Chapter 1
Ethan stood, reached into the overhead compartment, and pulled down my battered carry-on before one of his security men could touch it.
“You packed this yourself?” he asked.
“Obviously.”
“I was asking because it weighs more than you do.”
Despite everything, a laugh escaped me.
It startled both of us.
“Six months of baby equipment,” I said.
“That explains it.”
Sophie stirred against my chest.
I looked at Ethan again.
Every instinct I had learned from years of waitressing told me to be careful around men who were accustomed to getting their way.
But another instinct—the one that had spent the last five hours watching him warm a bottle beneath an airplane faucet, adjust Sophie’s blanket, and refuse to react when she drooled on his black sweater—told me the story was more complicated.
“All right,” I said.
“The lounge.
That’s it.”
“The lounge,” he agreed.
The private arrivals area at O’Hare turned out to be less glamorous than I expected.
It had soft chairs, dim lamps, a coffee machine, two private bathrooms, and blessed silence.
To me, it looked like heaven.
I changed Sophie, fed her, and settled into an armchair while Ethan spoke quietly with his security team near the door.
One of them, a gray-haired man named Patrick, brought me coffee without asking.
“Cream, no sugar,” he said.
I stared at him.
“How did you know?”
Patrick nodded toward Ethan.
“He noticed what you ordered on the plane.”
That should have been unsettling.
Instead, I found myself looking across the room.
Ethan was answering a phone call.
“No,” he said quietly.
“Move the New York meeting.”
A pause.
“Because something came up.”
Another pause.
“No.
Something important.”
His gaze shifted toward me.
I looked away.
Twenty minutes later, Sophie was asleep again.
Ethan approached carrying my coat.
“Where are you headed?”
“Lakeview.”
He stopped.
“What hotel?”
“My sister’s apartment.”
“What street?”
I hesitated.
“Why?”
“To tell the driver.”
I gave him the address.
The reaction was almost invisible.
Almost.
His eyes sharpened.
“Say that again.”
I did.
He became very still.
“Your sister’s name?”
I stood.
“Why?”
“What’s her name, Rachel?”
The fact that he knew my first name no longer surprised me.
It had been printed on my boarding pass.
Still, something in his voice made my stomach tighten.
“Marisol.”
His expression changed.
Not fear.
Recognition.
“Marisol Morales?”
“Reyes now.
Or she will be tomorrow.”
Ethan slowly exhaled.
“Daniel Reyes?”
I stared at him.
“You know Daniel?”
“I know his father.”
Of course he did.
Men like Ethan Callahan probably knew everyone in Chicago.
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” he said.
“It isn’t.”
He glanced toward Sophie, then back at me.
“Rachel, what was your father’s name?”
That did it.
I stood so quickly my coffee tipped against the table.
“Why are you asking about my father?”
Ethan didn’t move.
“Miguel Morales.”
It wasn’t a question.
My hands went cold.
My father had been dead for nearly seven years.
“How do you know that name?”
Ethan lowered his voice.
“Because your father worked for my family.”
I refused his car after that.
At least, I tried to.
“You don’t get to drop something like that on me and then act like everything is normal.”
“I’m not.”
“My father ran a bakery.”
“For twenty-three years.”
“You knew that?”
“Yes.”
“He never worked for the Callahans.”
Ethan was silent.
I stared at him.
“Did he?”
“Not in the way you mean.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there’s a conversation we should have when you’ve slept.”
I almost laughed.
“You tell me my dead father had some mysterious connection to the most whispered-about family in Chicago, and you think I’m going to sleep?”
His mouth tightened.
“When you put it like that, no.”
“Then explain.”
He glanced at the clock.
“It’s after four in the morning.
Your sister gets married today.
You have a six-month-old daughter asleep in your arms.”
“And?”
“And some truths deserve more than an airport waiting room.”
I hated that he had a point.
I hated more that his voice sounded nothing like the dangerous man Chicago gossip had created in my imagination.
It sounded tired.
Almost sad.
“What did my father do for your family?”
Ethan looked at me for a long moment.
“He helped my father when almost nobody else would.”
