“Two months ago Prue was pestering me to come to hers for a dinner party. She wanted to set me up with a woman from her book club. I told her I wasn’t looking to date, and in any case I had a private event at the pub that night and wouldn’t be able to make it—all true.”
“Uh-oh.”
“The night of the party Pear called me in hysterics saying Prue had been taken to A&E with appendicitis and she was picking me up right away so we could get to hospital. I, of course, left the pub and went with her. Whereupon she drove halfway there before informing me with great glee we were actually going to Prue’s house for supper.”
“My God!”
“I know,” he says ruefully. “They’re wicked. But you’d think after thirty-odd goes around the sun I’d be on to them.”
“Did you at least like the woman from the book club?”
“I was in far too bad a temper to make proper conversation. Though I must admit she was gorgeous.”
I become briefly, ludicrously jealous that this woman has earned such a compliment. I need to cool my jets.
“Well, maybe Prue will trick you into going to another party and you’ll get a second chance,” I say lightly.
“No need. I’m decidedly single.” He pauses, and smiles at me shyly. “Unless of course you decide to move to England, and I change my mind.”
My jets are decidedly not cool.He’s just flirting, I remind myself. But it scares me how much I light up at these words.
My enthusiasm comes burbling out before I can stop it. “That’s actually always been my dream,” I say.
“To move to London?”
“No, not London. I have this fantasy about living in the English countryside. Buying one of those rambling old stone cottages with a beautiful garden full of roses and fruit trees where I can spend my days writing novels.” I shake my head at myself, embarrassed. “You know. The full Jane Austen experience.”
“Have you looked into moving?” he asks.
“Oh God no, it’s just a fantasy. I read lots of Regency romance novels to scratch the itch.”
He frowns at me. “It’s not silly to have dreams, Hope.”
He’s right.
And maybe I need to say mine out loud more often.
“What’s your dream life?” I ask.
“Not so far from yours, actually,” he says. “I’ve been toying with the idea of opening a pub with rooms in the country. Somewhere on the coast, maybe. Cornwall, or Devon. Eventually get married. Raise a family there.”
I cannot help imagining myself as the woman he builds this life with.
“What about your businesses in London?” I ask, hoping he won’t see the wistfulness that’s overtaken me.
“Let my sisters sell them to Pizza Express.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“No. But I’m sure I could run them remotely. Pop in twice a month. I don’t give her enough credit, but my food and bev manager is brilliant. She could probably take over operations, with some training.”
“So what’s stopping you?”
“Fear,” he says flatly.
“Fear of what?”
“My whole life is structured around my routines. Work, gym, AA, meditation, sleep. I truly believe it’s saved me from relapse. Opening something new would blow that all up. I’m not ready.”
