Christ. Had he just said the M-word? Him?
Granny’s other brow went up.
Yes. Evidently he had.
“So I’m sure you’ll understand that now is not the time for the press to become interested in me or anyone I might be dating. We don’t need the drama or pressure when we’re just getting to know each other.”
Granny stared at him, her face entirely motionless.
He smoothed his trousers, trying to remain composed.
Damn her! She had a way of stripping away his layers until only the barest parts of his soul remained. A ten-minute tea with Granny was like an MI6 interrogation—no possibility of escape until you’d answered all the questions, and you were likely to have a nervous breakdown before it was all over.
“I have not, technically, told her who I am. We’ve agreed to, ah, hold off on researching each other online just yet. Well, actually, that’s not entirely true. I might have looked her up online when my friend mentioned her to me, and then, once I saw how beautiful and accomplished she was, I might have insisted on an introduction. But she hasn’t looked me up, and I haven’t had the chance to tell her who I am. So she doesn’t, ah, know about my father’s fortune or my inheritance. And she definitely doesn’t know about you. I can get away with it—for a little while, anyway—because people in the States don’t know or care much about what most of the family gets up to over here.”
Granny stared at him.
“The funny thing is, though, that she’s so busy with her own life, I don’t think she’ll give a rat’s arse about mine. She doesn’t seem like the type to get her head turned by my social or financial status. Speaking of which, if your friend Mrs. Carmichael tries to pawn her underage daughter off on me again, I’m going to lose my bloody mind.”
Dead silence. One beat passed…two beats…
When the wait became unbearable, he snatched up his tea.
Had be babbled?
He’d definitely babbled.
Ah, well. Bottoms up.
“Is that wise, dear?” she finally asked.
He put down his cup and saucer, frowning. “What?”
“Lying to this girl you seem to care about.”
He tried to hide a sudden wave of guilt behind his outrage.
“I’m not lying—”
Dear God, those brows of hers again.
He snapped his jaws shut, let his eyes roll closed and rubbed his forehead.
“Has it occurred to you that your plan is completely illogical?” she said idly.
He reluctantly opened his eyes to discover her tossing bits of scone to each dog in turn.
“What d’you mean?” he asked, scowling.
“I mean that you want her to want you for you, yet you don’t give the poor girl enough information to know who you are. You don’t want her to find out from someone else, do you? If you’ve chosen well, she’ll love you if you’re a prince, and she’ll love you if you’re a pauper.”
“Love?” he spluttered, the word hitting him like a cream pie to the face. “Who said anything about love?”
The Queen of England didn’t roll her eyes, but his grandmother came pretty close that time.
Meanwhile, her silence spoke volumes, leading to more verbal diarrhea from him.
“Yes, well, maybe I’m not ready to start testing my choice just yet. It’s all very soon to throw this at her. Why not give her a minute to adjust to dating a new man who lives on another continent before we smother her with all the family that goes with him. And I’m not officially a prince.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Granny finished distributing the scone, dusted off her hands and stood, tossing her napkin onto the tray. Anthony leapt to his feet. “You are delusional. Come, dogs. Let’s go.”
She turned toward the door, hesitated and turned back.
“You will tell this girl who you are.”
“I plan to.”
“Right away.”
“Fine,” he said around his clenched jaw.
“And you will decide what you want to do with your life. If you want, I don’t know, a hobby to take you away from your duties for me, you will pick one. Why not play polo again?”
“Because it’s a bloody dangerous sport, in case you’ve forgot that time I fell and broke my arm and collarbone into a million pieces. If I wanted to take my life in my hands all the time, I’d head back to Afghanistan.”
Granny’s lips thinned.
“Most of all, you will stop whining. If I were this young girl, I’d want nothing to do with you in this state. Look at you moping about your circumstances as though you live in a one-room hovel with a leaking toilet. I’ve never seen such a disaster. Get yourself sorted out. Keep your chin up. We don’t complain.”
She pointed to a framed black-and-white picture on her little writing desk in the corner. It depicted London during the Blitz, with demolished buildings in the background. In the foreground? A pile of rubble, atop which sat a woman serenely sipping her tea with a cigarette dangling from her free hand.
This badly-needed dose of perspective made him smile. Granny always made him feel better. Well, first she always raked him over the coals until his eyebrows singed. Then she always made him feel better.
“Love you, Granny.”
She dimpled fondly, coming back to pat him on the cheek. “There’s that emotional American side of you peeking through again. You must beat it back. Come, dogs.”
She and her furry entourage swept off through her mirrored doors, leaving him to finish off the cakes and try to figure out how best to inform Melody about all the parts of his life.
15
Melody’s phone rang just before seven that Saturday night, as she walked down DeGroot Avenue, Journey’s End’s main street, toward the pub. She’d been enjoying the garlands, wreaths and twinkling white lights in every direction—oh and look at the gorgeous menorah in the bookstore window!—and thinking about how nice it would be if Anthony could see her little town dressed in its holiday finest.
Her belly swooped at the possibility that it might be him calling.
