by Beck, Jamie
“True.” She couldn’t help but smile. Ever since he’d read her memoir, she’d noticed him identifying silver linings. It might be the first time she could claim to be a good influence on anyone. Maybe she should revisit the idea of a more personal relationship with him. At the very least, they deserved another brief escape from the work of this tour. A chance to simply be Mitch and Peyton, like they’d had in Paris. “Can we meet back here at one thirty?”
“Why?” He stopped, head cocked. “We’re not expected until four.”
“I know of a nearby detour I’d like to show you. It’s nothing big, but it’s special.” She held her breath while hitting the elevator button.
“Well, then, I can hardly wait.” When he grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkled. All she could think about was how nice it would be to wake up to that warmth. “I’ll see you then. I’ve got some things to take care of first, so I’m off.”
They parted ways in the hallway. Inside her room, she set her suitcase down to navigate the narrow space between the foot of the bed and the wall to get to the french doors that opened to the sizable private terrace. She flung them open before flopping onto her bed.
The guest rooms were spare, although her massive headboard and red bedding made a statement. She smiled, imagining Mitch’s expression as he entered his own grand room with its four-poster bed, and looked forward to a romantic stroll in the Kynance Mews. Even if her last-ditch effort to suss out his feelings failed, she’d have one final private memory she could replay when she missed him in the coming months.
She sat up and unzipped her bag to sort through her things. Time to do her best Charlize Theron imitation so he wouldn’t forget her easily.
Peyton opted against spiky heels, which would get caught in the cobblestone at the mews. She twirled in front of the mirror, the paisley boho dress swooshing as she spun. Her foobs looked surprisingly realistic through the dress’s deep keyhole neckline. Bell sleeves added another hint of flirtation, as did the short skirt. She paired it with a square-heeled ankle boot and thick oval gold-and-pearl hoop earrings. But the most surprising accessory was a genuine smile, something she hadn’t seen much of lately when looking in the mirror.
This outfit was something she’d wear on a date with Mitch if he invited her on one. Which he hadn’t and might not ever—even if she summoned the courage to be bold enough for romance.
Her phone rang, surprising her. Steffi?
“Hey, Steffi. What’s up?” She sat on the edge of the mattress and finger combed her hair. Steffi had been the other third of their childhood triumvirate, the Lilac Lane League, and one of the first people Peyton had told about her diagnosis.
“Up since dawn to take Emmy to swim team before I head to the lumberyard. We saw Logan and Claire last night, so I thought I’d check in and see how you’re holding up.”
“Pretty good. Ready to sleep in my own bed, though.”
“Really? You used to hate to come home.”
“I used to have more energy. And after all I’ve been through, as much as I still enjoy exploring new places or revisiting old favorites, I keep feeling like there is something more I should be doing with myself. I need downtime to figure out what that is.”
“Who are you and what have you done with my friend?” Steffi chuckled.
“Ha ha.”
“Kidding. I hear you, though. Trauma can make you see things in a new light. Look at what I did after the attack. Quit my job, moved home, started my own business . . . but the biggest risk I took was with Ryan. That’s the final piece that changed my life for the better and gave me the most fulfillment.”
“And I’m thrilled for you that it all worked out. You and Claire both seem so settled and happy.”
“Claire is floating around like a helium balloon these days.”
“You have no idea how ecstatic that makes me.” Peyton clutched a fist to her heart, eyes closed in prayer. “Thank God she found love after Todd.”
“Thank God Todd is out of the picture for both of you.” Steffi’s hatred for him hardened her voice.
Peyton closed her eyes. She understood why everyone hated Todd and assumed she had grown to hate him, too. Yet despite her revulsion, a little grief lingered, probably because she’d handled his rejection in silence, knowing she’d get no sympathy after how she and Todd had hurt Claire. “Yes, that too.”
After a slight hesitation, Steffi said, “Logan hinted at something brewing between you and your PR guy. I think you owe me the scoop after how you grilled me about Ryan when I first moved back home.”
Oh Lord. Her brother kept thinking he could snap his fingers and manipulate her in order to fix the parts of her life he thought were broken. “There’s no scoop.”
“Peyton, maybe you can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me.”
“Fine.” Steffi was the least gossipy woman Peyton knew, and it might do some good to release the pressure that had built up from bottling all her feelings. “Mitch is nothing like any guy I’ve ever been attracted to before. He’s all business. I swear, a woman could run naked in front of him at an event, but he’d miss seeing her because he’s so focused on his job.” She laughed. “He takes his time considering every response. His mother and sister run roughshod over him, but he remains kind and gentle. And when he smiles, everything inside me turns soft. Then that face . . . My God, those eyes bore right through me.” Without thinking, she skimmed her hand across her breast and down her stomach, as if he were touching her.
“Wow. I think Logan’s onto something.” When Steffi chuckled, Peyton made a sign of the cross, thankful that she’d kept the kiss a secret. “So then the real question is, does he feel the same about you?”
She winced, uncertain herself because of his mixed signals, like that kiss. In any case, a white lie would be best to keep Steffi and Logan from digging deeper. “There have been little hints . . . but he’s got a rule against dating clients and colleagues because some coworker burned him years ago.”
