Page 309 of The Havenport Collection

Maeve

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel while I waited for the light to change. I was so grateful to be headed home early. We wrapped things up quickly in New York, the client was ecstatic, and I was looking at a work-free night ahead of me. I was going to climb into the tub and never leave.

The past few months had been hell. Wedding planning was insane, and getting things tied up at work was even worse. I was so close to making partner, so I had to work over-over-overtime to make up for the fact that I’d be taking two weeks off for my wedding and honeymoon soon.

I watched a family cross the street, a toddler holding his mom’s hand and waving at me in the crosswalk while the dad wrangled the family dog. I sighed. That was what I wanted—kids, a doting husband, a lovable, goofy dog.

And I was so close to getting it. The wedding was only three weeks away, and although Tristian and I had been so stressed with getting everything ready, it was going to be perfect.

My sister Sylvie had brought me to the Thompson Farm last spring for the Maple Sugar Festival and I fell in love.

A rustic yet chic barn, a fieldstone patio adorned with lights, and a huge outdoor fireplace?

It was like every single one of my Pinterest boards came to life, joined forces, and built a family farm in my own hometown.

And every detail would be perfect. I had picked the music, the flowers, the linens, and designed the perfect autumnal, farm-to-table meal.

I turned into my parking space and saw Tristian’s Land Rover. I was so happy he was home. Granted, he was home most of the time, but since I rarely was, I was looking forward to spending some time together.

I opened the door, desperate to get out of this skirt suit. “Tristian, I’m back early,” I yelled, wheeling my suitcase through the door.

I looked up, expecting to see my fiancé happy to see me, but instead saw something else entirely.

My vision blurred and my stomach churned.

What. The. Shit.

Tristian was home all right. He was looking quite comfortable on the couch with a blonde woman I didn’t recognize perched on his lap.

Breathe, Maeve. Breathe. This is probably a misunderstanding.

“Tristian?” My voice cracked.

He looked up at me and had the balls to look annoyed as he pushed the blonde off his lap. “What are you doing here?” he said.

“I live here. What the fuck is going on?” My hands shook as I walked closer, trying to understand what had been going on in my home.

The blonde sighed loudly and played with her hair. My eye twitched as I tried to place her.

“Babe…” Tristian said, walking toward me.

I held up a hand, my glare daring him to take one step closer. “What is going on? I’m unclear on what is happening here.”

I attempted to sound authoritative, as I felt the almonds I ate for lunch rise up from my stomach.

This was a joke. Or a mistake. Or some charming mishap we would joke about with our grandkids.

I had NOT just found my fiancé kissing another woman in my fucking home.

Nope. Did Tristian have a secret identical twin?

Yes, it was implausible, but my sister Alice used to love soap operas and this shit happened all the time on them.

I looked at him and waited patiently for the funny anecdote that would surely accompany this preposterous situation. But instead he just stared at me with his mouth hanging open. Tristian was never particularly articulate.

I continued to stare at him, waiting for some kind of explanation.

But nothing came. Instead I heard her breathing and realized that woman was still standing in my space.

I turned toward her and looked hard at her.

I felt like I knew this chick, but I couldn’t place her.

She was thin—much thinner than I was—and pretty, with thick blonde hair.

She was wearing those really expensive looking workout clothes I would be too scared to actually sweat in.

I tilted my head. “Who are you?”

She shifted, cocking her hip in defiance. “Moira. You’ve known me since elementary school. God, Tristian was right; you really are a snobby bitch.”

Recognition dawned. Moira Cunningham. I should have known. Apples, trees, and all that. She was a couple of years behind me in school, but I had known her older sister.

I glared. “I don’t fucking care if you are my goddamn long-lost twin. What the fuck are you doing in my home and why were you just sitting on my fiancé’s lap kissing him?”

She stood stock-still, glaring at me while Tristian continued to shrink into the background.

As much as I wanted to throw down, I had to admit this chick had balls.

In another life I’d introduce her to my colorist and take her under my wing.

There was something defiant in the set of her jaw and the harsh slant of her nose. Game recognized game.

“Actually,”—I waved a hand at her dismissively—“I don’t really care. Get out.”

I turned my back to her and started walking toward Tristian. His face, tan from lazy days spent at his parents’ place on the Vineyard, was pale.

