“I hope your agent wasn’t too upset.” I one hundred percent did not care if that jackwagon was upset, but I knew it would have been hard on Ian.
Brows lifted to show he had his doubts about my complete sincerity, Ian said, “Turned out all right in the end. I told Phillip to go ahead with the Mount Olympus deal too. I’ll make time for both.”
He said it with a touch of defiance, as if he expected me to berate him for not quitting the blockbuster franchise that had made him a household name.
“That sounds like a good compromise,” I told him, squeezing his hand reassuringly.
“You were right. I’m glad I went for it.” Ian spun me out into an exuberant twirl then pulled me back in, laughing and flushed and exhilarated. “I missed you,” he murmured into my ear, and I turned my face into his neck to drown myself in the woodsmoke and sea salt scent of his skin.
“I could barely breathe without you,” I whispered, my lips buzzing with sensation where they brushed the hint of stubble under his jaw.
I could feel the press of each individual fingertip as Ian firmed his grip on my back. “If there weren’t at least fifty people watching us right now, I’d give you mouth-to-mouth.”
“Let them watch,” I said dizzily, light-headed with relief and happiness and anticipation. “I don’t care.”
“I care,” Ian growled. “You’re mine. I’m not in the mood to share.”
Somewhere behind us, at the other end of the massive Reading Room, indistinct voices shouted. The music faltered, and Ian used his height to squint over the crowd.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
He frowned. “Looks like some sort of fight. I can’t see what’s happening, but someone is causing quite the scene.”
As I glanced around us at the partygoers who had been staring our way a few moments ago, I realized Ian was right. Everyone was looking toward the commotion at the back of the room, some even migrating in that direction to get a better look, and I realized we’d never have a better chance to slip away unobserved.
“Come on,” I muttered, slipping out of my heels and carrying them in one hand as we made our way quickly off the dance floor and out the side door that led to the stairwell.
“Where are we going?” Ian asked, highly entertained, if the look on his handsome face was anything to go by.
“Somewhere private enough to do this,” I countered, pulling him to a stop while I was still on the landing. He’d already gone down one stair, and that put his lips at the exact perfect height for kissing.
Spearing my hands into his dark blond hair, I ravaged his mouth with a hunger I couldn’t conceal. I didn’t even bother to try—I wanted him to know.
Which reminded me, there were things I still needed to say. Breaking the kiss with a gasp, I tried to gather my wits.
“Wait, Ian. Before we go any further, there’s something I have to say.”
He pulled back far enough to search my expression. Whatever he saw in my face made him lower his brow intently as he waited.
I swallowed my nerves and prepared to break a lifelong habit of self-protection.
“You said I was right when I told you to go for it,” I began, biting my lip. “And I’m so, so glad it worked out and I think you’ll be amazing in that movie and the producing thing is very cool, and if anything I said helped make that happen—I’m ecstatic about it. Truly. But Ian, I was wrong to leave you the way I did.”
He opened his mouth, a protective frown pinching his forehead, and it was so gallant but I couldn’t take the easy way out this time or it would become a pattern I’d never shift.
“Please let me finish. I have to apologize. For implying that you didn’t fight for what you want, when you’ve been the one fighting for this, for us, since the very beginning. All I’ve done is let you pull me along while you did all the heavy lifting, and if I had to guess . . . it’s made you think, maybe, I’m not as into this as you are.”
For the first time since I appeared in front of him tonight, Ian deliberately looked away from me. A muscle ticked in his temple, but his voice was mild. “It’s not a problem.”
Dying inside, I insisted, “It is—”
But before I could explain, he rounded on me, eyes blazing. With one swift step, he’d backed me up to the wall and caged me there with his hands braced on either side of my head. “No. It’s not. I’d rather have a piece of you than nothing at all.”
“But that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” I cried, my heart thumping so hard it hurt. “You have all of me, Ian. I love you.”
