“You know how instrumental you were in getting us that contract,” Lila said, since it was no more than the truth. “And if the only thing you’ve come here to do is make me feel guilty about it, then you’re wasting your time. I know how much we’re in your debt.”

Some of Patrick’s brilliant wattage dimmed. “I’m not here to make you feel guilty, Lil. I only wanted to tell you that you have my full support.”

He said it the way he said most things—a magnanimous man making a magnanimous gesture—causing all of her hackles to rise. But then he added, “I’m also here to apologize.”

“Apologize?” All three Vasquez sisters turned his way with a shared look of incredulity.

He chuckled, though his attention remained riveted on Lila. “I know. It shocked me, too. But I’m man enough to admit when I’m wrong, and I was wrong about you. I’m sorry, Lila.”

Lila couldn’t have felt more dazed if the chef had come by and knocked her across the head with a cast-iron frying pan. Once upon a time, in the manner of all fairy tales, she’d thought her happily ever after was within reach. For four months and thirty days, she and Patrick had been an unstoppable force, sharing long philosophical discussions over eggs Benedict. They’d done all the things respectable couples were supposed to do: brunches and lunches and working side by side to complete the Sunday Times crossword puzzle every week.

And they’d done it, too—that was the thing that bothered her the most. Lila had been doing that blasted crossword puzzle for the majority of her adult life, but she’d never managed to finish Sunday’s by herself. But Patrick and his esoteric knowledge of historic military campaigns and Latin root words had done the trick. What she couldn’t figure out on her own, he’d supplied with that beaming smile and some hastily scrawled penmanship. Honestly, it was enough to drive a woman out of her mind with desire.

It had been enough to push Lila that direction, anyway.

Until, of course, the fourth month and thirty-first day. That was when he’d pulled the plug without a hint of warning. That was when he’d blamed her for driving him to it.

Because she was too perfect. Too demanding. Too reserved. Too cold.

In other words, she was a lizard person. Cut her up and measure her out, and she’d be the perfect handbag—with or without the matching shoes.

“You’re sorry?” she echoed, blinking at him.

“Yes.” His hand shot out and covered hers, his grip heavy. “I only meant the best when I warned Anya that you weren’t ideally suited to working with kids.”