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Picture Perfect, her event company, was all of her own making, and Ashley enjoyed the behind-the-scenes action. “I provide for myself, and it’s fulfilling.”

Mother mouthed, “fulfilling,” her feathers seemingly ruffled. “The Paget family offers stability, reliability, an impeccable image that would only enhance your little”—she waved her hand—“company.”

Ashley rebuffed the condescension and focused on her breathing. “That’s all fine and good, but I want to fall in love.”

“Like I said, you used to listen and ignore such foolishness.”

The jab hit like a spear through her heart. “Ignoring the foolishness” had served as a pivotal point in her life. Ashley might’ve walked away from love, but she pictured how her life might be if she’d continued in Agatha Cartwright’sperfectsteps. Perfectly corporate and perfectly miserable.

The jab at Ashley’s foolishness had been what Mother considered a dismissal. Without a goodbye, she left the immaculate table, and Ashley was, thankfully, alone again—except for the turmoil consuming her thoughts: Phillip Blackthorne. He was the most irresponsible and worst decision of her life, hands down. Falling in love with him. Running away from him. Phillip had been a lesson she’d had to learn on her own, even if the rise and fall of their love still seared her heart.

CHAPTER TWO

King Harbor, Maine

Phillip Blackthorne leaned into the corner of his golf cart as it edged the immaculate path up the hills that made King Harbor Country Club’s golf course legendary. Someone needed to note the balance of their golf carts, too, Phillip mused. The award-winning course was one thing. But a golf cart that he couldn’t bring onto just two wheels? That was a completely different challenge that he was ready to accept.

The cart skated into the manicured greens, still on four wheels. Phillip roared with laughter. His brother Brock, not so much.

But Phillip had had to do something to ward off the anxious knot building in his chest when Brock broached the topic of Aunt Claire walking out on Uncle Graham at her sixtieth birthday party. Brock worried over the potential for corporate fallout and how outsiders would see the Blackthorne brand.

Phillip had no such worries and avoided family problems with distractions and adrenaline shots while his youngest brother, Brock, ate stress for breakfast, so long as it was properly branded with the barrel and thistle logo.

They bounced from the trail to the green and back onto the path again. Brock might not approve, but Phillip would bet his Callaways that his brother was having a hell of a good time.

“Enough,” Brock barked, seemingly unruffled.

They bounced hard over a bump, and Phillip cut a sharp turn. “What?” He gassed the cart on a straightaway. “I couldn’t hear you.” They rumbled over a dip, and their drinks sloshed from their sweating plastic cups.

“If someone sees you acting like a jackass,” Brock said, “who do you think will clean up that mess?”

“Relax. We’re home free.” Phillip jabbed his elbow toward his youngest brother. “No one comes over here.”

They reached the top of a hill at full speed, and his stomach lurched as they crested, hitting a small swell hard. The cart jumbled back and forth before making a downhill streak. Phillip worked the steering wheel, but it seemed too loose.

“Phillip,” Brock shouted. “Watch out.”

He glanced down the long hill. A large event tent covered the open space between the thick barrier of trees on either side. “Shit!”

Phillip hit the brakes. A mechanical whir whined from below his feet. His foot pressed the brake pedal to the floor. Nothing happened. He pumped the pedal again, and still nothing happened. Adrenaline rocketed into his blood.

“The brakes?” Brock demanded.

He shook his head. “They’re gone.” Phillip jiggled the steering wheel. Their trajectory remained unchanged. “And the steering’s gone too.”

“You’ve got to be joking.” Brock glanced from the tent to the steering column. “Turn it off. Turn the key.”

He was already trying that. “It won’t budge.” They were running out of time, and he didn’t want to die today.

“We can’t hit that,” Brock said, stating the obvious. “Not if people are in there.”

“And ’cause we don’t want to die,” Phillip muttered, pressing the brake pedal to the floor and trying in vain to change course. They had less than a minute to figure out what to do. “We have to bail out.”

“Are you insane?” Brock threw his arm toward the tent.

“We jump out and do our best to knock the cart over.”

Brock’s jaw ticked.

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