“Of course she was,” he fires back defensively. Then, more sharply, “Why do you say that?”
“Did you see her bag? It was Chanel—probably worth between eight and ten thousand dollars.”
He shakes his head. “I’m sure it was a fake. Probably not hard to find.”
“Right,” I say, not wanting to push him further, even though I’m fairly sure it wasn’t a knockoff. Everything about that woman screamed polished—tailored jacket and slacks, discreet jewelry, perfectly blow-dried hair that probably came straight from a high-end salon.
Baptiste’s knee starts bouncing. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “I won’t be the best company right now. Do you mind if we catch up later?”
I want to stay, to say something that will fix this. But I don’t know what he needs—and he’s clearly asking for space. “No, of course not,” I say, standing.
“Thanks. See you later,” he adds, forcing a small, tired smile.
I close the door behind me and shuffle toward the elevator. But when I step inside, I don’t press the button for my floor.
My finger gravitates to the Lobby button.
Who knows? Maybe the woman is still there.
I know Baptiste wants nothing to do with her, but something isn’t adding up. The quiet luxury. The anxious demeanor. The way her lips trembled—not theatrically, but like she was bracingherself for something.
I’ve seen my fair share of scammers over the years. I know the tells. And this woman doesn’t strike me as a swindler.
And there’s one more thing I can’t shake.
She had the exact same emerald-green eyes as Baptiste.
15
Harper
I hurry across the lobby, but the woman has disappeared. I’m about to ask the concierge if he knows which direction she might have gone when, from the corner of my eye, the gold chain of her bag catches the sunlight. She’s waiting for her car outside.
I hurry out and call, “Ms. Fletcher, wait!” She turns around, her brow wrinkled—then realization dawns across her face.
“I’m Harper,” I say, holding my hand out. “Baptiste’s friend. Can we talk?”
She shakes my hand, peeking over my shoulder. “Is he…?”
I wince. “I’m sorry, he’s notcoming back.”
She sighs, her eyes downcast. “That’s okay. I knew it was a long shot. I really shouldn’t have come. I have no right,” she adds quietly, almost to herself.
A stab of pity lodges in my chest. Clearing my throat, I ask, “Want to grab a cup of coffee?”
Her face relaxes. “Sure.”
She tells the valet to cancel her car, and we stroll down the sidewalk to a coffee shop around the corner. We order our drinks and sit at a corner table, away from the windows.
“I feel terrible now,” she says. “I knew this wouldn’t turn out well. But reading that interview, and him being in town… I just couldn’t resist. I thought it was a sign or something.”
“So, you live in DC?” I ask, wrapping my hands around my frozen latte.
“I do. Well, my company is based here. I also have a house in Connecticut. I split my life between the two. I’m usually in Connecticut this time of year, but with the semiquincentennial, we have a lot of events planned that I have to attend.” She pauses. “Being so close to him… it was hard to resist the temptation. I read the article published by the New York Chronicle, and it just tugged at something in my heart. He seems happy—but also lonely.”
I nod along, careful not to mention that I’m the one who wrote the article. The second she learns I’m a journalist, her defenses will go up. And besides, I’m not here chasing a story. I just want to help Baptiste.
“He has friends,” I say. “And I do think he’s happy. But his career is demanding. It’s not easy for pro hockey players to balance personal life and work.”
