March

Ryan is hurt. Wounded on what Declan called a routine patrol. Taken to a military hospital in Germany where he lay in a coma for weeks, battered and torn. Burned and broken. Hooked up to machines. Tube and needles stuck down his throat. Stuck in his veins.

While I wore couture and drank champagne, flashing the diamond on my finger on the London party circuit, my brother was dying.

He was dying, and no one bothered to tell me.

Because no one thought I would care.

I don’t know why Declan came. Why he felt compelled to tell me. Maybe because he feels guilty for the way he treated me when we were kids. Maybe because he knows Conner didn’t want me to know and he wanted to ruin his day. I don’t really care. It really doesn’t matter. What matters is that Ryan is hurt. He’s home and he needs me.

My brother needs me.

I wanted to drop everything and run. Throw some clothes in a bag and commandeer one of Spencer’s planes. It’s what I should’ve done. What I was supposed to do. But I couldn’t. I had to be patient. Wait for my opening. Be ready to go at a moment’s notice. Eventually, my mother would get bored. Flit off to some spa Switzerland or the spring shows in Milan. Eventually, she’ll leave and so will I.

“Whaddya say, Sparkplug?”

We’re having dinner for Jeremy’s birthday at Davino’s, my favorite restaurant in Manhattan. It’s a small party. Spencer and my mother. Jeremy’s parents and his younger brother. I’m staring at my plate of black truffle pasta, lost in thought when I hear Spencer call out to me. I look up at him with a ready smile. He’s the only person in this room I care about. Even Jeremy. I’m following through with my obligation to him because my mother is right, I can’t sacrifice his life for my happiness—or Gregg’s. He’s an innocent bystander in all of this. Like Conner, all he did was make the mistake of falling in love with the wrong person.

“I’m sorry?” I give Spencer a puzzled smile and everyone at the table laughs on cue.

Spencer gives me an indulgent smile but there’s something about it that makes me sit up. Makes me pay attention. “I said, I have business in San Francisco. You mother has some charity thing she can’t get out of and I thought maybe you’d like to keep an old man company.” He wipes his mouth before lifting his glass of scotch to take a drink. “I know how much you love the San Francisco house. Leave tomorrow—whaddya say?”

I look at my mother. She’s pissed, but her face is so botoxed, no one would know it but me. But pissed or not, she’d never defy Spencer. He holds the purse strings.

I don’t want to go to San Francisco. I need to get to Boston. I need to get to Ryan, but anywhere is better than were I am now. Anywhere but here is closer to where I need to be.

“Do we have anything planned this weekend?” I ask Jeremy, not because I care but because it’s expected.

Jeremy opens his mouth, brow furrowed, but before he can raise an objection, Spencer cuts him off. “I think Jeremy can survive without you for a week, right, Jer?”

Jeremy flushes but nods. “Of course.” He picks up my hand and kisses that back of it. “As long as it’s only a week.”

“Excellent.” Spencer gives me a beaming smile. “We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

I applied for my own credit card before I left for Boston in the fall. It has a ridiculously low limit but it’s mine. An emergency fund my mother doesn’t know about. I didn’t even tell Jeremy. When I got the car in the mail, I felt bad about that. Keeping something from him. Now I’m glad I did because its credit limit is just enough to buy a one-way plane ticket from San Francisco to Boston.

I pack light. A few pairs of jeans. A few sweaters. A pair of boots. My wallet. When I throw my backpack in the trunk of the car, Spencer doesn’t say a word about it. He probably thinks I plan on shopping while I’m there. I feel guilty for planning my escape on his watch, but I don’t know when I’ll have another chance to get away.

As soon as we’re settled on the plane, I recline my seat and doze off while Spencer shuffles through a stack of paperwork and puts out fires via teleconference a few rows over.

“Miss O’Connell.” The steward gives my shoulder a gentle shake. “We’re landing in a few minutes. You’ll need to fasten your seatbelt.”

I sit up and rub a hand over my face. We can’t be landing. It’s a five-hour flight from New York to San Francisco. “How long was I asleep?” I reach for my seatbelt and fumble with the clip.

“Thirty minutes or so,” he looks at my face, obviously concerned with my appearance. “Would you like to freshen up? I can have the pilot—”

“Thirty minutes?” I shake my head. “That can’ be right. San Francisco is two-thousand miles away.”

“Mr. Halston-Day requested a quick stop over in Boston before continuing on the San Francisco.” The steward, straightens, moving back when I throw off my seatbelt and lunge out of my seat.

Spencer is sitting in a window seat a few rows behind me, looking out the window. No paperwork, his phone tucked away, like he’s waiting for me.

“Why are we going to Boston?”

He doesn’t answer me. Instead he gestures for me to sit across from him. I do, making sure to fasten my seatbelt so the steward doesn’t have a fit. “Spencer?” I lean forward in my seat, as far as the belt will allow, trying to get his attention. Finally, he looks at me. “What’s going on? I thought we were going to San Francisco?”

“I’m going to San Francisco.” He reaches out and pats me on my knee. “Boston’s your stop.”

“I don’t understand.” I shake my head. Now that I’m here. Now that I’m where I need to be, I’m terrified. “Why—”

“I’ve really missed those freckles, Sparkplug.” He gives me a quick smile, nodding his head like he just answered my question.

“My freckles?” I raise my hand to my face again. I keep throwing the bleaching cream my mother gets from my dermatologists in the trash and she keeps replacing it. I feel bad for throwing it out. It costs five-hundred dollars an ounce but if she wants me to use it, she’s going to have to hire someone to hold me down while she puts it on herself.

I’m sure that solution is under consideration.

“Yup.” His smile turns wistful. “I don’t think I realized how much until you came home with a face full of them again.” Sitting back in his seat, he aims his gaze out the window again. “There’s a car waiting to take you to Boylston. I’ll be back to get you next Friday.”

I shake my head. “Mother will—”

“Let me worry about your mother.” He gives me a quick look, flashing me a smile. “She’s a difficult woman but I think I can handle her.”