“I never asked her,” Ford said. “It just didn’t come up.”
“So you met her?” asked Anne.
“Yes. And I liked her.” Really liked her, but he wouldn’t tell Anne that.
“Oh,” she said.
“Stop imagining happy endings for me, will you?”
“Never.”
He sighed. “At any rate, she was slightly crazed at this auction I followed her into.”
“Crazed? That’s good?”
“Refreshing.” She hadn’t been afraid to be herself. And she was, frankly, mesmerizing. Lovely, sweet, and spirited. He wanted to keep her on his lap when she fell into it. He wished he could have turned her around, put his hands inside her tailored jacket, caressed her back, and made out with her—right there in front of the auction crowd.
It was a mad fantasy. He was English. And he was a baron, besides. He didn’t do things like that. The only passion he showed publicly was in his paintings. Otherwise, all his lusts and cravings, his rages, his sorrows, his joys … they were reserved for display only in the privacy of his homes in Surrey and the Cotswolds, his more primal desires unleashed in his bedroom with women he could trust. Even there, however, he would hold back. He’d been trained since a child to be wary of people who might try to capitalize on his family connections. And sure enough, he’d recently been burned that way, despite his knowing the sting of betrayal could come at any time.
But when it had, he hadn’t seen it coming. He thought he’d be able to. That was what kept him up at night. How could he have not seen it coming? For the first time in his life, he felt stupid. And vulnerable.
“So what’s your next step?” Anne asked.
“I don’t know,” he said.
The two lads he lived with were mellow frat boys with summer jobs at the city marina. Their frequent influx of girls who spent the night didn’t bother him, either. The young ladies sometimes made breakfast for everyone in the morning, if they stayed that long. Their long, tanned legs and Daisy Dukes shorts weren’t a hardship to observe, but when they got too friendly, as they sometimes did when they heard his accent, and assessed him as a potential “older man” boyfriend—he was a ripe thirty—he’d say something about checking in with his parole officer and then leave the apartment, which his roommates appreciated.
From his perch on a stool in the kitchen, he waved at one of them coming through the front door. It was Gus, who saw him on the phone, waggled his brows, and gave him a thumbs-up. He and the other flatmate, Drake—once they established Ford was not gay, a question they asked him on his third morning there, when he hadn’t yet had a girl over—were always hoping Ford would “score with the chicks,” as they called it. Gus was carrying a surfboard under his arm, which he placed against the wall in their small living room next to two others. He then plopped down on a shabby sofa and clicked on the television.
“You don’t have all the time in the world,” Anne said on the phone.
“I realize that.” Ford stood and looked out the kitchen window at the street below. Hydrangeas and gardenias rioted in a small front garden bordered by an iron fence, and he had a small stab of homesickness for his mother’s garden, much more formal and expansive—overseen by three hired gardeners—but still a labor of love designed by a woman who only cared to bring pleasure to her husband and children. At the curb, a carriage step made of distressed, rounded stone served as a reminder of the city’s historic past and was currently occupied by an orange tabby cat soaking up some sun. “I didn’t get her number.”
“How unlike you,” Anne said.
He scratched his head. “It is.” And he couldn’t explain it. He’d walked abruptly away from her both times they’d met. “I’ll come up with something. I know where she works.”
“Good,” said Anne. “Keep me posted.”
“I will.” He rang off.
“Ford!” Gus called from the living room. “Grab me a beer, will ya?”
“Sure.” He brought out two cans—the boys were on a budget—and tossed one to his blond flatmate. Neither Gus nor Drake had any idea who he really was. They wouldn’t care, he was certain—titles meant nothing in the United States, and he loved that fact—but it was easier not to mention it. This way he’d be assured of experiencing Charleston as a regular dude, as Gus was fond of calling him. Gus even called girls dude.
