After the call ended, the doorbell rang. Ding dong.
It was a massive bouquet of pink peonies.
Utterly dreamy.
I smiled as I accepted it—but then I saw the card.
And froze.
To the beautiful Ms. Adams, please don’t be mad.
But my last name was Carter.
The warmth of his video call still lingered in my ears.
Yet the icy words “Ms. Adams” on that card cut through my reason like a knife.
Ethan had never made such a mistake.
Carter and Adams weren’t even remotely similar.
This wasn’t a slip of the pen.
Sophia’s teasing expression vanished. She picked up the card, face grim. “What’s your name saved as in his phone?”
“Baby,” I said hoarsely, my voice like sandpaper. “Or wife.”
Never once—Ms. Adams.
“Let’s go.” Sophia snatched her car keys. “Didn’t he say he had outside work this afternoon? Let’s follow him.”
We waited in the parking lot until three o’clock before Ethan finally drove out.
He was alone—not work-related.
The black Cadillac slid through the bustling city streets and, shockingly, pulled into the entrance of an old, noisy farmer’s market.
The ground was wet, the air pungent with mixed smells.
Ethan, dressed in his sharp suit, looked completely out of place.