“All right, then.” Sam looked into her face. “Genevieve Mae Woodward?”

“Present.”

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she answered.

Sam slipped the ring onto her finger. They stood. Kissed. Then Sam wrapped her in his arms.

The rest of them pushed to their feet in a mass, everyone clapping, some whistling or whooping. The guys exchanged high fives. The women hugged. Genevieve’s mother wept with joy, and Genevieve’s dad tried to find a pack of tissues for his wife. Natasha snapped pictures.

Sam whispered something to Genevieve. She whispered something back, admiring her ring. He pressed a kiss against the crown of her head and pulled her against him.

The guests crowded around the newly engaged couple to congratulate them.

From the first time that Sebastian had met Sam, Sebastian had seen how perfect he was for Genevieve. She was outgoing and passionate. He was honorable and even-keeled. In fact, as far as Sebastian knew, Sam was so even-keeled that he’d only ever lost his head over one thing.

Genevieve.

Eight days later, Leah traveled to Atlanta.

This time, she did not make the trip in order to see a whip-smart doctor. This time, she made the trip to see a house. Jonathan and Trina Brookside’s house, to be precise.

She drove past their address slowly. Then she parked her Honda—far enough away to be safe, close enough to observe.

Jonathan and Trina now lived in the Tuxedo Park neighborhood of Atlanta, surrounded by some of the region’s wealthiest families. Their sprawling Tudor sat on its lot like a queen on her throne. The oak trees, dogwoods, and lush landscaping surrounding her pledged fealty.

In an alternate version of her life, Leah would not be parking on the street, a stranger. She’d be intimately familiar with this house and its occupants. She’d come here often for holidays, meals, family gatherings. When Jonathan and Trina traveled, she’d stop by to feed the cats or water the flowers or collect the mail.

Then again . . . maybe not. Had these people raised her, she’d likely have attended Princeton. In which case, she might have opted to teach at one of the East Coast universities. In which case, she wouldn’t be living in Georgia.

Her actual life and her possible life had diverged from each other the day of her birth. The more years that passed, the farther apart the two paths grew.

She tapped her fingertips on the lower curve of the steering wheel. The past few weekends, work responsibilities or Dylan-related responsibilities had prevented her from making this pilgrimage. However, she’d spent plenty of time planning her sleuthing tactics and staring at this house on Google maps—which had in no way prepared her for the appeal of the real thing.