smile. “He loves to be in charge, but ordering people around isn’t his true passion. I know my grandson.”
Do you? I wonder.
“Some people just find something they’re good at and stick with it,” I say, hoping I don’t sound bitter.
Beatrice nods.
“Maybe so. The point is, I wanted you around, Paige, because we all needed to learn how to dream again. I needed to dream. I’d let my own vision of designing a breathtaking hotel grow stale and lifeless when we accidentally caught it like a butterfly in the spring. I couldn’t let go. I let my big, clumsy beast of a dream shove other dreams aside, and I forgot something simple—no one should ever dream alone. And my dreaming hasn’t been the same since I lost my husband.”
I slump back in the bench, mulling over her words. They’re a lot to ponder, but why?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Maybe I should come up with a reason to leave before she brings up Ward. “How are you feeling these days?”
She looks over her shades like a woman who can spot a change of subject from outer space.
“I just came back from Hawaii. I stayed longer than intended, but it was good for my heart. Then Nick told me about the mess going on here.”
Yep. We’re going to end up in Wardhole territory. I’m not sure what to say.
I don’t want to dis a brilliant old woman who feels like my grandma sometimes, but I can’t do this.
“Beatrice, respectfully, if you’re here on Ward’s behalf—”
“Oh, no,” she whips out instantly, shaking her head slowly. “I’m here to apologize for my own part in your suffering, Paige. The rambling prelude is my way of telling you this whole thing is my fault.”
I have no words.
“Young lady, I held on to my own dreams too tightly. I let the Winthrope deal come before something far more important—my grandson’s happiness, and yours. I know we joke about him being part grizzly bear, but he’s always felt responsible for taking care of everyone around him. He’s not a bad guy. He simply cares too much.”
Maybe for some people, he does, but not for me.
“I don’t understand. How did your dream come before Ward’s happiness?”
“He did all this for me. I told him to go through with Nick’s scatter-brained idea to propose to you without actually meaning it. It was selfish, and the rest was pure stupidity. I was blind to how intense a sham love could be, and honestly, I thought you two were perfect together. I expected to come home to a real wedding, however, my instincts were dreadfully wrong. What I’m saying is, I meddled, and I messed up everything.”
My eyes are stinging again.
I crane my neck in something resembling a head shake.
“It’s not your fault. We didn’t quit speaking over the fake engagement. We stopped speaking because he’s a—” I’m about to call him a jackass and don’t want to insult his grandmother. “He doesn’t care about me. Not like you think.”
“He does,” she says firmly.
“No, he said so himself, Beatrice. He told me if he were going to marry anyone, it wouldn’t be me. No other way to read that.”
A pained smirk pulls at her lips. “Ward can be such an overgrown moose sometimes, but whatever dumb caveman thing he’s done—I’ve spoken to Ross Winthrope personally. Did you know Ward came clean about the fake engagement?”
He—what? Why?
Because it looks better than another broken engagement?
I mouth a silent “No.”
Beatrice closes her eyes and opens them slowly.
“He confessed to the hoax to clear his conscience, but he said the ultimate joke was on him. He didn’t care about losing the contract. He fell in love with an angel, and her loss cost him everything.”
Holy crap.
I’m being pulled at opposite ends. My heart sinks. I know how cruel the fallout will be if I’m hoping against logic, and yet some small part of me can’t resist.
“Why would he do that?” I don’t think Beatrice would lie about this, but she’s probably confused.
“From everything Winthrope told me and Nick, I don’t think Ward could have faked your engagement if he wasn’t truly happy. If you two weren’t right for each other. He would only go along with the scheme if you were his faux bride-to-be.”
“Really?” I want to slap myself.
Why do I care? This big reveal shouldn’t make me happy. It’s as fake as a three-dollar bill, just like the lie we lived.
“That’s what Nick concluded, and I think he’s right,” Beatrice says. “He knows his big