But a quick glance at the screen told her it was Samira wanting to video chat. She felt a tiny stab of disappointment, but told herself not to be foolish. She’d struggled through thirty-something years of life without tying her moods to the frequency with which Anthony Scott communicated with her, and she wasn’t going to start now. Plus, she and Samira had been playing phone tag all day and Melody wanted to make sure she still felt okay. So she hastily veered over to the nearest bench, dodging a couple passersby, sat and plugged in her earbuds.
“Hey,” she said. Samira appeared stirring something on the stove and had evidently propped her phone against a shelf. “What’s going on? Are you cooking something?”
“Yeah. Mushroom risotto. Why don’t you come for dinner? You know Baptiste is still out of town, and I’m never going to eat all this food.”
“Can’t. I’m about to have drinks with Jerry.”
Samira stopped stirring and frowned. “Who?”
“Jerry. The primary care physician from Doctor Love dot com? I mentioned him the other day. He’s a nice widower and his kids are out of the house. Plus, he’s really handsome. I showed you his picture. Our schedules finally lined up.”
“Oh.” Samira’s face fell. “Right. I wish I’d never had the brilliant idea of signing you up for that site. Why didn’t you tell me no?”
Melody gaped at her. “You cannot be serious. You got me into this in the first place! You knew I’d resigned myself to being a spinster!”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Unbelievable.”
“It’s just that I thought things were going well with Anthony,” Samira said, now wiping her damp brow with the back of her hand. “You said you’ve talked to him every day since he’s been gone and all.”
“Yeah? So?”
“So? So, why don’t you give him a chance? Why get yourself jammed up talking to two guys at once? If you really li
ke Anthony, then why waste someone else’s time?”
Because she really liked Anthony. That was why.
The past several days since he left town had been the worst kind of exquisite torture. She hadn’t stopped thinking about him for one waking or sleeping second of that time. Nonstop questions scrolled through her mind:
Where was Anthony?
Who was he with and what were they doing?
Did he think about Melody a millionth as much as she thought about him?
Would he call or text her again soon, like he’d said he would?
Or would he hook up with some beautiful English rose and forget poor Melody over on this side of the pond?
And the one question that ruled them all:
How on earth did she think they could cobble together any semblance of a relationship when he lived in London—London!—and she lived here? Wasn’t it already hard enough to get men to act right when they lived in the same town as you? Think of all the opportunities for sketchy behavior when the man lived thousands of miles away!
The questions had seemed especially pointed today, because Anthony had been quieter than usual.
Melody tried to keep that fact in perspective. No big deal, right? Maybe he’d had a busy day.
Or maybe he was gearing up to ghost her.
The latter thought made her belly cramp. Which in turn only renewed her determination not to lose her head over some guy she barely knew.
What did she think this was? Some fairy tale?
Did she look like Cinderella?
“I’m not wasting someone else’s time. I’m keeping my options open,” she told Samira. “We covered this already. What? Stop looking at me like that. Men play the field all the time.”
“And why bother with a guy who’s already done with kids when you know you want them?”
“We’re going for drinks, Sami! We’re not eloping to Vegas. Plus, his profile said he’s open on kids.”
“Fine. I’m sure you know best.” Samira sprinkled salt on the risotto. “I’m sure you know all about the best way to find your prince.”
Something about the sudden smugness of Samira’s tone made Melody suspicious. She squinted at Samira’s image on the screen and discovered that, sure enough, there was a glimmer of mischief in her eyes.
“What’s up?” Melody demanded. “You look like you know something.”
Samira’s grin widened into Cheshire Cat territory.
“Nope. I know nothing. It’s none of my business, anyway.”
“Hang on,” Melody said, snapping her fingers as a sudden certainty came to her. “You looked Anthony up online, didn’t you? You nosy witch!”
Samara laughed and shrugged. “Don’t get snippy. You looked Baptiste up online, so I can look Anthony up. You knew karma was coming for you on that one.”
“Well, what’d you find out?”
Samira, who was a very poor actress, tried to look appalled and clutched the invisible pearls around her neck. “I thought you wanted to get to know him the old-fashioned way. Are you going back on your word?”
Melody’s heart sank. She’d made a promise to Anthony and she wasn’t going to break it.
“No. I’m going to keep my word. No thanks to you and your evil temptations.”
“You are a true woman of integrity. And there’s nothing bad about him, so don’t worry. I’d never let you fall for someone with a criminal record or five baby mamas or anything.”
A wave of relief swooped through Melody. Thank God for good friends.
“Appreciate that. Gotta go.” She stood and swung her bag over her shoulder. “Jerry might be waiting for me.”
“Want me to send you an emergency text in a few minutes? So you can pretend it’s the hospital and get out of there if he’s a dud?” Samira asked.
“Nah. I’ll just sneak out the bathroom window. Love you.”
“Bye,” Samira said, laughing as she hung up.
Melody adjusted her scarf against the wicked chill and started to take the buds out of her ears—
Her phone rang again, startling her.
Anthony’s image popped up.
Anthony!
