“All right, then tell me more about your early years.”
“Well, my biological dad died in a car accident when I was a baby. I never really knew him. All I know is what Mom told me, which was that he was really excited to be a dad. I don’t remember much about our life before the Carlsons, because I was seven when Mom married my stepdad. But I do have some memories of Mom being sad a lot. I remember walking into her room at night when I couldn’t sleep, and she would be crying. It’s not a clear memory, and I’m not sure how often it happened.” She shakes her head, and still damp strands of dark hair dance across her shoulders before she continues. “I’ve never told anyone that. I haven’t even spoken to Mom about it. Anyway, everything changed when she met my stepdad. She smiled and laughed, and really, I don’t think she’s stopped since. We moved in with the Carlsons when they married, and my stepdad adopted me. He wanted me to be his daughter in every way possible. To me, he’s just Dad, the only father I’ve known.”
“Thank you for sharing that,” I tell her before leaning across the small table and placing a gentle kiss on her lips. This isn’t like the frenzied, desperate kisses from earlier. This kiss is sweet, matching our leisurely mood.
“Now it’s your turn,” Katie says.
“There’s not much to tell. My alcoholic father was a mean drunk. My mother worked too hard trying to compensate and provide for her five children. It was a relief to all of us when he died from too much booze. The only good thing about my childhood was my best friend, Aaron. He saved my life more times than I can count.” I stop to take a breath before saying, “I’m sorry, it’s not a nice story like yours.” She reaches to hold my hand, which is resting on the table, her dark eyes filled with compassion.
I feel the usual shutter come down over my emotions. I don’t need anyone to feel sorry for me.
Katie pulls her hand back sharply. “I should really be going. I’ve got some work to do back at the bed-and-breakfast,” she says before standing, picking up our dirty plates, and racing back through the door with them.
Way to go, arsehole. Way to ruin an afternoon,I admonish myself as I stand to see her out. But before I’m even through the door, she already has her bag on her shoulder and is ready to leave.
She glances my way briefly. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning about the contract. Have a good evening.” Then she’s walking toward the front door.
I mumble a goodbye, and she’s gone, the door closing with a thud behind her.
A stab of disappointment hits me.
Chapter eleven
Katie
IthoughtleavingDrewyesterday to return to the bed-and-breakfast with the excuse of having to catch up on work emails would allow me to sort through the churning emotions that are filling the pit of my stomach.
Our first night together after the awards party was fantastic, memorable, and special in the context of a one-night stand. Just one night to look back on fondly, remember over cocktails with friends and maybe even use as inspiration for late-night sessions with my wand. All the things I did in the two months since.
It wasn’t supposed to happen again. But I guess from the moment I learned Drew was the reclusive A. V. Campbell, I suspected, almost subconsciously hoped, it would happen again. And now that it has, I’m not sure how I feel about it.
The man is way too good at all things sex related and could be dangerous to my heart. Already, he has me wanting to stay longer than I planned. But I won’t.
I was only ever going to stay till the contract was signed, and, based on the email from Drew late last night stating he was ready to sign, that will happen this morning.
Once that signed contract is in my hand, there won’t be any reason for me to stay. I can jump straight in my car and be back in my Kensington terrace house by late afternoon. Tomorrow, back in the office, I can hand Drew’s account over to my very capable chief editor, and I can then go back to treating my time with Drew as just one more steamy escapade. It’s clear to me that’s how he sees our time together—casual and fun.
There was a moment on the deck yesterday afternoon when I thought it could have been more, but then, when I got too close to learning more about the complex man underneath the perfect façade, I was instantly shut down.
I take another leisurely bite of my freshly baked blueberry muffin and wash it down with a sip of English breakfast tea. Replacing the floral fine bone china cup on the matching saucer, I look out the window at what is going to be another beautiful late spring day. The weather in Cornwall is certainly nicer than the all too frequent gray London days.
It’s only been a couple of days, but I’m going to miss Cornwall, especially these breakfasts served by Mary, the middle-aged owner of the residence. Her blueberry muffins are to die for, and she can even make a cup of tea taste okay. To say I wasn’t a fan of the nation’s traditional drink when I first arrived would be an understatement. But, like everything British, it has slowly grown on me.
Mary bustles back into the quaint, sunny breakfast room. “Would you like another cuppa? Or muffin?” She really is adorable, with her cheery good mornings, excellent baking skills, and flamboyant flowery apron collection. Every day, she’s worn a different version, and today’s bright yellow sunflower one might be my favorite.
“Mary, I swear you spoil me. But I can’t eat or drink another thing, and I really do need to be going.” She places a paper bag with two muffins inside on the table for me to take to Drew. The same as she did yesterday.
She begins clearing the empty plates from the table. “It’s been such a pleasure having you stay with us. I’m going to miss you, pet.” I smile again at her use of the endearmentpet. It’s such a funny way to affectionately refer to someone.
I stand, and she pulls me in for a warm, motherly hug. She has six adult children and five grandchildren, so she has perfected the motherly hug. It makes me a little homesick for my own mom, my dad, and my brothers. We’re a close family of huggers, and I miss seeing them in person, even though I speak to them most days.
“Mary, thank you so much for making me feel so comfortable and welcome.”
“Any friend of Drew’s is a friend of ours. And you will come back to see us and Drew again, won’t you, pet?” It turns out that Mary and her husband own the cottage that Drew is renting. It really is a small village.
I smile. “I’d like to come back to see you, but I’m not sure I can.” She reaches out for another hug, and when I say goodbye, her smile is not as bright. It’s the truth. I would like to come back to see her, but as far as Drew wanting me to come down again now that the contract is signed? I doubt it.
I collect my bag from the hallway and leave with a final wave to Mary and her husband, who has come to stand beside her with his hand resting gently on her shoulder. She told me they’ve been married fifty-two years. Now there are some relationship goals.
