Page 141 of Mess With Me

“Everyone’s touched by the dedication they saw in the movie to seeing Eleanor get justice,” Chelsea says.

“And to getting James’s name cleared,” I say.

“Even just found,” John says. “Though I sometimes fear that’s never going to happen.”

Except for Imogen cooing, we’re quiet for a bit. Then I say what’s on my mind, even though they’ll probably think I’m overly sentimental.

“You know, even though there’s no world where I think this could happen, I like to think James found Clea. That he raised her and got to love her the way Eleanor would have wanted.”

“Oh, that would be the perfect end to a tragic love story,” Chelsea says. I can see she’s got the same emotions going on as me, and suddenly, I’m once again glad I picked this up. It’s not just for me.

We move on to talking about Jude and Cap being in London for the next two weeks and when they think he’s going to propose.

But when I glance at John, he’s staring into the distance, working his thumbs on his napkin on the table. He’s clearly still thinking about the Eleanor project. It makes me wonder if anyone’s asked him what he knows. He’s a history buff. Plus, his wife ran the hotel for thirty years. He was the one who first got his kids interested in the story.

I’m just wondering if I should ask him when there’s a screech of tires outside, cutting Cass off mid-sentence.

“What the hell?” she says.

We all look out the window to see a gold Bentley cutting across traffic. It noses into an open parking spot thirty feet from where we sit. Cars honk, pausing before going around the Bentley’s rear, which sticks out into the road.

“It’s okay, honey,” John says, holding Chelsea’s hand.

Chelsea grips a babbling Imogen tight across her chest, her eyes wide. Chelsea was in a car accident a few years ago—she still bears a scar across her face.

I shift my body to get a better look and also to block her view in case someone’s hurt. But someone’s moving inside the tinted windows.

A passerby stops and stands in front of the window, obviously checking if the person’s all right. The door opens, and the man rears back. Whoever it is must say something nasty to the man, because he huffs and storms off.

Something tickles inside me. Some spidey-sense that this isn’t just a terrible driver snagging a parking spot.

“Looks like everyone’s okay,” I say for Chelsea’s sake.

Other restaurant patrons murmur behind me, most returning to their meals.

But I don’t.

Because as the door opens farther, my stomach tightens. A pair of long legs clad in an expensive suit unfolds quickly from the driver’s seat.

The person getting out doesn’t even close the door. They just stand in the street.

Staring at me through the restaurant window.

My mouth goes dry. There’s no mistaking the handsome face. No mistaking the square jaw and salt and pepper hair, the eyebrows like slashes over angry, thick-lashed eyes.

“Is that—” John says, his brows furrowed.

“My brother Sam,” I say.

CHAPTER38

Sasha

Idon’t think. “Would you excuse me, please?” is all I manage, calmly spoken.

I storm out of the restaurant, stalking toward Sam.

“Sasha.”

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