Page 105 of His Jersey

“To be fair, I had Carlos hire someone to scour the island and the nearby areas.”

“You remembered what it looked like?”

“Sort of, but I went into the security archives for the first time I saw you at the Beachside to obtain a photo of it. Hope that’s not creepy.”

“Jack, the fact that it even occurred to you means so much to me.” I kiss him on the cheek.

He clears his throat. “I was also looking for Slater, if that’s his real name. An investigator was trying to find the history of you and a man on the island. We went through hours of security footage to ID him. Turns out the guy is already under investigation for defrauding the elderly and infirm.”

I gasp. “Seriously? I mean, it’s not surprising.”

His nostrils flare and I imagine him wishing he could hit the guy with his hockey stick. Or maybe that’s just me. Sorry about the violence.

“Where are we going?”

“To pick up an important package.”

“Couldn’t you have it delivered?”

“I didn’t want to wait another moment.”

It’s dark when we touch down, but in the distance, a building glows. Instead of a slick black SUV, a horse and buggy like a hansom cab in the old days wait for us.

A footman opens the door and gestures for me to get in. Jack follows and the horse clip clops on the cobblestones.

As the building comes into focus, a castle takes shape, complete with a turret.

“Where are we?”

“Where I grew up. My father regarded my mother as his queen. Built her a castle.”

“Are you serious?”

His smile is halfYou’d better believe itand half bashful.

Sprawling grounds gather around an imposing stone structure with parapets, turrets, and whatever those little bits jutting up that look like jack-o’-lantern teeth are called. The carriage stops in a grandporte-cochère. The covered area is as fancy as it sounds, reminding me that I’m not. I only know the name of the structure because I watched a special on HLTV about nineteenth-century manor houses during the long hours at the hospital with Dad.

“When I was a little girl, I drew pictures of a castle that looked a lot like this. Is there a moat?”

He answers. “A pond and gardens.”

We walk up a slate path flanked by shrubs and low landscape lighting.

“You really lived here?”

“Some of the time. We have homes in Hawaii, Switzerland, and New Zealand. Plus, all the resorts.”

“Who are you, Jack Bouchelle?” I ask, transfixed.

Footsteps approach from behind the door, and he presses a kiss to my forehead and then says, “Your fiancé.”

A butler greets us and we enter a massive foyer with a crystal chandelier overhead, sconces with flickering candles, and a grand staircase. An old hound ambles toward us. Bark Wahlburger trots forward proudly.

He crouches down and pets the dog. “Bruno, my boy. My good, good boy.” Bark Wahlburger nudges him. “You too. Of course.” Jack introduces the dogs and they scamper off, already friends.

I ask. “Did I fall asleep and wake up in a fairytale?”

Jack gently pinches me.

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