Page 44 of Phillip

“I’m not done yet.” Uncle Graham gestured toward the chair.

Phillip dropped into the chair, apparently not dismissed yet.

“I prefer to hear what’s going on from you,” Uncle Graham said. “Not from your brothers or cousins.”

“There’s nothing—”

“Don’t feed me a line, Phillip.”

“With Ashley?”

“Unless there’s another woman who has your attention and needs a helicopter.”

Phillip drew in a contemplative breath and let it out slowly. “It’s been years…” Years since she broke his heart, since he let her walk away, since they were too young to know what mattered in life and how to hang on to cherished people. “But somehow, that doesn’t seem to matter.”

“Do you love her?” Uncle Graham asked with a serious bent to his tone.

Phillip coughed. A blush heated his cheeks, and he had no idea what to say. They didn’t talk about relationships. Uncle Graham had given all the boysthe talkand had kept them in gear—not only to stay safe but to protect the family name. They, however, did not do heart-to-hearts. “I, um…” he stuttered. “We dated in college.”

“I know that.” Uncle Graham lifted an eyebrow. “Are you going to tell me something that I don’t know?”

Phillip squirmed under Graham’s steadfast scrutiny. “She hates me.”

His uncle did as close to an eye roll as his manners would allow. “I can see that.”

Phillip grinned and scooted to the end of his seat. “I don’t know what to say, but I have to go.”

His uncle nodded, releasing Phillip.

Rushing from the library didn’t slow Phillip’s hammering heart or cool the heat in his cheeks.Do Ilove her?Impossible.

They didn’t know each other anymore. Too much time had passed. His interest in her was stereotypical and cliché, driven by history, jealousy, and a possessiveness he couldn’t let go. Ashley was gorgeous. Her beauty flew off the charts just like her success and intelligence.

Those surface-level qualities would always be a draw, but he knew their connection went far beyond attraction and explosive chemistry. But none of that meant love.

Flustered, Phillip questioned what Uncle Graham knew about love. He was the one who couldn’t keep it after thirty-seven years of marriage. He was alone, unwilling to admit that he wanted to be with Aunt Claire, wondering where she was or who she was with. Uncle Graham was too stubborn a man to fight for what he needed: Claire.

Phillip’s stomach dropped. The similarities between Graham and Claire and him and Ashley shined bright, glaringly obvious.

What if Graham waited as along as Phillip had before seeing Ashley again? Why waste that much time?

Phillip went to his suite and called Blackthorne Enterprises. After a quick conversation and an assurance that Phillip’s helicopter request would be scheduled, he called an old friend and asked for a favor before finalizing his plans.

Phillip dropped onto the corner of his bed. The question of Graham and Claire continued to weigh heavy in his thoughts. If Graham waited years to find Claire, would they still have their love? Or had their love already gone before Claire left?

Hell, dissecting their relationship made him feel as uncomfortable as trying to discover the big family secret. Still, Phillip wondered if the answers to the future lay in their past.

He dropped back onto the mattress and watched the overhead fan spin lazy circles. The answer was easy, simple. Love didn’t leave because of time or distance. It might fade. It might be forgotten. But love would always exist, even if gone, ready to be forgiven and unburied.

Or maybe he’d lost his mind. Phillip pinched the bridge of his nose, uncertain about the wave of realizations making his blood run hot and cold. But given his logic, he’d never stopped loving Ashley.

The more he tried to discredit his rambling thoughts as a fallacy, the more he became certain she’d always held a special place in his heart. Worse—or maybe it was a good thing—he believed now that he’d always loved her. Even to this day.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Five minutes until nine a.m., and Ashley couldn’t wait a second longer. She said goodbye to Mary Beth, who was already at her desk with numbers on her screen and industrial-looking headphones over her ears.

Ashley shut the door, doing little to insulate Mary Beth from Mother and her people, who’d taken up residence in the beach house guest rooms. Some people packed their own luggage. Her mother did not. She had people to pack, then she brought those same people to unpack—a personal assistant, some kind of manager, and a personal chef. Ashley hated them, and they never left.

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