More importantly, are you okay?” His loving concern in that simple question breaks the dam I built around my emotions. A raw sob escapes, one I hadn’t permitted since I hung up on Declan orsent off emails tying my life in Connecticut to a close for the next few weeks.

I fight hard against another sob—until Peter’s anxious tone at the lack of my speaking unravels my restraint completely. I press a palm hard against my chest, trying to push the anguish back inside long enough for my voice to emerge, but it fails. With the dam burst, I struggle past the relentless pain, unable to shift into the anger and betrayal I know should be roiling inside me. But I’m not there.

Not yet.

I barely catch a breath when Peter’s voice and his words finally penetrate. “I’m on my way.”

“No,” I croak, my voice raspy with sorrow.

There is a pause, and then he asks, “Are you coming to me?”

“I want to, yes.”

“I’m supposed to be filming in Banff for the next few weeks.”

“All the better. Can you book my room under your name?” I plead, desperate to eliminate any trail for Declan to follow.

“Yes.” He responds without a moment’s hesitation. “What else do you need?”

“Mama and Dad will give me money. If I go through it, I won’t be able to pull out any cash or use my cards.”

He scoffs, “Please. As if that’s an issue.”

“Right.” To me, Peter will always be my annoying younger cousin who attracts too many women for his own good—at leastaccording to his mother, Aunt Corinna. To the rest of the world, he’s celebrity chef Peter Freeman, poised to inherit billions.

“How are you getting here?”

“Uncle Ryan and Uncle Jared are flying to Singapore. They’re refueling in Seattle,” I explain.

“Good. Catch a ride with them. I’ll meet you at the airport. Then we’ll drive over the border, and you can vanish for a few weeks.” Cheekily, because he knows it will bring a reluctant smile to my face, he asks, “Think I can get a ride on the plane home when you head back East?”

“S-sure.” I inhale deeply, trying to keep the tears at bay, but it’s not enough. Another sob rips through me, leaving room for an aching river of sorrow.

“Hey, no tears are to be shed for assholes,” he admonishes softly.

“That’s all he left me with, Pete,” I confess.

After a brief silence, he growls, “When do you get in?”

I close my eyes and whisper, “Tomorrow.”

“Good. Not enough time for me to fly my ass back home and commit homicide,” he threatens half-heartedly.

“You don’t even know what’s going on.”

His voice is as smooth as the Chantilly cream he often uses in his cooking. “But someone will text me soon enough, won’t they? I’m certain of it.”

I exhale a shaky breath. He’s right—once my mother shares with her siblings where I’m headed and why, Peter will be provided with every detail they think can help mend my heart.

Before I give much more thought to logistics, Peter’s next words remind me why I have to start healing from these sharp, brutal wounds. “You don’t have to be anyone here, Kalie. Whatever you need—space, love, or even someone to let out all the hurt—I’ve got you.”

My throat clenches tight, but I manage, “Thanks, Pete.”

“Always. You’d do the same for me.”

After the call ends, I stare down at my cell. My recently changed backdrop shows an image of me and Declan I took the night when I went selfie crazy on my couch. It was what I hoped was a glimpse into our future, even if it was only a sliver of our reality. In such a short time, I grew accustomed to having his presence in my life, yet now it feels completely wrong. A heavy weight settles over my chest.

Stop hesitating,I chide myself silently.