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Then she leaned over and rested her head against my shoulder.
I’d stared down breakaways and penalty shots without blinking. I’d stood my ground in boardrooms my father dragged me into over winter breaks, surrounded by executives twice my age who thought they could intimidate me with their corner offices and their condescending smiles. I’d spent the last year watching the woman I was in love with bring home men who didn’t deserve her and never said a word.
But Sam Lowe resting her head on my shoulder?
That undid me completely.
I stayed perfectly still, afraid that any movement might break whatever spell had allowed her to let her guard down. Afraid she’d remember herself, remember who she was supposed to be, and pull away with some quip about not needing anyone. The warmth of her seeped through my shirt, and the scent of her shampoo—floral and sweet—wrapped around me.
Peace.
That was the only word for what I felt. This bone-deep sense of rightness, like everything in my life had been building to this moment. Not the plane, not Seattle, not whatever waited for us when we landed. Not the family business I was running from or the expectations I’d never live up to. Just this. Her. The weight of her trust settling onto my shoulder like it belonged there.
My grandfather used to talk about finding his peace. He’d walked away from Gordon Holdings in his fifties, moved back to Big Sky, Montana, near where he’d grown up, and now spent his days fishing, cooking, and being happy in a way I’d never seen anyone else in my family manage. I’d always wondered what that felt like—finding the thing that made everything else quiet.
Now I knew.
For my grandfather, it was Montana.
For me, it was her.
FIVE
There’s a special kind of torture in walking toward someone you’ve been running from for five years.
I spotted my dad before he spotted me.
The SeaTac arrivals terminal was chaos—families reuniting, couples embracing, kids sprinting toward grandparents with their arms outstretched. Everyone around me was experiencing some version of joy, and I was walking through it all like a woman approaching her own execution.
Dad stood near the baggage claim, hands shoved in the pockets of his old Seahawks jacket—he’d joked once that we’d have to bury him in that thing. His hair had gone grayer at the temples, and there were lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Five years had aged him in ways that made my chest ache.
God, I’d missed him.
I’d spent so long convincing myself I was fine, that distance was better, and staying away was protecting everyone—including me—from having to face what I’d done. But seeing him standing there, looking older, tired, and yet so painfully familiar, cracked me wide open.
Harry’s hand found the small of my back, and his touch instantly steadied me, grounded me in his warmth and safety. His touch was the reminder I needed. I wasn’t alone, even if I feared how this trip would change the way he saw me.
But there was no going back now.
“You okay?” His voice was low, meant only for me.
“No.” The word slipped out before I could stop it. “But I don’t really have a choice, do I?”
Jordan was already moving ahead of us, raising a hand to catch our dad’s attention. Dad’s face split into a smile when he saw his eldest son—and my gut clenched at the familiar easy smile he’d always directed at his kids. That smile used to make me feel ten feet tall.
Then his gaze shifted.
And landed on me.
For one suspended moment, everything else faded away. There was just me and my dad, separated by twenty feet of scuffed linoleum and five years of silence.
His easy smile deflated, and pain streaked across his gaze like lightning. There and gone in a flash, but I saw it.
I saw the exact moment his gaze slid away from mine, unable to hold it. Unable to look at me without seeing everything we’d lost.
My heart cracked clean in half, the pain almost crippling.
I’d known. On some level, I’d always known this would be his reaction to me. But knowing something and having it confirmed were two very different kinds of agony.
