Chapter One
There’s no such thing as bad weather, just unsuitable clothing.
So they say, anyway. Whoever they are, wherever they are, they sure have a lot to answer for. Like the literal arsehole raincloud that burst open with passion over London about three seconds ago on my way to the café. In moments, the late November rain soaks my wool winter overcoat and my favorite thrifted cotton velvet jacket—which is usually quite warm when not absorbing water like a towel.
I probably look like a waterlogged cat after a bath. Or three vigorous baths.
Squelching into the stockroom of the café where I work in London’s Soho, I hang my coat and jacket and find some paper towels to mop the worst of the deluge from my hair, combing it with my fingers more or less into place.
If there’s anything I learned as a member of the Renfrew family growing up, it’s that appearances matter. Always. Doesn’t matter what the weather is or if you’re working at a café or attending a posh dinner party.
I also learned that, sometimes, the indoor storms that catch people off-guard are the toughest.
Thankfully, my phone still works, confirmed after a quick check. I’ve got five minutes before my shift starts to call my friend Emily, over in Wales, and our two-year-old daughter, Carys.
The phone rings four times before Carys answers, peering into the phone from Emily’s lap. “Daddy!”
At least my soggy appearance hasn’t put Carys off. I can’t help but brighten when I see her. Carys’s hair floats in a cloud of baby fine waves and she has an intense gaze with her blue eyes like mine. Her fingers grip the screen and the phone moves wildly about, leaving me a little motion sick. Emily’s laughing.
“You need to hold the phone like this to see Daddy properly,” Emily explains, holding the phone for Carys. “Hi, Charlie. We tried answering the phone together.”
“Success, I’d say. How’re things? I have a couple of minutes before my shift and thought to say hi.”
“Good—”
“Play wif me,” Carys demands.
“I wish I could. I have to work today.”
“I’ll play with you,” Emily tells Carys quickly. She eyes me through the phone screen. “You look terrible, by the way.”
“Thanks. Trying out a new look. I call it River Thames chic. Take that, Oxford Street. Like it?”
“Love it. You’ll be a hit out there with all the boys.”
I laugh at that. “You know I have no time for that.” Not anymore. And probably never again.
The phone gets yanked again by Carys. “Play now?”
“Let’s go get your stuffies,” Emily tells her.
The phone swings wildly. “Bad dawg!” Carys calls offscreen in a triumphant cry.
“Bad dog?” Last I knew, Emily didn’t have a dog.
There’s a loudthumpas the phone drops on her end and then the sound of shuffling. Carys giggles wildly while Emily retrieves the phone.
I run a hand through my wet hair, amused despite the headache pressing behind my eyes. “Hell if I know what most of that was.”
“The abridged summary is that her dog stuffie, Mr. Ruffles, fell in the mud at the park yesterday when Carys dropped him. Then when we were home, we sat together and watched him go around and around in the washer. She refused to move or let me leave, either. Like this was my fault.”
“Laundry trauma lasts a lifetime, Em.”
“It wasn’t you sat on the floor for an hour. At least she agreed to read stories.” The smile in her voice gives her away—she’s not as bothered as she’s trying to convince me she is.
I laugh, something bittersweet caught in my chest. It sucks they’re so far away, and I don’t get to Wales as often as I would like. They’re my true family. Emily and I weren’t ever together, before or after Carys, but we are close friends, and equally devoted to our girl. Even with the big ups and downs of having had a child young, something neither one of us bargained on. The truth of it is that we’re both wild for Carys. She comes first, today and always.
“I’ll be there for Christmas. I know it’s not soon enough…”
