And then his eyes found me — and then Piper, and then Callum, and then, last of all, the cedar box in my arms — and every drop of color drained out of his face.

His hand shook so hard the wine slopped over the rim of his glass and bled across the white tablecloth in a spreading red stain that no one moved to blot.

“Sloan?” he said, scrambling to his feet, his voice climbing into a register I had never heard from him.

“What — what are you doing here?

Why did you bring the kids?”

But I was not looking at Grayson anymore.