Speaking of the devil, Jon was due back in Chicago anytime, so as Marco continued to work through his relationship issues, concluding that in trial was equivalent to the in sickness clause of his marital contract, she refilled her wineglass. There was a very real possibility that Jon would be all over her as soon as he walked through the door, and she needed the fortification if she was going to pretend everything was life and love as usual.
At least Holly had been able to kick him out and wasn’t faced with faking her way through lovemaking. Crazy Holly Wright, who had suddenly become her closest confidant.
Her lifeline.
Praying for guidance and strength to the alternate universe in which she now existed, Jessica closed her eyes and tried unsuccessfully to relax.
If she weren’t so close to breaking down, she’d have laughed when her call with Marco was interrupted by a text from Jon.
Rerouted from O’Hare to Indy due to high winds. Headed to an airport hotel to get a few hours of sleep before a flight at zero dark thirty. See you at the office in the morning. Love you, Jessie.
The doorman was one Lark didn’t recognize, a bald, thin-faced dude with hair creeping above his collar.
“My name is Lark Robinson,” she told him. “I need the key to 2701.”
“Are you an authorized user?”
“It’s my fiancé’s place,” she said, not meaning to be irritated with the guy but unable to keep the frustration out of her voice. “Trip Mitchell.”
He looked at her dubiously.
“Jonathan Wright,” she said, feeling something rip loose inside her.
He tapped his keyboard and frowned. “You’re not with Cancura, then?”
“I’m not sure who I’m with,” she said, pissed off. “Can you call him, please?”
“Of course, Miss Robinson. Oh wait. There’s a note here authorizing your stay. Apologies—I just started my shift and didn’t see it.”
A minute later, she was hurtling upward in the elevator, then stalking down the hallway. She found the familiar apartment and opened it with the hotel-style key. The first thing she noticed was how nothing seemed to have changed since her initial visit. The second thing she realized was why: the framed photographs she’d so carefully hung in the entry hallway were missing.
Fortified by more than half a bottle of chardonnay, Jessica pulled on jeans and a sweater, climbed into an Uber, and headed toward the Loop, thinking, What would Holly do?
WWHD.
The woman now seemed eminently sane, but Jessica questioned her own mental state as the driver dropped her off in front of the Heritage at Millennium Park.
Even though she knew Jon was grounded in Indianapolis, her heart raced as she strode through the glass front doors into the lobby. Should she have worn a wig, Jessica Bond style, just in case?
The thought made her giggle.
“Evening, ma’am,” the doorman said. “How can I help you?”
“I hope you can,” she said. “One of my coworkers asked me to make sure our corporate apartment is ready in advance of a visit by out-of-town guests.”
“Which unit?” he asked.
“I have it right here,” she said, pulling out her phone and pretending not to find the text she was looking for. “Shoot. It’s registered to Cancura, and I know it’s on the twenty-seventh floor.”
“Twenty-seven-oh-one?” the doorman asked.
“That’s it,” she said. Emboldened by wine, she added, “If I can have the key, I’ll be in and out.”
“I’m afraid you’re a little late. The unit is already occupied.”
Trip arrived forty-five minutes later with flowers and champagne, a smile on his lips, and a wary look in his eye. Lark refused to accept the gifts, forcing him to set them down on the table, and kept her arms crossed when he went in for a hug.
“I wish I’d known you were planning to join me here, so we could have flown together,” he said gamely.
“Are you Trip Mitchell or Jonathan Wright?” she asked.
She didn’t know what she expected him to say or do. From her terse emails and sudden arrival, he had to have known something was coming. Would he deny it angrily? Meekly confess? Instead, weirdly, his face went completely blank for a single second—looking frighteningly like a mask of the man she used to know—before he recovered and gazed at her earnestly. Lovingly.
“Lark, I know this looks bad,” he said. “But I can explain. It’s not what you think.”
“And what do I think?”
“I don’t know, but I have an idea.” He began taking off his coat.
“Leave it on if you want,” she told him. “This might not take long.”
He finished and hung it on a chair. For a moment, he looked even more tired than he had in LA, and Lark had a fleeting thought that she was sharing the room with a stranger—that she should run—and then it passed and the familiar Trip was back, leaving Lark more confused than ever.
“Hear me out—please,” he said. “Sit with me?”
She shook her head, wanting to keep her distance. He sat down on the couch alone.
“I’ve lied to you about some things,” he began, with a sad smile. “You’re right: my legal name is Jonathan Wright.”
“And Trip?”
“My grandpa used to call me that. My dad was a junior, and I’m a third. Mitchell is my middle name.”
Lark felt so confused and angry she wanted to throw something at him, but there wasn’t so much as a vase in the antiseptic apartment. Wobbling, she sat on the edge of the dining room table.
“Just . . . why?” she asked.
“I’m not going to apologize or ask you to forgive me, because this is beyond that. All I can do is tell you what was in my heart, Lark. I loved you the moment I saw you. I knew I had to be with you, but I was afraid you’d reject me because I’m older and, well, I was still technically married, even though the divorce had
