Page 28 of One Weekend in Quebec City

Both have gone unanswered.

I found a phone number and tried calling. It went straight to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. What would I even say? Sorry, I ran off like a coward before you woke up? I panicked because I didn’t trust how much I was starting to feel. My bad. Please forgive me.

That’s not the kind of thing you leave in a voicemail. And I didn’t want to risk his assistant monitoring the call.

I take a sip of my now-cold coffee and wince. Yuk. The rain outside my office window hasn’t let up all day, turning the streets of Kingston into a blur of gray. It matches my mood. I’ve reread the notes I took during those couple of days so many times I practically have them memorized. I started out on this journey thinking I’d simply pen an honest article about a rich man who wanted people to look at him not as a billionaire flirt but as a businessman who happened to be a billionaire. A man whose focus wasn’t on the next woman he’d bed but on restoring his family’s legacy.

And I accomplished what I set out to do. Spencer Hollis is not the seducer his board of cronies believes. He’s not his father. He genuinely cares about the companies and the work he does. He wants to make his family proud.

But if my article has helped to restore his image, why haven’t I heard from him? Even simply to thank me?

I’m convinced he’s angry. Hurt. Done.

I walked out on him without giving him a chance. So maybe that’s what I deserve.

Still, I open my desk drawer and pull out my phone. One last try.

I scroll to the number for his office in New York and hit call before I can talk myself out of it.

It rings once. Twice.

“Spencer Hollis’s office, Linda Morgan speaking.”

I swallow. “Hi, Ms. Morgan. It’s Shelby, Shelby Bailey. I’m looking for Spencer.”

There’s a short pause on the other end. “Hi, Shelby. I’m afraid Mr. Hollis isn’t in the office at the moment. Would you like to leave a message?”

I hesitate because I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. “No, I just… I was hoping to speak with him. It’s not urgent.”

“Well, I know he’s been meaning to reach out. We had the article published in our company newsletter and in a local paper. The feedback has been exactly what he hoped for. I though he planned to talk?—”

A knock, sharp and unexpected, interrupts the conversation. I don’t get many visitors on Friday afternoon.

“Shelby, are you still there?”

“Oh, yes, sorry. Somebody’s knocking on my door. Can you please just tell Spencer I called.”

“Of course, but?—”

“Thank you.”My visitor knocks again, a little louder this time. Somebody’s impatient.

When I turn, with thephone still pressed to my ear, and see who is standing in the doorway of my office, I nearly drop it.

It’s him.

Spencer.

Soaking wet from the rain, wearing that charcoal gray coat I remember from Quebec, hair damp and curling slightly at the edges, eyes locked on mine like he’s not sure I’m real.

“Shelby?”Linda’s voice filters faintly through the phone.

I lower it slowly, ending the call without a word, rising from my chair. My heart pounds in my chest, and I can’t tear my eyes away from Spencer. He’s holding something in his hand. Is that a printed copy of my article, folded and creased like it’s been read and reread a dozen times?

Spencer’s voice is rough with emotion. “You don’t need to leave a message.”

Hope blossoms in my chest. “You’re here.”

He steps into the office and closes the distance between us in two strides. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”He hesitates, looking unsure. “I thought for sure I screwed everything up. Moved too fast, pressured you. I’m sorry if I did. I didn’t mean to.”

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