But that didn’t change the way she felt for Colin, who was staring at her with longing, his eyes soft, the slightest hint of a smile on his face.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

He half-shrugged, caressing her palm. “Just that you are so gorgeous.”

She felt a shiver run down the length of her spine.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Spencer said, lowering her lashes.

The waitress reappeared and took their orders. When she was gone, Colin sighed. “It sucks you have to go home soon.”

“I know.” Spencer pouted. “But maybe I could come back and visit. How long will you be here?” Her mind churned, conjuring up images of snorkeling and sailing and lemonades on the beach after tennis practice.

“I’m going to be here until February. But the thing is, I’m going to be training a lot,” Colin said, shifting in his seat. “I want to get into some slams this year, remember?”

“Oh, of course.” Spencer sat up straighter. “I would never tear you away from your training. I’d hit balls around with you if you wanted, though you probably want stiffer competition.”

“No, that would actually be awesome.” Colin used his straw to crush a piece of ice at the bottom of his glass. “Who knows? If things go well, maybe you could come with me to some of my matches.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “We could go to Australia together. Roland Garros in France. We could hobnob in New York City at the US Open.”

“I could sit in the special visitors’ box and wave for the ESPN cameras,” Spencer said excitedly.

“You’ll look amazing in the stands,” Colin whispered.

“You’ll look amazing on the court,” Spencer said.

They leaned forward and kissed lightly. Electricity crackled through Spencer’s body.

She sat back. “And if, God forbid, you don’t make it into a slam this year, you’ll be coming back to Connecticut, right? I could always drive up to visit you. Rosewood’s not that far.”

A muscle in Colin’s jaw twitched. “Yeah, I don’t know about that.”

“Why?”

He raised one shoulder. “My apartment’s kind of . . .” He trailed off.

“Kind of what?” Embarrassing? Shabby? Or maybe he lived with a creepy uncle or way too many cats.

“It doesn’t matter. Let’s not worry about that right now.” Colin cupped her chin in his hands. “Let’s talk about you instead. When did you first realize you had a thing for me?”

“Probably when I discovered we were both organizing junkies,” Spencer joked.

Colin wagged his finger at her. “You’d better stay out of my closet. I’ve got it set up just the way I want it.”

Spencer pretended to pout. “But closets are my favorite thing to organize!”

When the entrées arrived, Colin launched into a story about a tennis match that had gone into seven break points that lasted until Spencer speared the last bit of crab onto her fork. She laughed and groaned at all the right places, then tried to tell a story about when a field hockey game had gone into sudden death overtime, but Colin was so enthusiastic that he kept speaking right over her. He must be nervous, she thought, smiling at him. It was so cute.

The waitress appeared. “Any dessert for the lovebirds?”

Spencer opened her mouth to ask for some coffee and a menu, but Colin jumped in.

“I’m afraid not,” he said quickly, checking his phone. He shrugged at Spencer. “You know the drill. Gotta put in a good night’s sleep.”

Spencer struggled to smile. “Of course. But maybe just a quick—”

“We’ll take the check,” Colin interrupted.

The waitress glanced at Spencer, mouthed Sorry, and left, taking the dessert menus with her. Colin rolled up his napkin, tossed it on the table, and shot Spencer a winning grin. “I’m gonna run to the restroom.”

“Okay,” Spencer answered, trying to hide her disappointment. She checked her phone—she had one message from Emily, asking when she was getting back to Rosewood—and then examined her manicure, which was still flawless. She crossed and recrossed her legs and then drummed her fingers against the tablecloth.

The waitress dropped their check off, and Spencer left it where it was, crooked in the center of the table, slightly askew toward Colin’s still-empty seat.

Colin was taking an awfully long time. There must have been a line, Spencer decided. She checked her phone again, and read several blog posts on Go Fug Yourself. She touched up her lip gloss. The waitress returned and reached for the check. Spencer clapped her hand over the leather envelope. “Uh, we haven’t paid yet,” she said, cheeks flaming.

Fifteen minutes passed. The couple who had been sitting next to them walked out, hand in hand, and a new couple sat down. There was no sign of Colin. Spencer wondered if she’d misunderstood. Had Colin thought they were supposed to meet out front, near the bathrooms? Thinking that must be it, she gestured the waitress over and slipped her her credit card with as much confidence as she could muster. The waitress looked at her sympathetically, but Spencer laughed it off.

The foyer was empty. Spencer hesitated by the men’s room door, her stomach beginning to knot. When an older man with silver hair emerged from behind the door, Spencer asked if anyone else was in there. “It’s kind of urgent,” she explained, her voice high and tight.

The man gave her a weird look. “Didn’t see anyone else in there,” he finally said.

Spencer bolted for the front door, the uneasy feeling in her now as strong as a heartbeat.