Before I could ask more, Patrick appeared.
“Car’s ready.”
Ethan took my suitcase.
“I’ll drive you to Marisol’s.
If you want answers afterward, I’ll give them.”
“You’ll drive me?”
“My driver will.”
“You know what I meant.”
The faintest hint of a smile appeared.
“Yes.”
This time, I accepted.
Chicago appeared outside the tinted windows in familiar pieces.
Expressway lights.
Brick apartment buildings.
The black outline of the skyline against the first gray hint of morning.
Seven years disappeared and returned at the same time.
I had grown up here.
I had learned to ride a bike here.
I had worked the front counter of Morales Family Bakery while my father sang badly to old radio songs in the kitchen.
I had left here at twenty-six with two suitcases and enough anger to convince myself I would never come back.
Sophie slept beside me in her carrier.
Ethan sat across from us.
“What happened between you and your sister?” he asked.
“That’s personal.”
“Yes.”
“You ask personal questions very easily.”
“I’m told it’s a character flaw.”
I looked out the window.
Then, perhaps because I was exhausted, I answered.
“Our father died.
Everything fell apart.”
“The bakery?”
“The bakery.
The house.
Us.”
I swallowed.
“Marisol wanted to sell everything.
I wanted to keep the bakery.”
“And you left.”
“She sold it anyway.”
Ethan frowned.
“You’re certain?”
I turned toward him.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A specific one.”
“I signed papers.”
“What papers?”
“I don’t know.
Estate documents.
My aunt mailed them to California.”
“And you read them?”
I felt irritation rising.
“My father had just died.
I was working two jobs.
I trusted my family.”
Ethan leaned back.
“I’m not criticizing you.”
“It sounds like you are.”
“I’m asking because the building wasn’t sold.”
I stared at him.
The city seemed to go silent outside the window.
“What?”
“The bakery building.”
“You’re wrong.”
“I’m not.”
“Marisol told me—”
The car slowed.
“We’re here,” Patrick said.
I looked outside.
My sister was already standing on the sidewalk.
For seven years I had imagined seeing Marisol again.
Sometimes I pictured anger.
Sometimes tears.
Sometimes one of us saying something so perfect that every hurtful thing between us would magically disappear.
Reality was much simpler.
She was wearing sweatpants, slippers, and a coat thrown over her pajamas.
Her dark hair was twisted into a messy knot.
And when she saw me climbing from a black sedan with Ethan Callahan behind me, she simply stared.
Then she saw Sophie.
Her hands flew to her mouth.
“Oh my God.”
I barely had time to unclip the carrier.
Marisol crossed the sidewalk and wrapped both arms around me.
For several seconds, neither of us said anything.
Seven years of silence.
Seven years of birthdays reduced to text messages.
Seven Christmases where we mailed polite gifts instead of making peace.
Then Marisol whispered into my hair.
“You came.”
“I said I would.”
“You always say you hate flying.”
“I do.”
She laughed and cried at the same time.
Then she pulled back and looked at Sophie.
“And this is my niece.”
Sophie opened her eyes and blinked solemnly at her aunt.
Marisol smiled.
“Hi, beautiful.”
Only then did she look beyond me.
Her smile disappeared.
“Why is Ethan Callahan standing behind you?”
I folded my arms.
“That is an excellent question.”
Ethan looked between us.
“I believe I owe both of you an explanation.”
Marisol’s face went pale.
“You know?”
That stopped me.
I turned toward her.
“You know what?”
She said nothing.
“Marisol.”
Ethan’s expression sharpened.
“What has Daniel told you?”
“Nothing about this.”
“About what?”
I demanded.
Marisol looked at me.
Then she looked toward the apartment entrance.
“Not here.”
Inside, Daniel was waiting with coffee.
I hadn’t seen my future brother-in-law since they were teenagers.
He was taller now, calmer, with a kindness around his eyes that made me understand immediately why my sister loved him.
He hugged me.
“You made it.”
“Apparently everyone is surprised.”
May you like
“Marisol checked your flight seventeen times.”
“Fourteen,” Marisol corrected.