Ford sat down on an overstuffed ottoman that immediately tilted sideways. He’d forgotten. But he compensated easily, keeping his beer level, his feet planted a little farther apart, and prepared to chill—another word his flatmates were fond of.
“So how’s the painting going?” Gus asked him, as he took a swig of his beer from his can.
“Not too great at the moment,” Ford replied, downing half of his.
“You don’t smoke weed?” Gus squinted at him.
“Nope.” Ford shrugged.
A comfortable silence settled between them. Their window AC unit was working, finally, and they both basked in its humming presence.
“So how do you get those creative juices flowing then?” Gus crushed his can and threw it toward the rubbish bin in the corner. He missed.
Ford did the same thing and made it.
“You’re an old man,” Gus said. “You’ve had a lot more practice.”
Ford gave a short laugh. “Yeah, in the U.K., basketball’s a thing.”
“It is?” Gus sounded surprised.
“No.” Ford laughed. “I’ve just got better motor skills than you, mate.”
“Fuccccck you,” Gus said, and laughed.
It was amusing “chilling” with American youth.
“Get back to your inspiration,” Gus said. “You don’t smoke weed, you’re not an alcoholic … what do you do?”
“I start,” Ford said. “And I hope inspiration will come. Much of the time, it doesn’t.”
“That sucks.” Gus put his fist in front of his mouth and belched.
“You get used to it.” Ford stood carefully, putting all his weight out front so he wouldn’t fall on his arse, thanks to the missing two wheels on the ottoman’s feet. “Actually, I have something now I really want to work on,” he said. “I feel loads of inspiration.”
“A shitload of inspiration,” Gus said. “No guy says loads over here.”
“Right.”
Gus picked up the remote and switched channels from ESPN to an HBO movie. Ford had volunteered to enhance their cable options, and Gus and Drake were loving the expanded access.
“Gotta go to the studio.” Ford didn’t really. He needed to find Greer Jones. But he thought best when he was in his studio, either cleaning up or doing sketches. It was in an old cigar factory on East Bay Street. Some forward-thinking creative had converted the top floor into fifteen spaces, which were rented out at reasonable rates on a sliding scale based on one’s income. Ford was paying the top amount, plus making a donation every month, and happy to do it. The light was great, the ventilation top-of-the-line, and it had every modern convenience he needed, including a private bathroom and a shared kitchen down the hall. The open-faced brick walls lent the space old-fashioned charm, and he could play music on his Bluetooth speakers without worrying about disturbing anyone.
“Wait.” Gus tossed aside the remote and stood. “You got something in the mail today. From merry old England.” He tossed a small, square package to Ford.
“Ta,” Ford said, knowing Gus would laugh at his shorthand for thank you—which he did.
“You’re welcome,” Gus said, and laughed again. “God, I love having a foreigner as a roommate. You’re like, weird.”
“Whatever,” Ford said, and took the package to his room, a smile tugging at his mouth.
He couldn’t tell who the package was from. And then he couldn’t open it because there was so much tape around it. So he went to the kitchen and brought back a knife.
“Bloody hell,” he said when he finally got the top off a smaller box inside the larger cardboard container. He pulle
d a lacy ivory negligee from some hot pink tissue paper and held it up. It was tiny. He dropped it on his desk, where it pooled in a slithery, silken heap, and searched for a note.
There wasn’t one.
Then he noticed the monogram on the bodice: TW, it said, in an elegant, intertwined scroll. And he realized this was Theodora’s wedding night attire that she never wore: Teddy’s teddy.
CHAPTER FOUR
That afternoon, by the time Greer was done rewatching the very first episode of Season One of Breaking Bad, she decided if Walter White and Jesse Pinkman could survive all their dangerous encounters, she could handle running into her ex-boyfriend and his future wife, two harmless doctors out to save the world. What was she worried about? Besides, she had a life to live. If she hid like a hermit that week—and then for a whole year—she’d miss out on the farmer’s market, the azaleas blooming on the Battery, the beautiful winter stillness around Colonial Lake, all the great restaurants and rooftop bars, a million fun times with her friends. She wouldn’t see Ford, either. Who knew how long he was staying in Charleston?