Disbelief gave way to triumphant joy in his eyes in the split second before he kissed me. Moaning, I threw my arms around his taut, muscled waist and kissed him back.
He was mine. A man I could trust with every part of myself—my fears, my doubts, my flaws, my joys, my hopes. And as for me? I made a silent vow, then and there, to be a woman Ian could trust. A woman who would love him, and not leave him when things got tough. A woman who would see, and cherish, every part of him, his past . . . and his future.
Needing to get it all out in the open between us, I confessed, “I don’t know if I can promise the perfection you were looking for. But I can promise to be brave. I can promise to be with you. And I promise that as long as we’re together, we can take on the whole world and make our lives whatever we want them to be.”
“Mallory. Sweet.” Ian tilted up my chin with one gentle finger. “If you’re with me, it will be perfect. You’re all I need. I love you.”
My entire body lit up with fireworks. Savoring every shiver that ran through both of us, reveling in Ian’s hardness pressed against my softness, I smiled up at him. “I know. You showed me in a hundred ways before either of us said the words.”
Ian smiled back. “I’ll never stop showing you.”
I knew it was true. Ian Hale was a man of his word.
Which he proved, right then and there, in that stairwell at the British Museum, with a huge party carrying on above us and the quiet archives of books stacked up below us, and he was right.
It was perfect.
Also by Louisa Edwards
Market Restaurant
Can't Stand the Heat
On the Steamy Side
Just One Taste
* * *
Rising Star Chef
Too Hot to Touch
Some Like it Hot
Hot Under Pressure
* * *
Under Her Clothes (novella)
About the Author
Louisa Edwards is the award-winning author of the Recipe for Love contemporary romance series. Under the name Lily Everett, she also writes the Sanctuary Island books. She stole her first romance novel from her grandmother at age eleven and never looked back. Louisa lives in Austin, Texas with her husband, their toddler, and an ancient terrier.
* * *
Visit her at www.louisaedwards.com.
Songbird
Tessa Gratton
Chapter One
Of the villages Daniel Kelly had personally invaded, Caerafon was certainly the most picturesque.
Settled just north of Snowdonia National Park, the Welsh village boasted a rail stop, a small mining museum, a forest excursion site, and two rivers that crashed together just outside the village green where the ruins of an 800-year-old fort gathered moss and tourist tracks. Daniel had studied the specs: 587 residents, but capable of housing more than twice that many at the highest point of tourist season, thanks to several inns, guesthouses, and two campgrounds in the forest-encircling town. It was spitting distance to at least five castles, not to mention Snowdonia itself, a train museum, old burial mounds, and a handful of standing stones in a cow field.
He stared down the verdant hillside into the village. Colorful cars zipped between gray- and blue-stone row houses and shops, and the forest bent inward around it like an embrace. Afon Glas, one of the rivers, churned alongside the highway, slipping around boulders and beneath centuries-old bridges, out of sight so
uth of town.
Daniel had parked his rental on the pullout to take in the view and start establishing a contextual map to go with maps he’d studied: basic Google map, the accordion road map he’d bought for six pounds at a gas station in Shrewsbury before crossing into Wales itself, and the Ordnance Survey of Northern Snowdonia that was so detailed and useful he could’ve planned an invasion campaign with nothing else.
The area was idyllic, he supposed, leaning a hip on the buttercup yellow hood of the car, and he had to admit the air smelled clean. Fresh, even, and just a bit damp. He drew a deep breath and exhaled to a slow ten-count. There was a pleasant breeze and the afternoon sun tinted the light emerald and dewy. He’d struggle to last a day.
There was no doubt in Daniel’s mind that he would succeed in the mission he’d been assigned by his great uncle, vice president of Pella Group: close the deal with Ms. Elspeth Gwenlan to sell her bar to the corporation.
But the secondary mission was to take a break in a beautiful Welsh forest, the opposite of arid Afghanistan plains in almost every way, over the third anniversary of the worst day of his life.