Her heart did a funny little flittering thing. Half of it wanted to leap for joy (today wouldn’t be the day he ghosted her, after all!), but the other half wanted to cringe with guilt (not now! What if Jerry chose this moment to appear?). But then she reminded herself that she and Anthony hadn’t even slept together yet, much less had any discussions about exclusivity.
She was a grown woman and a free agent. She did what she wanted.
That being the case, she had nothing to feel guilty about. Even if her belly insisted on squirming when she answered.
“Hey!” There was a slight delay while Anthony’s picture resolved to reveal his face looking very handsome as he sat in his car. “How are you?”
“Much better now that I’m seeing your lovely smile.” As always, he beamed at the sight of her, making her feel as powerful and important as the Queen of England. “Oh, but you look very busy. Where are you off to?”
Another guilty conscience squirm.
“I’m just, ah…” She gestured vaguely over her shoulder, where the lights of the pub blazed through the mullioned windows. “Just going to Pub 221B.”
“Trying the fish and chips, are you?”
“I think I might. What’re you up to tonight? It’s midnight there.”
“Not much,” he said, his dimples deepening. “So listen, I’ll be up for a bit yet. Just ring me when you get home.”
“I will.” As always, she felt that ache of sadness at their good-byes. There were far too many of them, and never enough hellos. “Talk to you soon.”
“Very soon,” he said, and hung up.
In a pathetic sign of how far gone she was, she actually had to resist the urge to kiss the screen where his face had just been. Had to massage away the throb of loneliness in her chest.
If only she were meeting Anthony tonight for drinks.
If only they didn’t live so far apart.
The distance only compounded her yearning for him.
It was one thing to not see him every day. Even if he lived here in town, her career kept her too busy to see anyone every day. Unless she lived with him.
But not only wouldn’t she see Anthony today, tomorrow or the next day, but he was across the Atlantic Ocean from her.
The. Atlantic. Ocean.
God.
How on earth did people make long-distance relationships work?
Well, this was why she needed to keep busy, wasn’t it? A perfect illustration of why she needed to get out a bit and not become obsessed with one guy in particular, especially the guy who lived thousands of miles away.
Energized, she hurried the last several feet down the sidewalk and went into the wood-paneled pub, which bustled with activity. People stood all up and down the thirty-foot bar, enjoying their drinks, and the tufted leather booths were mostly full. She scanned the crowd, looking for…ah. There he was in the back.
Thank God Jerry hadn’t edited his profile picture into something that bore no resemblance to the real man. A good-looking guy of forty-something, he had a brown-skinned face with smiling eyes. Salt-and-pepper hair. A nice sports jacket over a dress shirt and jeans. He sat in a booth with a bouquet of sunflowers in front of him and had that tense, waiting for someone air of expectancy that was always a dead giveaway.
“Hi, Jerry,” she said, hooking her game face firmly over her ears as she approached the table and held out a hand. “I’m Melody. How are you?”
He did a double-take that seemed to encompass and quickly dismiss her scar, his face flooding with color. Then he launched into the kind of delighted grin that Jennifer Lopez probably received wherever she went.
“Hi. I’m Jerome Ayers. Call me Jerry. Well, you just did, didn’t you?” He leapt to his feet, started to shake, then looked back to the sunflowers on the table. Hastily shook her hand, leaned in to kiss her cheek
, then passed her the flowers. “These are for you. I hope they’re not too much.”
Poor thing. At this rate, he’d start to hyperventilate in a minute.
And she’d thought Anthony was awkward.
“They’re beautiful,” she said, trying to set him at ease. “You’re so thoughtful. You didn’t have to do this.”
“This dating thing is a whole new world, since I married my wife back when dinosaurs roamed the earth. I don’t know what the rules are anymore. I’ve been stumbling through.”
“Who hasn’t?” she asked, putting the flowers on the table, her bag on the seat and taking off her coat.
He laughed, then waved at the open bottle of wine and two giant goblets on the table. “Have a seat. I’m not much of a drinker, but I took a chance and ordered a bottle of merlot. Feel free to order something else. What are you in the mood for?”
What was she in the mood for?
The question hit her hard as she put her coat down, slid into the booth and reached for the menu.
She was in the mood for going home, taking a shower, pouring herself a glass of wine and video chatting with Anthony. Better yet? She was in the mood for Anthony to come back because she’d seriously begun to doubt whether she could wait another week before seeing him again. Assuming he actually turned up like he’d said he would.
What she wasn’t in the mood for?
Dredging up the necessary energy for a pleasant blind date experience with a man who didn’t feel like her type.
Still…
Jerry seemed like a decent guy, even if he didn’t make her hormones sing, and it wasn’t his fault her heart wasn’t in it.
“Merlot sounds perfect. Thanks.”
He poured and passed her a glass, then raised his own in a toast.
“To new friends,” he said.
“To new friends.”
They clinked. Sipped.
“This is delicious,” she said, deciding to make more of an effort. “Good choice. So how’s your day been so far?”
Jerry’s appreciative gaze skimmed her face. “My day has taken a big turn for the better. You never know what you’re going to get when the moment of truth finally comes, do you? I’m convinced that the last woman I met had some other person pose for her photo, because she looked nothing like her profile.”
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