“I am a coffee drinker,” she reminded herself aloud several times as she made herself a cup of Earl Grey tea—in a fancy rose china cup, no less. She took a few sips and stopped. Got a hold of herself. Poured it down the kitchen sink drain. Why was she thinking of Ford at all? It was useless to daydream about an Englishman whose last name she didn’t even know and probably never would.
It was why she’d already gotten her friendly neighborhood dry-cleaner delivery service to swing by and pick up her Stella McCartney pantsuit. If it was in her apartment, she’d see it and think about sitting on Ford’s thigh. In fact, she decided, maybe she’d leave it at the dry cleaner for a while.
The phone rang, and she immediately thought of the girls at The Price Is Right. Had one of them won something? She hoped so! She needed some good news today. Or were they still waiting to tape the show? God forbid not one of them got called up to the stage to bid on something. They had too much personality to be overlooked.
But when she looked at the number, she recognized it as belonging to one of her clients, Jill.
Jill was one of Ella’s sisters. There were a lot of Mancini sisters. Jill was the youngest. Everyone doted on her. She was sexy and gorgeous but didn’t believe it. That was her problem.
Greer, Macy, and Ella had a special policy when it came to helping close friends and family members find love: let the co-owner of Two Love Lane with the least history with that person take him or her on as a client. Money might not exchange hands, depending upon the family/friend client’s financial status and wishes, but the relationship would be handled professionally, just like all the others: advisor-client confidentiality would be upheld, as always. And no one else in the office would be privy to that client’s file unless he or she gave written permission.
Since Jill was Ella’s sister, and Jill had known Macy a long time because they were yoga friends, Greer became her advisor. So far, Jill hadn’t wanted Greer to share any information about her matchmaking status with Ella.
“She already knows everything anyway,” Jill said just last week. “Everyone in the family does. And now she thinks she’s the worst matchmaker at Two Love Lane because I told her you rocked. Even though I still haven’t met anyone. And … and I probably never will.”
Greer had reassured her that she was highly likely to meet someone compatible. She’d run the numbers using Two Love Lane’s highly accurate algorithms, and everything looked really positive. It didn’t hurt that Jill turned men’s heads right and left, either.
“Please, please meet me at Carmella’s,” Jill said now. “I have to talk to you.”
Carmella’s was Greer’s favorite dessert shop, so that was no hardship. “Is everything okay?”
Jill groaned. “No. I’ve got a very awkward situation. I can’t tell you over the phone, but we’ll have to speak really low about it at Carmella’s.”
“All right.” Greer was used to clients wanting to whisper to her. Generally, they were spilling their guts. “Half an hour?”
“I’m already here,” said Jill. “If you could get here sooner, I’d appreciate it. I’ve already eaten one of their mini birthday cakes. They’re so good. I’ll order you something to drink and a cannoli.”
“Great. Black coffee will do. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Perfect!” Jill sounded relieved, yet still agitated.
Greer hopped up, stuck a few more bobby pins in her chignon, and left Baker House. She’d take her bike because even if she walked fast, it would take twenty minutes, not fifteen. She saved the red Vespa for times when she needed to get somewhere even faster.
While she cycled down Broad Street, enjoying the breeze on her neck, she remembered she might see Wesley and Serena at any moment. She really didn’t feel like running into them. But what could she do? She had a company to run, especially as she was the only one in town at the moment to do so. She couldn’t hide out at Two Love Lane and her apartment for a whole year! Being a fraidy-cat wasn’t allowed.
And Jill needed her.
Besides, she was over Wesley. She was all about Ford. Yet, try as she might to pedal that feeling away, she felt a sharp stab of lust course through her. She really needed a vacation.
