“Mom!”
The cry cut through the airport pickup area so sharply that even Blake’s two executives turned toward the Bentley.
Three little boys tumbled out of the back seat before the driver could fully open the door.
The oldest by eleven minutes, Noah, reached me first.
Liam grabbed my left hand.
Oliver, the smallest, wrapped both arms around my legs and nearly knocked me backward.
I dropped my bag and crouched to gather them against me.
“My sweet boys.”
They smelled like apple shampoo, crayons, and the cinnamon biscuits they always ate during long car rides.
Noah began telling me about a model airplane he had built.
Liam complained that Oliver had taken the window seat.
Oliver pressed a folded drawing into my palm and demanded that I look at it immediately.
For several seconds, I forgot Blake was standing behind me.
Then Noah looked over my shoulder.
“Mom,” he whispered, “that man looks like us.”
My body went still.
I rose slowly and turned.
Blake had not moved.
The color had drained from his face.
His gaze traveled from Noah to Liam to Oliver, taking in the dark hair, the sharp brows, the small cleft in Noah’s chin, and the unmistakable gray-green eyes inherited from the Harrington family.
The boys were not identical, but no one who had ever seen Blake as a child could have missed the resemblance.
His briefcase slipped from his hand and struck the pavement.
One of the executives bent to pick it up.
Blake did not notice.
“Emma,” he said.
My name came out rough and unfinished.
Oliver moved closer to my side.
Blake took one careful step forward.
“How old are they?”
I placed my hand on Noah’s shoulder.
“Four and a half.”
Blake stared at me as though I had struck him.
The calculation happened behind his eyes.
Five years since our separation.
The months required for a pregnancy.
The date our marriage had collapsed.
His lips parted.
“Are they—”
“Not here.”
His face hardened automatically, his old defense rising before the shock had even settled.
“You cannot show up with three children who look like me and tell me not to ask.”
“I did not show up, Blake.
You followed me off a flight.
They came to collect their mother.”
The driver lifted my bag into the trunk.
The boys climbed back into the car, still watching Blake through the open door.
I picked up the cream folder that had slipped partly from my handbag.
Blake’s eyes locked onto it.
“What is that?”
“The explanation you refused five years ago.”
He reached for it.
I pulled it back.
“No.
You do not get to tear through my life on an airport curb because you finally became curious.”
His executives were pretending not to listen.
Travelers moved around us with suitcases and coffee cups, but Blake seemed unaware of everyone now.
