Before There Was a Baby

Chapter 18

POV James

The estate sprawls across two hundred acres of Connecticut countryside, all rolling hills and ancient oaks and the kind of silence that makes city noise feel like violence.

I watch Caroline from across Oliver's drawing room, and she pretends not to notice. She's been pretending since we arrived three hours ago—laughing at Oliver's jokes, admiring the architecture, asking about the history of every painting on the walls. Anything to avoid being alone with me.

Three days since she pushed me away. Three days of unanswered messages and avoided glances in the elevator. Three days of wondering what shifted in that moment between wanting and withdrawal.

Oliver catches my eye and tilts his head toward the French doors. Talk to her, the gesture says. That's why you're here.

He's right. When he first proposed this weekend—appearing in my office like a man who had already made decisions on my behalf—I wanted to refuse. Every instinct I've cultivated over fifteen years screamed that distance is safety, that vulnerability is weakness. But I need to understand what made her flinch away from my touch like I'd burned her.

Caroline agreed to come because Oliver mentioned his father knows several members of the Ellsworth trust board. A strategic opportunity, she called it. Another chance to build connections that might help her escape this arrangement. She didn't mention me at all.

"The gardens are particularly stunning this time of year," Oliver announces, rising from his chair with theatrical timing. "James, why don't you show Caroline the walking paths while I check on dinner preparations?"

Caroline's smile tightens almost imperceptibly. "I'm sure James has better things to do than play tour guide. I can explore on my own."

"Nonsense. An engaged couple should spend time together, don't you think?" Oliver's expression is pure innocence, but I know him too well to miss the calculation beneath. "The pond path is especially romantic. Take your time—dinner won't be ready for at least an hour."

He disappears before either of us can object, leaving us alone in a room that suddenly feels far too small.

"You've been avoiding me," I say.

"I've been busy." She moves toward the window, putting distance between us. "The trust restructuring requires significant attention, and there's the matter of coordinating our parents' next encounter. I thought the Hamptons property might work for Easter weekend."

"Caroline."

"Edward mentioned he's been considering a spring renovation. If we suggest Helen consult on the interior design, it creates a natural excuse for extended proximity without—"

"Caroline." I cross the room and stop close enough that she's forced to acknowledge me. "We need to talk about what happened."

Her jaw tightens. The tension that eased slightly in Oliver's presence returns, settling into her shoulders like armor. "I told you it was a mistake. Some mistakes don't require extensive postmortems."

"You were shaking. You looked at me like I'd done something unforgivable, and then you threw me out without explanation." I keep my voice level, though the memory still burns. "I've replayed that night a hundred times. The least you can give me is honesty."

"You didn't do anything wrong." The words come out clipped, almost angry. "That's the problem, James. You were perfect, and I wanted you, and then my body decided it had other plans."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I got sick. Violently, humiliatingly sick, and I couldn't let you see that." She finally meets my eyes, and the vulnerability there catches me off guard. "So I made you leave, and I've been avoiding you because I don't know how to explain something I barely understand myself."

The confession lands differently than I expected. Not rejection—something else. Something she's still hiding beneath the surface explanation.

"You could have told me. I would have stayed, made sure you were all right."

"That's exactly what I was afraid of." She turns back to the window, her reflection ghosting across the glass. "You being kind. You being decent. You making it impossible to keep hating you the way I need to."

"Why do you need to hate me?"

"Because your sister killed my brother, and if I stop hating you, I have to stop hating her, and then I have nothing left to hold onto." Her voice cracks on the last word. "Will was my anchor. My proof that someone in this world thought I was worth loving. Lucy took that from me. And every time you show me something human, something gentle, I feel like I'm betraying his memory."

We stand in silence, her confession settling between us like snow. I want to reach for her hand, but I don't. I want to tell her that grief and attraction can coexist, that hating me won't bring Will back.

Instead, I gesture toward the French doors. "Walk with me. Oliver will be insufferable if we don't at least pretend to use his romantic pond path."

Her laugh is small, surprised. "Fine. But only because I refuse to give him the satisfaction of being right about us."

We walk for nearly an hour. The pond path winds through bare trees and frozen flower beds, and somewhere between the stone bridge and the old gardener's cottage, the tension between us shifts into something almost comfortable. She tells me about Vienna—the café where she spent Sunday mornings, the gallery owner who became her only real friend. I tell her about Lucy's panic attacks, how I learned to count in fours because it was the only thing that helped her.

I catch myself watching her too often. The way she tilts her head when she's thinking. The rare, genuine smile that transforms her face when she spots a family of deer at the tree line. The unconscious grace of her movements as she navigates the uneven path.

I want to photograph her like this. Unguarded. I want to keep her like this, safe from the world waiting beyond these hills.

By the time we return for dinner, something has loosened between us. Not forgiveness—not yet—but the possibility of it. Oliver notices immediately, his satisfied smile earning him a glare from both of us.

"The guesthouse offers more privacy for the engaged couple," he announces afterward, pressing a brass key into my palm. "Separate entrance, fully stocked kitchen, and absolutely no interruptions from nosy hosts."

The guesthouse is charming and small—a converted carriage house with exposed beams and a fireplace already crackling. One bedroom. One bed.

"More privacy for the engaged couple," Oliver had announced, pressing the brass key into my palm with a smile that promised mischief.

Now I stand at the front door, trying the handle for the third time. It doesn't budge.

"The lock seems to have malfunctioned," I say, pulling out my phone. No signal. "And we have no service."

"So we're trapped." Caroline's voice carries an edge that might be anger or might be something else entirely. "Of course we are. Oliver planned this."

"Oliver is going to find himself uninvited from every event I host for the next decade."

She laughs despite herself, then sobers as her gaze drifts to the bedroom doorway. The single bed dominates the space, impossibly large and impossibly intimate.

"I'll take the sofa," I offer.

"Don't be ridiculous. We're adults. We can share a bed without—" She stops, color rising in her cheeks. "Without complications."

I move toward the bedroom, and muscle memory takes over. I stop at the left side of the mattress before I realize what I've done.

Caroline freezes in the doorway, staring at the right side. The same position she took that night in my hotel room, six weeks and a lifetime ago.

"I told you," I say quietly, and she looks up to meet my gaze. "Preferences create patterns."

The tension in the room is suffocating. Every inch of distance between us feels like a dare neither of us knows how to answer.