Great Uncle Edward meant well. Daniel’s parents meant well. Well enough to ship him across the ocean to work for the UK branch of Pella. Where nobody knew him or his history.
He dug the engraved black lighter out of the pocket of his slacks. Flicked it open, flicked it closed, and folded himself back into the car to drive into town.
Daniel rolled down the windows so he could keep breathing in that clean, damp air as he roared into Caerafon proper. It was a few weeks past the summer season, but still bustling with residents and tourists—mostly in the form of hikers. The national parks and forest excursions remained open for business. He left his car in the narrow car park next to the Blue Garden Guesthouse where he was booked for the next ten days, deciding to walk to Elspeth Gwenlan’s pub.
He left his bag in the trunk, grabbing only his cell, wallet, sunglasses, and Alvin’s lighter.
Taking the long way around the village green, Daniel walked along a gray cobbled sidewalk, enjoying the casual feel of the place. Nobody was rushing, there were folks on little stone patios outside of a cafe, school children in uniform crushed in a small mob under a bus stop labeled in English and Welsh, and a line of young men in hiking books and neon windbreakers, with hats and well-stocked backpacks. One of the men laughed suddenly, high-pitched and loud, and Daniel reached into his pocket for the lighter.
But he stopped himself, dashed across the street, and cut through the village green. The grass was thick and too wet in some places, marked for a soccer field. Daniel cycled through his breathing exercise and focused on the pub at the far end.
The Fort was the only stand-alone pub in Caerafon and did decent business, according to Pella researchers, but could do better with a fuller menu and more infrastructure—which Pella was glad to provide if the Gwenlans would sign it over.
Thanks to the intel he’d received from the initial information gathering and whatever official approach Pella had made to the Gwenlans, Daniel had been doing research on Welsh sustainability practices, local providers, and food health, and was developing what he considered an excellent pitch for Elspeth Gwenlan based on her known interests. His strategy was two-pronged: convince her the pub could make a positive, lasting impact on the community if it fostered local sellers and community giving, and outline the potential revenue streams from which she and her family could personally benefit. He couldn’t imagine anyone not responding well to more money and a better community, especially not a woman spearheading a borough-wide farm-to-table group. And he’d gotten good at gently arguing pro-Pella itself, with a charming smile, intentional gestures, and several facts about how even a corporation like Pella could shift their in-house culture toward making the world a better place.
It wasn’t all bullshit.
The façade of The Fort looked just like every other building in Caerafon: gray stone with white trim around the door and windows, deep gables, and dark slate roofing tiles. A large wooden sign swung over the entrance, painted with a peeling white stone tower like the castle of a chess set. Beneath it were laurel branches and curlicue lettering declaring The Fort in gold.
Charming and quaint, but ready for an upgrade.
Daniel pushed inside, noting the thump of a wooden green man mask that hung from the inside handle and acted as a dull door chime. There was a narrow, dark entryway and a second door propped open, and beyond it the warm oak and whitewash of a classic-looking pub. Low ceiling with exposed, worn black beams, a bar notched and stained, with short saddle stools tucked up, four beers on tap, and a back wall of mostly whiskey. Two more exits: an archway into the kitchen that had an external door, too, according to the blueprints, and a narrow closed door leading to a staircase up to a second floor that used to be a flat but was unused now, and ought to be transitioned into additional seating, or maybe a private party space. Beneath his feet the old floorboards warped unevenly, but not dangerously.
Behind the bar was a young man with honey-brown skin and slicked black hair skimming his ears, wearing a Nirvana T-shirt. Definitely not Elspeth Gwenlan. Daniel nodded at him, and wandered to the center of the floor, taking the place in.
“Order up here,” the young man said in what Daniel was fairly sure was an accent from south of London, not Snowdonia. Daniel nodded again, continuing to scan his surroundings. Two of the deep booths were occupied, one with a family of four, another with a quiet couple on their phones. And an older man hunched over a pint at a tall table, his work boots muddy and hooked around the stool rung.