Outside, she took a quick lap around the perimeter of the building. When she reached the parking lot, she stopped short. A man with Colin’s same broad shoulders, dark hair, and tight butt was locked in an embrace with a woman in her thirties wearing a killer linen dress. Her sleek blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she had her hand on an expensive stroller.

“Say hi to Daddy, Brady!” the woman exclaimed, her voice ringing out over the parking lot.

Spencer gasped audibly. Daddy?

The couple turned to face her. Colin’s face registered a note of surprise and shock, but he recovered quickly, again grinning that ultra-white smile. “Spencer!” He waved. “Come here for a sec!”

Somehow, Spencer managed to move her feet, one in front of the other, toward Colin. She stared at him, then the blonde, then the child in the stroller. Had she heard correctly? Was he seriously a . . . father?

When Spencer was only a few paces away, Colin smiled, his eyes still darting nervously. “Yvette, this is Spencer. She’s the girl I told you about, who I’ve been giving tennis lessons to.”

“I’m Yvette DeSoto,” the blonde said, her voice warm like honey. She stuck out her left hand. It was weighted down with an enormous diamond sparkler and sapphire-studded wedding band. “I hope my husband hasn’t been working you too hard.”

The words rang in Spencer’s head. She shook Yvette’s hand quickly, the champagne in her stomach rising back up her throat. My husband. Colin had a wife. But if Yvette was his wife, what did that make Ramona? Or Melissa? Or her? Spencer looked down at the baby, who was kicking its little legs and gurgling. And Colin didn’t just have a wife. He had a child.

For a split second, her gaze returned to Colin’s face. She’d assumed he was just out of college, but in the harsh glare of the parking-lot lamp, Colin looked different somehow. Older. The lines around his eyes were deeper, and tiny silver hairs peeked out of the five o’clock stubble on his chin. It was like he was suddenly a completely different person.

After a long moment, Spencer found her voice. “Uh, well, it was really nice to meet you, but I have to . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she turned around and fled, running past Range Rovers and BMWs. When she finally found her way to the empty sidewalk behind the club, breathless and overwhelmed, the faintest giggle echoed through the trees. She was too weary to even look around to see who it was. She deserved to be laughed at for this. She hadn’t won Colin at all. She hadn’t won anything. Like usual, Spencer Hastings had ended up with nothing.

Chapter 15

Quit Your Crying

New Year’s Eve morning, Spencer lay on the hammock on the back porch, turning the pages of Moby-Dick without really comprehending the sentences. When she got to the word vile, she uncapped a blue Bic pen and circled it. Then she circled the words nasty and duplicitous and deceitful. She had been doing this for the past twenty pages, circling every word that reminded her of Colin. It made her feel a tiny bit better.

Spencer had a heartbreak hangover. Her head was pounding and her eyes were so red she’d worn her sunglasses in the kitchen, ignoring the strange looks from her father. She’d cried herself to sleep last night—and then in the shower this morning, and again at breakfast as she burned her wheat bread in the toaster.

She folded the book on her chest and glanced at her phone, which she’d laid on the side table next to the hammock. No new messages. Of course there weren’t. Of course Colin hadn’t texted her. Colin was a player, plain and simple. And he was a cheater. He didn’t care about Spencer; he never had.

Still, his lies hurt. Did anyone tell the truth, ever? Ali had lied to her, conveniently omitting the part about how she was secretly seeing Ian when she’d chided Spencer for not telling Melissa about her transgressions. Even Spencer’s old friends had lied to her—and she had lied to them—keeping huge secrets during their friendship that only Ali knew. And then of course there was Melissa.

“Ahem.”

Spencer looked up. Melissa stood there, a cup of coffee in one hand and the newspaper under her other arm. Spencer flinched, ready for another showdown, but her sister’s expression was surprisingly neutral.

“Hey,” Melissa said in a tired voice.

“Hi,” Spencer said timidly.

Melissa sat down on the teak chaise next to the hammock and placed her coffee on the side table next to Spencer’s phone. She searched Spencer’s face. “You found out Colin has a wife, didn’t you?”

Spencer winced. “You knew?”

Melissa shook her blond head. “I was at the courts this morning and she was standing on the sidelines, telling all of his groupies who she was. And every break he had, she made him come over so she could straighten his shirt and massage his neck muscles.”

“I found out last night—after he ditched me at dinner,” Spencer admitted.

“He’s a liar in more ways than one.” Melissa leaned forward. “You know what else I found out? He’s not ranked ninety-second in the world in tennis—he’s eight-hundred-something. Certainly not good enough to go to a Grand Slam.” She reached for her coffee, took a sip, and shook her head with disgust. “He told me, ‘I’ll take you to Australia and France with me. You’ll be the prettiest girl at the US Open.’ And I fell for it.”

“He said that to me, too!” Spencer exclaimed.