Mr Spencer (Mr. 2)

He smirks as he watches the flight board, and I know I just sounded like a complete spoiled brat. “I think you need a drink.” He sighs.

“No, what I need is to try and call Spencer again.” I march over to the public phones and get in line. This is all my fault.

Please pick up the phone, Spence. Please pick up.

Nineteen hours later

The cab pulls into the driveway, and a heavy sense of dread rests on my shoulders as I stare at the darkened villa.

I missed his birthday. Wyatt was still in the air when we boarded, so I couldn’t tell him not to give him the letter. When I wrote it and sent Wyatt before Sheridan came to me, I thought I was doing the right thing by setting him free—giving him closure to start the New Year fresh.

In hindsight, I was just so hurt at his past that I couldn’t think clearly, and I will never forgive myself for putting him through that.

I squeeze Anthony’s hand. “Wish me luck,” I whisper.

He gives me a lopsided smile. “Good luck.”

We get out of the car and I walk up to the front door. I turn the handle and realise it’s open. He’s here.

“Stay out here, please,” I whisper.

“I don’t thi—”

“Stay here,” I cut him off.

I walk through the villa. The small lamps are on, but the main lights are off. It’s just as I remembered it, only a lot sadder this time. He must be asleep. I walk into the bedroom but the bed is empty, still made. He hasn’t been to bed yet but his bags and things are here. I check the other bedrooms and then walk out into the living area.

He’s on the balcony. My heart begins to race as I make my way out there. It’s 4:40 a.m. local time, and the sky is just starting to brighten.

It’s eerily quiet. The fire pit has glowing red embers as the last of the fire dies out, and a bottle of scotch is empty on the table.

Spencer’s not here.

I walk over to the balcony rail and look down at the view over the cliff. All I can see is darkness as the sea breeze whips my hair around. For a long time, I stand and peer over the cliff.

I get a vision of him spending his birthday alone, and my heart hurts.

Wyatt.

I hope he’s with Wyatt. Yes. My hope returns. Hopefully Wyatt and him went out.

I hope they painted the town red.

I’m exhausted, so maybe I’ll just go to bed. He’ll be back soon, I try to comfort myself.

Yes, shower and bed.

I turn to walk inside, and I stop dead in my tracks.

Spencer is sitting in the dark up against the wall, his cold eyes fixed firmly on me.

He has a glass of scotch in his hand.

“Spence,” I whisper.

He glares at me as he sips his drink.

“Spencer.” I smile hopefully. “I’m here, baby. I’m sorry.”