Page 24 of One Weekend in Quebec City

That earns her a slow, sexy grin. And whether she knows it or not, a promise of more of both. “All right, then. Hit me.”

“What drives you, Spencer? I mean really motivates you. Beyond the magazine, beyond the image you’re trying to create.Whydo you do what you do?”

It’s not the question I expected.

I glance out the window. The street is alive—tourists with cameras, kids licking ice cream cones too fast, couples walking hand-in-hand like we did just an hour ago.

“I guess I like the idea of legacy,”I say slowly. “I want to make sure the family members that come after me have something to be proud of. I want to build something that lasts. Not just the magazine, but the stories we tell, the moments we capture. I want someone to open a December issue twenty years from now and feel something. Wonder who that model was. Imagine the snow. Taste the season.”

Shelbysits andstares at me quietly like she’s trying to read my mind. “That’s unexpectedly poetic.”

I chuckle. “You bring it out of me.”

The food arrives—burgers piled high, hand-cut fries,anda bottle of chilled cider between us. We eat slowly, laughing between bites. Shelby tells me about her early days of working with her now sister-in-law. And then, when that ended,howshe freelanced in Kingston, writing fluff pieces and obituaries, and how she once covered a town council meeting where the highlight was a heated debate over squirrel-proofing bird feeders.

“Riveting journalism,”I tease, and she throws a fry at me.

After lunch, we stroll along the Terrasse Dufferin, the boardwalk that wraps around the front of the Château. The St. Lawrence River stretchesout beforeus, vast and glittering under the sun. Buskers play violin and accordion nearby, and the mid-afternoon breeze smells like summer, sweet and fleeting.

We stop, taking it in.

“I’m going to miss this,”Shelby says, almost to herself. “Not just the city.This.Us.”

My heart tugs. “So am I.”

“I leave early tomorrow morning.”

“So do I.”

She turns to face me, her expression suddenly serious. “What happens now, Spencer?”

I wish I had a polished answer. A line. But this feels like the kind of moment that deserves the truth.

“I don’t know,”I say honestly. “But I know what I want.”

“And what’s that?”

“You. Not just for a weekend. I want to see where this goes.”

Her eyes search mine. “Even with the distance?”

“The distance doesn’t scare me.”What scares me is Shelby not wanting the same thing I do.

She doesn’t answerright away, but she steps in closer, her hand finding mine, her fingers curling between mine, warm and steady.

We walk back to the hotel slowly, not ready to let go of the dayjust yet. Neither of us says much on the elevator ride up, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence.It’sfull of awareness of the hours left and what we both know is coming.

Back in my suite, she strolls over to the window while I pour each a glass of sparkling wine from the bottle we didn’t finish last night. The view is stunning, but I only have eyes for her.

When I hand her the glass, our fingers brush. She looks up at me, and there’s something in her gaze, searching and bold all at once.

“We leave tomorrow.”

I nod. “But we still have tonight.”

She steps in, wineglass forgotten on the table behind her. “Then let’s not waste a second of it.”

I set my own glass down, reaching for her, pulling her in with an urgency that matchesthe waymy heart is beating.

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