“Hm. If you worked for him, I could see that point, but his role with your book ends soon. It’s not insurmountable. Logan thinks you’re bringing him to the engagement party.”
“Logan is crazy.” Her whole body flushed in rebellion. “I’m not bringing Mitch to that party.”
“Why not?”
Good question. Going to the party alone wouldn’t be as fun, and she would love to spend time with him that had nothing to do with her book. But introducing him to the family would be a big step, and he might not even want to go. “I don’t know.”
“You’re not still hung up on Todd, are you?”
“No!” Peyton scowled so hard it hurt her face. But she might be a little hung up on avoiding being burned again. She’d mistaken Todd’s intense infatuation with her for love, and still didn’t trust herself to know the difference.
“I thought running from love was always my thing, not yours.”
Peyton bit her lip. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“I think I understand fear of vulnerability better than most, Peyton. Try me.”
She glanced in the mirror again at the mirage of a whole woman. “I’m no longer comfortable in my own skin. My scars . . .” Not to mention the uncertainty of her future health.
“You’re still a beautiful woman, but love has nothing to do with the way we look.”
Peyton had been raised by a dad who’d constantly called her his little beauty and a mother who emphasized appearances, so it wasn’t so easy to dismiss that conditioning.
“My brain knows that, but I’ve never been with a man and not felt sexy before. It’s new and scary.” Peyton envied the resilient patients who bounced back and embraced their bodies and second chances. Who didn’t look in the mirror and still “see” their hollowed chests after the bilateral mastectomy. She could still picture the sickened look on Todd’s face after her diagnosis, like he was watching the cancer cells eat at her from the inside out. “Besides, I’m far from the survivor milestone. St
ray cells could be storming my lymph nodes as we speak. It doesn’t seem fair to start a relationship with someone when my future is so uncertain.”
With this much indecision, perhaps she should rethink the mews.
“It’s not like you to let insecurity hold you back.”
“I’m not who I used to be. In fact, I might not ever be that person again. I’m still searching for my new normal.”
“That’s fine as long as the new normal doesn’t involve punishing yourself for past mistakes, or refusing to let yourself be happy.”
“I’m not a masochist, but I won’t go after happiness again at someone else’s expense.” If Peyton let Mitch get close and then she got sick, she’d rob him of happiness and time, and he’d already lost too much of both. She should remind herself of that every time she looked at Mitch, but all she could think now was This is our last night alone! “Listen, I know you mean well, but let’s change the subject.”
“As long as you promise to think about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The party is one date, and Mitch knows your health status. He can make decisions for himself. Bring him and see what happens.”
Keeping it light, as she’d been considering. Before she realized it, she was smiling. Then her alarm dinged. “I’ve got to run, Steffi. Give me a day to unwind at home, then we’ll grab lunch. Kisses to Ryan and Emmy.”
“Nice dodge, Pey. See you soon.”
Peyton pressed her palm to her stomach, then stuffed the phone in her bag and left the room with Steffi’s words rolling around inside her head like a spilled jar of marbles. She arrived at the lobby, expecting Mitch to be waiting as usual. When he wasn’t, she paced, fanning herself. She checked the time: 1:34? That walking Swiss watch never ran late. Had he slipped in the shower? Had a stroke?
Right when she began to get concerned, he rounded the corner and came to an abrupt stop upon seeing her. Each hair on her body fluttered as his gaze skimmed her from head to toe.
“You look terrific.” With a pronounced blink, he cleared his throat.
“Thanks. So do you.” There was nothing special about his classic caramel-colored linen blazer paired with a crisp white shirt and charcoal slacks except that he was the one wearing them. He’d make anything look attractive. “You’re late. Trouble?”
“A call ran long. Rebecca . . .” He stopped himself and smiled, waving his hand to end the inquiry. “Not your problem.”
“I’m happy to listen if it’d help.”
He cocked his head as if no one had ever offered him help before. “Thank you, but let’s not put a damper on whatever plans you’ve made.”
His evasiveness tickled her senses. “Does this problem have something to do with my book?”
“No.” He stared straight into her eyes. “I swore I wouldn’t withhold anything from you—anything about your book, I mean. Just—never mind. I’m a bit fried. Sorry.”
No matter what he said, he was withholding something, but then again, so was she. Feelings were tricky that way. “Okay.”
A relieved smile appeared. “Where are we going?”
“Follow me.” She led him outside, along the edge of Nevern Square, for the one-mile walk. They strolled through South Kensington along Lexham Gardens and then on to Cornwall Gardens. The quintessentially British neighborhoods consisted of lengthy blocks lined with multistory Georgian-style townhomes rising on either side of the road like white canyon walls with windows and porticos.
“Things look different in London.” Mitch glanced around for the tenth time. “More elegant . . . formal. Nothing like Hoboken.”
“If you like this, just wait.” She smiled because they were about to enter the mews through the arches at Launceston Place. They meandered onto the narrow cobblestone lane and stepped back in time, surrounded on both sides by brick-and-wood residences remodeled from former horse stables—some painted white, yellow, or blue—most embellished with outdoor potted planters and wild wisteria. An intimate pedestrian-friendly area that seemed miles and light-years apart from a major metropolitan city.
