Chapter 10 - The Meteor Shower
“You idiot,” Laura whispered, her voice trembling with a mixture of tears and fierce, unyielding fury. “Do you think I wanted you to sleep in a five-dollar motel and grovel in the mud?”
Ben stood before her, shaking, his hands hovering near her waist, terrified to touch her without permission. “Laura... I—”
“I didn't leave because you were tempted by a pretty face, Ben,” she said, her voice rising above the thunder, her fingers gripping his shirt so hard they bruised his chest. “I left because you forgot who we were! You forgot that before we were Kendall Ridge and Northline, before we were board members and homeowners, we were two kids who survived hell together! You thought my spark died? My spark was keeping this family alive while you daydreamed about your youth!”
“I know,” Ben cried, wrapping his trembling arms around her soaked back, burying his face into the hollow of her neck, breathing in the rain and the faint, enduring scent of her lavender skin. “I know, baby. I’m so sorry. I swear to God I’ll spend every day reminding you that I know.”
Laura held him. For the first time in two months, she buried her face in his shoulder and let the hot, painful tears flow freely into the freezing rain. She didn't let go. She held the man she had loved since girlhood, feeling the violent, desperate beat of his heart against her ribs.
“Come inside,” she whispered against his ear. “You’re freezing. And Sadie has been asking why Daddy hasn't read chapter eight yet.”
Three months later.
The biting frost of November had melted into the crisp, sweet air of late spring.
Northline Properties and Kendall Ridge Capital had officially merged their executive operations into Kendall Global Holdings, with Laura installed as the Executive Chairwoman holding fifty-one percent voting control, and Ben serving as Chief Operating Officer. The restructuring was hailed across Wall Street as a masterclass in corporate synergy. Jonathan Vance was serving a four-year sentence in federal prison, and Mia Sterling had vanished into the obscurity of Florida, her reputation in New York forever obliterated.
It was two o'clock on a Tuesday morning.
Inside the quiet, darkened master bedroom of the Westchester estate, Laura was sound asleep beneath a down comforter.
Suddenly, the covers were gently peeled back.
Laura stirred, opening her eyes to see Ben standing beside the bed. He wasn't wearing a tailored Italian suit. He was wearing his faded gray hoodie, a mischievous, radiant grin lighting up his hazel eyes.
“What are you doing?” Laura murmured, squinting at the digital clock on the nightstand. “It’s two in the morning, Ben. I have an investment committee call at nine.”
“Cancel the first thirty minutes,” Ben whispered, leaning down and pressing a tender, lingering kiss against her lips.
He held up two pairs of thick wool socks and a pair of hiking boots.
“Where are we going?” she asked, a spark of curiosity finally cutting through her sleepiness.
“The Lyrids meteor shower peaks tonight,” Ben said, his voice full of the breathless, electric excitement of a seventeen-year-old boy. “And I packed a thermos of extra-thick hot chocolate with cinnamon from that diner in White Plains—the one forty minutes away.”
Laura stared at him in the dim moonlight. The lines around his eyes were softer now. The hollow arrogance had vanished, replaced by a deep, grounded humility and a fierce, devotional adoration that never wavered.
A slow, brilliant smile spread across Laura’s face. The woman with calendars reached for her boots.
“Let me check on Miles and Sadie first,” she said.
“Already did,” Ben smiled, catching her hand and pulling her out of bed into his arms. “They’re sound asleep. Eric is staying in the guest room to listen for the monitor. Tonight, Mrs. Kendall, it’s just you, me, and the stars.”
May you like
Holding hands, they slipped quietly down the grand staircase, out through the kitchen, and into the cool night air. As their car sped down the empty highway toward the diner, Ben reached across the console, entwining his fingers tightly with hers.
There were no comparisons. There were no ghosts of eighteen-year-old girls. There was only the woman who had fought for him, the man who had fought to return to her, and a life that was finally, gloriously, beautifully alive."