“What the fuck?” I spoke slowly, trying to keep my voice steady. I will not scream. I will not cry. I will be strong. I put my hands on my hips and spread my legs—a power position I learned on Instagram—for a dose of extra courage.

He looked down at his feet, not even man enough to look me in the eye. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

I blinked several times, trying to ignore the migraine that was brewing behind my right temple.

“Find out what? That you were fucking around behind my back? Because that’s what it looks like.

Please tell me it’s not what it looks like, Tristian.

Our wedding is in three weeks. The wedding we spent a fucking year planning. ”

He stared at me blankly. “You know, the wedding that’s already paid for. By me?” I slammed a fist into the wall in emphasis. Shit, that hurt.

He shook his head. “Of course that’s what you care about. Your precious fancy wedding.”

I ignored that comment.

“Are you fucking her?”

He nodded.

“For how long?”

I heard movement behind me. Moira, that ballsy bitch, walked over and put her arm around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder. And Tristian, that turncoat motherfucker, put his arm around her bony shoulders.

“We have been together for about a month now. He was never going to marry you. He just never had a chance to tell you he’d fallen for me because you’re never here.”

Apparently she inspired him to find his vocal cords. “Yeah. You’re always working or exercising or doing wedding planning. We haven’t been able to talk.”

“Talk?” I laughed out loud, a cloud of rage building in my chest. “We sleep in the same goddamn bed and have been planning our future together.” I paced toward him and he took a step back, clearly terrified of me.

A fizzle of satisfaction ran through me, mingling with the sadness and confusion. Good. He should be scared.

I took a good look around the living room, finally noticing the beer cans and takeout containers.

They’d been holed up here for a few days, clearly since I left for New York.

I looked down to see a ring on the gorgeous mahogany table I bought at All Modern earlier this year and snapped.

The fucking coasters were right on the table.

Before I even knew what I was doing, I picked up a full can of beer and threw it at the massive TV Tristian insisted I buy.

Since playing Call of Duty was “therapeutic” for him, I’d even gotten him the top-of-the-line headset and gaming crap.

Now I wanted to enjoy the therapeutic effect of destroying it all.

I enjoyed his screams when the can crashed through the TV screen, and enjoyed crunching the headset beneath my LK Bennett court shoe.

“What the fuck, Maeve?” he yelled as I laughed.

“It’s a TV, Tristian.” I rolled my eyes and walked over to him, his words still swirling around in my mind. “You’ve had ample opportunity to talk to me over the last two years. It just seems like you’d rather be a cheating asshole.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Really?” I shouted, my anger growing stronger.

“You could have texted me, called me, or written me a goddamn letter. We know you have a lot of time on your hands, Tristian, what with me paying all the bills while you sit around playing video games with your dick in your hand. So you could have written me a goddamn novel about your feelings.”

“Maeve, you don’t get it, do you? You never make time for me. You work nonstop and never make time for me.”

I threw my head back and laughed. Actually, it was probably more of a cackle. “You are so pathetic. Are you seriously trying to pretend it’s my fault you can’t keep your pathetically tiny dick in your pants?”

He walked toward me. “This is your fault. You put too much pressure on me. You are just like my parents.”

I wave a hand. “I’m not listening to this bullshit any longer. Goodbye, Tristian.”

Ignoring my painful heels, I grabbed my suitcase and tote and walked right out the door, slamming it behind me.

I jumped in my car and peeled out of the parking lot. Fuck Tristian. Fuck everyone. How could this happen?

Feelings, dark, dangerous, and intense, bubbled up inside me. I wanted to rage and scream and break things.

I pulled into the parking lot of the gas station, realizing my hands were shaking so badly I could barely grip the steering wheel. I put my head onto the steering wheel, letting all the disappointment wash over me.

Had my life just blown up? Had I just walked into my literal nightmare?

I sat for a few minutes, shaking and attempting to breathe. What do I do now?

The logical choice was to head to my parents’, but that would cause more problems. They weren’t exactly supportive on a good day, and in my current state, I could only imagine the damage their judgment would inflict.

And I didn’t have any close friends. Most of my friendships had fizzled as I’d climbed the ladder at the firm.

My entire life had unraveled in a few short minutes. I needed a drink.