Page 91 of Came the Closest

I lift my gaze, certain my question asks itself.

“The year Milo was born, I almost drowned,” she says quietly. “Vincent was sponsoring an event at a marina—I don’t even remember what the party or fundraiser or whatever was for. I was only fourteen, and believe it or not, I was a little bit daring.” She shakes her head, eyes glassy and distant. “Probably because I wanted to measure up to the sons that Mother always talked about.”

Moisture stings my eyes. I bite the inside of my lip and my chest aches, but I say nothing.

“Jordan—the smart, reflexive oldest son. Colton—the daring, spontaneous middle child. And Graham—the quiet, bookish baby of the family.” She sucks in a wavering breath. Her teeth chatter on the exhale, and a groove forms between her brows. “Indi—the one who wasn’t even supposed to exist.”

“Indi, no—”

“My dad and brothers would never say that,” she interrupts. “Except Jordan, maybe. But instead of the freedom my mother wanted, she became a single mother. To me.”

I close my eyes against acidic tears. It’s unfathomable to me, the idea of making a child feel unwanted. I would do nearly anything to have had my child, and yet, it was taken away from me.

“Why didn’t she tell Sam?” I ask gently.

Indi looks at me sharply. “The man my mom divorced and the man Hazel is marrying are two very different men.”

“Yes, but—”

“No, Cheyenne. I can’t,” she says, shaking her head. “I can’t pretend like I could’ve had a different life. One where I grew up in this lakeside town with three older brothers and my dad and my grandmother. That wasn’t my life. Not by a very, very long shot.”

“When did your mother meet Vincent Pierre?”

Indi makes a sound, a laugh and a scoff. “You don’t just meet Vincent Pierre by walking into a coffee shop one day, Cheyenne. I presume they met well before my mother ever divorced my dad.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning nothing, really. Mom was a free spirit, and Vincent could fund her thirst for wanderlust. Dad was financially secure, but he wanted a partner, too. He wanted a mother for his children and a wife. Vincent only wanted someone to look good on his arm when he needed it.” Indi pauses and runs her teeth over her lower lip. “When he wants to be, Vincent Pierre can be a dangerous man, Cheyenne, but only if you give him reason to be. The day Grayson Adair saved me from drowning at Vincent’s own party, Grayson gave him that reason.”

I frown. “Because…?”

“Because I owe Grayson my life,” she says, nearly inaudibly. “I don’t remember anything from that night. I was in a coma for five days, and I’m lucky I don’t have ongoing side effects. But I can never repay Grayson, because if I do, Vincent Pierre will ruin him.”

Alarm pulses through my veins. I’ve seen Milo’s biological father in pictures online. He just looks like a very wealthy, very polished businessman. The epitome of East Coast old money. His sandy hair, slate eyes, and intense expression is handsome if not a little too powerful looking.

Hearing about his moral corruption makes my skin crawl.

“Indi, I need you to be straight with me,” I say slowly, keeping my voice even. “Is Milo in any danger?”

“Milo? No. And neither are you or Colton, or my dad and brothers, for that matter. But Vincent has connections, Cheyenne, and he doesn’t hesitate to use them.” Her cool blue eyes hold mine. “That is why I need you to drop it about Grayson Adair, once and for all. Can you do that for me?”

I don’t want to, not when she didn’t say she wasn’t in any danger. But sometimes you have to trust when you can’t see, so I nod.

“Of course,” I say. I smile as if she didn’t just share such a dark piece of her past, and gesture to the doorway. “Well, what are we waiting for? We can’t dominate in pickleball if we’re standing around.”

Relief softens Indi’s features, and she laughs softly, linking her arm through mine as she nods.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Sailing: The Basics

Colton

It only took one look at Cheyenne when I got home from work to know that she was ready. She’s ventured into the sunroom at dusk for the past week and stared at a blank canvas propped on her decades-old wooden easel, but never picked up a brush. Whether from lack of inspiration or lack of courage, I don’t know.

Tonight, she’s painting.

I knew she was going to. She wore her faded, paint-stained clothes from our teen years, and determination glittered in her eyes all through supper. She didn’t say a word, and I think that’s what makes us so compatible. Not our differences, and not our similarities, but our unspoken understanding of each other.

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