“Well?” Peyton spread her arms wide and spun around, heart filled with the contentedness this neighborhood always inspired.
Mitch looked up and down the picturesque residential lane, tucking his hands under his armpits and grinning. “What is this place?”
“The Kynance Mews. These buildings date back to the eighteen hundreds and first served as stabling for the Cornwall Gardens development.” She clasped her hands behind her back with a slight bow. “Isn’t this the classic example of quaint?”
He nodded, smiling broadly. “Do you know someone who lives here?”
“No.” She headed west.
He followed. “So why are we here?”
“We’ve been pushing so hard I thought it would be nice to do one last thing together that didn’t involve my book. Sort of like we did in Paris.” She craned her neck to try to peer inside a window, one of her favorite pastimes. She imagined adorable hearths and old beams and someone sitting in a comfy chair, sipping rose tea, eating biscuits, and fiddling with a basket of yarn on the floor. Of course, she could never get a good look inside any of the homes. “Besides, it’s pretty and historic. A lovely place to stroll.”
He slowed to a standstill. “So we came here to stroll?”
“Well, yes. To relax and enjoy each other’s company.” She looped her arm through his with exaggerated purpose, then refused to release him. His cologne emitted a pleasing hint of spice. “To slow down and appreciate something you can’t find in New York—not that you probably get out to see much of New York, either.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you live in one of the greatest cities in the world, but I bet you never explore it without some goal in mind. In fact, I bet you spend all of your time at your computer, on the phone, or with your mother in Jersey.”
“Careful.” He said that so quietly she wished he’d shouted instead.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to criticize. I admire your ambition and your dedication to your family. But I wish you’d take care of yourself as well as you take care of everyone else. So please indulge me this one hour, take a deep breath, and play.”
“Play?”
She shrugged, still linked arm in arm, hopeful that he wouldn’t wriggle free. “Imagine walking these same cobblestones one hundred and fifty years ago as a groom, caring for the Cleveland bays and phaetons or broughams in these stables. Or picture yourself living here now, in one of these small but pricey homes—maybe as an artist or perhaps a barrister—taking tea, riding your bike to work, stopping at the local pub on your way home. It can be anything that takes you outside yourself, your life, your problems. There’s no right or wrong, no benchmark to meet. It’s only for fun.”
His gaze remained near his feet as they walked. “Is this what you do when you travel alone?”
“Often!” She tugged on his arm to get him to look up. “I love to get lost and let my imagination wander. Like now, we could pretend that we live in that pretty yellow house—my personal favorite.” She pointed ahead to a home with expansive mullioned windows, two wrought iron Juliet balconies overflowing with red geraniums, and a bright-green door flanked by potted shrubs. Such a cheerful house that the people who lived there must be happy. “Maybe we’re arguing about the new copper planters I want to install but can’t afford. Maybe we hate the neighbor on the right because she’s a big flirt who is always causing trouble. Or the one on the left whose kid practices the violin at six a.m.”
“So we’re roommates in this fantasy?” A sexy smile broke through his carefully arranged expression.
She welcomed the heat fanning through her body. “We can be anything. Anyone. I don’t have to be Peyton Prescott, great-granddaughter of William Prescott, cancer patient turned reluctant author who can’t go back to her old life and doesn’t quite know where to go with her new one, and you don’t have to be Mitch Mathis, man with the weight of thre
e worlds on his shoulders.”
They passed a half barrel filled with pink begonias. Mitch remained quiet, making Peyton wonder if she’d insulted him again. Coin toss on whether that would be preferable to him homing in on her slipup about her life in limbo.
“Make-believe and escapes don’t make anything better. They just let you avoid dealing with problems. Your responsibilities are still there when you return to reality. And conjuring some false utopia makes reality a real letdown.”
She should’ve known he’d heard every word she’d said. Still, she shook her head. “A mental escape can trigger creativity. Help you see a problem from a new angle. And even when you don’t find a solution, at the very least, it gives you a break from your problems.”
“Has it helped you answer the question of what you’ll do after the book tour ends?”
“Not yet . . . but I have faith.”
“Faith.” He flashed a weak smile. “May I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“Think about what you need to be happy—a core need—and then figure out if you can build something around that. Like your brother has done with his photography giving him a public platform to be heard.”
Logan did need to be heard, and loved to tell stories with pictures. She frowned when thinking of herself. “What if I have no idea what I need?”
“If you focus on it, it will come to you.” Mitch peered up at the rooflines.
She admired his handsome face while he studied the mews. “What’s yours?”
“Security.” He grimaced, almost apologetically.
She laughed. “I wouldn’t think that publishing is very secure.”
“Not on the surface, but there will always be books in one form or another, and no shortage of authors looking for visibility. As long as I continue to work hard and be creative, I should always have a job.”
“Hm. I suppose you’re right. I guess I’ll have to give some thought to my needs, but not here and now.”
They came to the dead end, so they turned to go the other direction, toward Gloucester, where she knew of a nice wine store. Her plan—such as it was—had failed. It seemed he’d rather think about work and careers than play along with her.