Or maybe she just needed a wild romp between the sheets with a hot guy. Greer didn’t shy away from the truth. She hated to admit it, but it had been years, in fact, since she’d slept with someone. She could barely admit Wesley had been her only long-term sex partner. She’d slept with two other guys since their break-up—one time each, hoping she’d feel a spark that never happened. After both those prospects fizzled, she followed the crème brulée rule on dates: she wasn’t going to sleep with anyone unless she was willing to knock over a whole tableful of crème brulées to get to that person.
Now she might as well be a nun—a nun with easy access to Charleston’s best crème brulées. She had a running list on her phone of where they could be found. Carmella’s was one of them.
When she got there, Jill was sitting at a small table and not at the long communal table in the middle of the space—Greer’s favorite spot because she always met interesting people there. Jill looked ravishing in a black pencil skirt, a white twin set that showed off her fabulous décolletage, and an emerald green silk scarf wrapped artfully around her head, allowing her curly brown hair to spill out around it. Big gold hoops graced her ears.
Greer pulled out a small wrought iron chair and sat down. Her coffee and cannoli were waiting. She bit into the cannoli and sighed. “Delish,” she said. “Thanks.”
Not as good as crème brulée but very close.
“You’re welcome.” Jill wriggled forward, and Greer noticed a couple of guys eyeing her in that casual-cool way guys had in restaurants, which in this case involved pretending to talk to each other while sneaking looks around their pint glasses at the pretty girl in the green scarf.
Greer told Jill about the auction and went into great detail about the wedding gown, but she left out the part about Ford.
“Wow,” said Jill. “I love knowing you bid on a wedding gown without even having a boyfriend!”
“That gown was a good investment.”
“You make a spectacle of yourself over investments?” asked Jill.
Greer shrugged. “Haven’t you ever seen people losing their cool at the stock market exchange?”
“I guess. But this was a charity event in Charleston. People protect their dignity here.”
“Sure,” said Greer, embarrassed. “But the gown had royal history and a cool story associated with it. Now let’s talk about you.”
“Okay,” said Jill. “I’d tell you to brace yourself, but you’re such a rock, I’m not going to bother. That’s why I’m confiding in you. And it’s not about my love life directly. It’s about something else. But I still want client-advisor privilege … or just friend privilege, okay? We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“
Of course,” said Greer, her curiosity piqued.
“Okay.” Jill looked around, then back at Greer. “Do you watch HGTV?”
“Sometimes,” Greer said. “I love Fixer Upper.”
“I do, too,” said Jill. “In fact, I want to be a decorator.”
“That’s awesome,” said Greer. But Jill sounded kind of down when she said it. “Isn’t it exciting that you’re figuring out what you want to do?”
“Oh, yes.” Jill frowned. “But in a way, no. Maybe it would have been better if I’d never discovered my passion.” She pouted, which only made her look more beautiful.
Greer grabbed her hand. “I know it’s scary. Following your passion isn’t easy. It’s usually hard, in fact. But it’s extremely rewarding. You can do it.”
“Thanks for the pep talk,” Jill said quietly, but at least her voice sounded more hopeful. She leaned closer. “Here’s the thing,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be just any kind of decorator.”
“What do you mean?”
Jill hesitated a half-second. “I want to build love nests.”
“L-love nests?”
“Yes!” Jill’s face lit up. “I want to create spaces where you can hide away from the world with your sensual soul mate.”
Whoa. The person at the table next door looked over. Greer put her coffee cup down.
Jill’s boy brows arched earnestly. “And if you’re single, it’ll be a place where you can indulge in your wildest fantasies.…”
Fantasies. Greer couldn’t believe Jill said that word out loud. She was one of the most inhibited sexpots she knew.
“I want my business to be called Erospace Designs,” Jill said. “Get it? Eros. For the god of love. But it’s a play on ‘aerospace,’ like NASA. On my logo I’m going to have girls in pearls riding on rockets.”
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