Chapter 1

Juliet

The windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm against the fat snowflakes falling from the gray December sky. I glance in the rearview mirror and catch Thomas pressed against his booster seat, nose squished to the window, eyes wide as saucers.

"Mama, look! It's like the whole city is covered in sugar!"

A smile tugs at my lips despite the knot forming in my stomach. "Pretty cool, huh?"

"It's the best!" His breath fogs the glass. "Can we build a snowman when we get there? Please, please, please?"

"We'll see, baby. Let's get unpacked first."

The U-Haul rumbles through the streets of Brooklyn, and I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. Six years. It's been six damn years since I've set foot in New York City, and here I am, driving straight back into the belly of the beast with my entire life packed in boxes behind me.

"Is that the Empire State Building?" Thomas bounces in his seat.

"Not yet. We're still in Brooklyn."

"When can we see it?"

"Soon."

I merge onto a narrower street lined with brownstones, their stoops dusted white with fresh snow. The GPS announces our destination is two blocks away. My heart hammers harder with each turn of the wheel.

This is just another assignment. Another patient. Another temporary home.

Except it's not, and I know it.

"Mama, you're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"The thing where your face gets all scrunchy and you bite your lip."

I force my expression to relax. "Sorry, sweetheart. Just concentrating on the snow."

Thomas accepts this explanation, returning his attention to the winter wonderland outside. I wish I could see it through his eyes, fresh and magical instead of heavy with memories I've spent half a decade trying to bury.

The first time Chase brought me to Brooklyn, we'd walked hand-in-hand through Prospect Park. Spring, not winter. Cherry blossoms instead of snow. He'd kissed me under those trees, told me he was falling for me, made promises that felt solid as bedrock.

I shake my head, physically trying to dislodge the thought.

"You okay, Mama?"

"Perfect, baby."

The lie tastes bitter.

I parallel park in front of a charming brownstone—our brownstone for the next however many months this assignment lasts. The apartment is small, the landlord warned me, but it's furnished and the rent is covered as part of my contract with Jessalyn Rockford's family.

Rockford.

Common enough name. No reason to assume any connection to... him.

"We're here!" Thomas unbuckles himself before I can stop him, already reaching for the door handle.

"Wait for me, Thomas Daniels. This isn't like Atlanta. There's actual traffic here."

He freezes, then grins at me. "Yes, ma'am."

I climb out of the truck, boots crunching in the snow, and circle around to help him down. The cold bites through my jacket, sharp and unforgiving. Atlanta was mild. Comfortable. Safe.

This is something else entirely.

Thomas lands in the snow with both feet, immediately scooping up a handful. "It's so cold! And wet! And perfect!"

"Don't eat it."

"I wasn't gonna." He absolutely was.

I survey the street, the neat row of brownstones, the skeletal trees reaching toward the white sky. A dog barking somewhere in the distance. Car horns. The subway rumbling beneath our feet. The soundtrack of New York, a song I haven't heard in years but recognize instantly.

We used to talk about living here together. Chase and me. He'd paint these vivid pictures of our future—Sunday mornings at corner cafes, walks across the Brooklyn Bridge, raising kids in a city that never sleeps.

Then he chose his career over us. Chose himself over us.

And I chose to leave before he could destroy me completely.

"Mama, can I make a snow angel on the steps?"

"After we bring some boxes in. Come on."

I lower the truck's back door, eyeing the mountain of our belongings. Not much, really. A traveling nurse learns to pack light. But with Thomas, there are always more toys, more books, more little pieces of childhood that I refuse to deny him just because his mother can't stay in one place for long.

"I can carry something!" Thomas tugs on my coat.

"Grab your backpack from the front seat. That's your job."

He salutes me. "Aye aye, Captain Mama!"

The kid's been watching too many cartoons.

I haul out the first box—kitchen supplies—and make my way up the snow-dusted steps. The brownstone's front door opens to reveal a narrow entryway and a steep staircase. Our apartment is on the third floor, naturally. The landlord mentioned something about it being a walk-up, but I'd been too focused on the proximity to my patient's home to care about the details.

My nursing bag digs into my shoulder as I climb, the box growing heavier with each step. Thomas thunders behind me, his backpack bouncing against his small frame.

"This is like a castle! Do we live in a castle now?"

"More like a tower."

"Even better!"

The apartment door is painted forest green, a brass number three nailed to the center. I fish out the key and let us in.

The space is exactly as advertised: small. A combined living area and kitchen, two bedrooms, one bathroom. But it's clean, and the furniture looks newer than most of the temporary housing I've had. Large windows face the street, letting in gray winter light.

"Which room is mine?"

"That one to the right. Be careful, okay?" I warn. "Don't want to break anything in our new home just yet."

He races toward his bedroom, and I set down the box, pressing my palms against the small of my back. Three flights of stairs. Multiple trips. This is going to be a workout.

Through the window, snow continues to fall, blanketing the street in pristine white. Somewhere out there, Chase is living his life. Running his company. Probably engaged to some trust-fund socialite who fits perfectly into his world.

The thought shouldn't sting after all this time.

But it does.

"Mama! There's a radiator! A real one that clanks!"

I laugh despite myself. "That's very exciting, baby."

"Can we paint my room? I want to make it blue."

"We're renting, so no painting. But we can hang posters."

"Even better than better!"

His enthusiasm is infectious. I let it wash over me, push out the ghosts trying to crowd in. This is about Thomas. About giving him stability, even if it's temporary. About the good money this assignment offers and the excellent patient care experience it'll add to my resume.

This is not about Chase Rockford.

Even if his last name keeps echoing in my head.

Even if this city holds more memories than I know what to do with.

I head back down for another load, passing a neighbor on the second-floor landing, an older woman with kind eyes who nods at me.

"New tenant?"

"Yes, ma'am. Just moving in."

"Welcome to the building. I'm Mrs. Chen, apartment 2. You need anything, you knock."

"Thank you. I appreciate that."

The kindness steadies me as I make trip after trip up those stairs. Thomas helps in his five-year-old way, carrying pillows and stuffed animals, narrating his journey each time like he's on some grand adventure.

By the time we've emptied the truck, my arms ache and sweat dampens my shirt despite the cold. Thomas has arranged his stuffed animals in an elaborate formation on his side of the bedroom, each one apparently assigned a crucial role in defending the castle.

"You hungry, baby?"

"Starving! Can we get pizza?"

"We can definitely get pizza."

I pull out my phone, searching for nearby delivery, and that's when I see the email notification. From the Rockford family's estate manager, confirming my start date with Mrs. Jessalyn Rockford tomorrow morning at nine.

My stomach flips.

It's fine. Rockford is a common name. There's no reason to assume any connection to Chase. New York is massive. Eight million people. The odds of this patient having any relation to my ex-boyfriend are astronomical.

I repeat this to myself as I order the pizza.

As I unpack Thomas's clothes and hang them in the tiny closet.

As I make up our beds and listen to my son chatter about all the things he wants to do in the city.

But the knot in my stomach doesn't loosen.

Because deep down, in that place where intuition lives, I know better than to believe in coincidences.