Pictures of the local landscape filled the walls haphazardly, some obviously old—black and white, or grainy sepia—others glossy and new. Ruins and majestic castle towers dominated the imagery, as well as the sweeping, bare mountains, and lush river valleys. Some photographer a few decades ago had gone through a train-tracks phase. Near the south corner a cubby was cut into the wall and filled with ratty paperback books. The southwest wall was windows, but the small-paned, poured glass kind that let in light but not much in the way of a view.
The low music that Daniel had identified as vaguely classical swelled into vocals and he realized it was opera. A duet in Italian. Very interesting choice for a tourist pub. But not really his problem. He only needed a signature.
Just as he frowned, a voice called, “Sorry I’m late, Asra!”
Daniel turned as Elspeth Gwenlan breezed into the pub, hair wild and a merry grimace playing across her expression. He barely had a moment to appreciate the lightweight sundress fluttering around her curves before she dropped a ragged reusable grocery bag onto the bar, then smoothly leveraged herself up, swinging her long, bare white legs over the bar, thumping boots down hard on the other side. The young man—Asra—steadied her as she landed. “S’all right, sis,” he said.
Something about it made her laugh, and her bright eyes widened with easy humor. She touched Asra’s Nirvana T-shirt with a purple-manicured hand, shoving him back, and reached for an apron on a hook next to the top-shelf whiskey. “Any news?” she asked, turning finally to glance around at the pub and whatever customers she might have.
Her gaze fell on Daniel, who hadn’t taken a breath since she’d appeared, and as he stared at the spikes and curls of her autumn-brown hair, the vivid hazel of her eyes, her pink-flushed cheeks, and the earnest brightening of her smile, he changed his entire strategy.
Chapter Two
Elspeth read, a long time ago, that wolves had been hunted to extinction in Wales by the turn of the sixteenth century, but she was pretty certain at least one was back. And he was coming right for her.
Her heart already thrummed from her race across the green to reach The Fort—then back to the market again because she’d left her bag on the checkout counter when Mrs. Morgan distracted her with a half-dozen questions about the buy-local initiative meeting next week. Elspeth had been on her way again when Agatha at the Blue Garden flapped her hand from th
e guesthouse patio and asked if Elspeth had seen a dapper American who left his car in the guesthouse’s car park but hadn’t stopped in. Elspeth had grimaced and in her best singsong voice promised to keep her eyes out.
Tying on her apron as Asra told her something about one of the taps acting up, Elspeth certainly made good on that promise. She couldn’t take her eyes off the man stalking slowly around the perimeter of her place, closer and closer to the bar.
He was the kind of tall that seemed even taller by the tapering angle of shoulders to hips and long legs in charcoal gray slacks. It was a three-piece suit so well fitting she assumed it was very expensive, either one of many or a splurge to look good on vacation.
Asra bumped his shoulder into Elspeth’s and took off with a chin nod. He’d be back this evening with Mary for the busy shift. Elspeth grabbed herself a seltzer from the minifridge under the bar and when she stood, the wolf was right there.
Elspeth tilted her face and offered a winning smile—her usual for new customers.
He didn’t smile back at first, as his serious eyes slid down her face to her mouth. Those eyes were dark brown like bitter chocolate, and when he looked back up at hers, then he smiled.
All teeth, all trouble, and Elspeth felt a fluttering laugh trying to excavate itself from her stomach.
It had been too long since she’d felt anything like that.
“Hi,” he said, gaze stuck on her as he slowly slid onto one of the stools and leaned his elbows against the bar. And Elspeth decided the fancy suit was one of many: nobody with only a single pricey suit would so casually touch his elbows to an unknown bar. Agatha had said he was dapper, after all.
Elspeth grinned. “What’s your pleasure?”
Naughty Brits: An Anthology Page 37