Chapter 212
“Aaden, people look at photos for work,” Jocelyn said carefully, glancing toward Mrs. Thorne.
“No.” Aaden shook his head with absolute certainty. “He looks at her like Uncle G looks at you.”
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Thick, heavy silence filled the room.
Gaston coughed into his fist to cover a laugh. “Smart kid.”
Jocelyn felt heat radiating from her ears. “How — how does Uncle G look at me?”
Aaden considered the question with great seriousness. “Like when I really, really want the last cookie, but Mrs. Higgins says I can’t have it.”
Mrs. Thorne choked on her tea and set the cup down with a clatter.
“Okay! Time for bed!” Jocelyn stood abruptly, clapping her hands. “Let’s go, Aaden. Pajama time.”
She ushered the boy out of the room, her heart hammering.
𝘕еw 𝘸𝘦𝗲k𝘭𝘺 𝘤hаp𝗍𝖾𝘳𝘀 oո 𝘨a𝘭𝗇оve𝗅𝗌.𝖼о𝗆
“Out of the mouths of babes,” Gaston called after her, leaning back on the sofa with an expression of profound smugness.
“He’s watching too much TV,” Jocelyn muttered, fleeing down the hall.
Later that night, a black sedan with tinted windows sat parked in the underground garage of a discreet five-star hotel. Justin Collins occupied the back seat. The engine was off. The interior was dark. His driver — a former Secret Service agent — sat silently behind the wheel, staring straight ahead.
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On an encrypted tablet in Justin’s hands, a live video feed showed the entrance of a brownstone apartment building across the street.
A man walked up the steps. Tall, blonde, good-looking in an unremarkable way. He unlocked the door with a key and disappeared inside.
Quentin. The fiancé.
Justin gripped the leather armrest. He squeezed until his knuckles turned white, the fine stitching groaning under the pressure.
A light came on in a second-floor window. A silhouette moved slowly across the blinds.
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Jealousy was a cold, sharp knife buried in his gut. It twisted.
“Enjoy it while you can,” Justin whispered to the darkness.
The industrial kitchen of the Wolfe Hotel was a gleaming labyrinth of stainless steel. It smelled of sugar, butter, and vanilla.
“We have five options for the wedding cake,” the pastry chef, a cheerful woman named Marie, announced, gesturing to the plates lined up along the counter. “Vanilla Bean, Red Velvet, Lemon Zest, Dark Chocolate, and Carrot.” She smiled warmly. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it. The kitchen is all yours for the next half hour to make the final decision. Just let me know what you pick!” She bustled out, leaving them in a sudden, intimate quiet.
Gaston stood beside Jocelyn — standing too close, as always. His arm brushed against hers every time he moved.
“I like the Red Velvet,” he said, his voice a low rumble near her ear.
Jocelyn picked up a fork and took a small bite. The cake was moist, the cream cheese frosting rich and balanced.
“It’s good,” she admitted. “Not too sweet.”
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She set the fork down. A dab of white frosting remained on her thumb. She reached for a napkin.
Gaston’s hand shot out. He caught her wrist.
“Wait,” he said.