I cut the thought off at the pass as I exit the train, refusing to let my brain start flipping through images from last night.
There’s no time for that. Not until I make this better. Because Emily isn’t just a sexy redhead who destroyed me in bed; she’s the whole brilliant, authentic, quick-witted package.
She deserves better than this.
And I’m going to make sure she gets it.
Up top, I pocket my phone and stride quickly through the busy streets before cutting through the Hyde Park Winter Wonderland crowd. The massive Christmas market is in full festive assault mode. Carousel music competes with carols piped through the speakers, and the scent of hot chocolate, cinnamon rolls, candy nuts, and gingerbread is thick in the crisp morning air.
And clearly, the children are already thoroughly sugar-infused and ready to rumble.
Just past the puppet theater, a small girl in a reindeer jumper crashes into my legs while chasing her brother, both of them shrieking with joy.
“Sorry, mister! Sorry!” she calls, waving over her shoulder as they race toward the hot chocolate stand.
I lift a hand in acknowledgement of her apology, holiday nostalgia tightening my chest as I watch them go.
Twenty-something years ago, that would have been Edward and me, running wild while Father pretended to be cross, but secretly egged us on with extra sticky buns and a promise to stay for the sweary puppet show they put on for the adults after the sun went down.
He loved a sweary puppet show. And a Christmas market and mulled wine and spoiling his boys with sweets and stealing kisses under the mistletoe until Mother laughed, threw her arms around his neck, and called him “simply awful.”
But he wasn’t awful.
He was so good and all love.
“Best time of the year, Olly. It really is,”he used to say, beaming at everyone we passed like they were long lost friends.”We should always be like this. So full of joy and kindness and hope. Never lose hope, son. There’s so much good in the world. Love is going to win, one day. I just know it.”
It’s almost as if he knew his youngest son would grow up to be a man prone to a touch of nihilism. To seeing the evil in the world and deciding we might all be better off if a meteor sent humanity the way of the dinosaur.
The events of this morning certainly haven’t given me much reason for hope…
I shake off the melancholy before it can settle in. I have to keep moving.
There’s a lovely girl’s reputation to salvage.
Belinda Moore’s shop occupies a prim corner in Marylebone, between an organic deli and a children’s clothing store full of tiny hand-knitted jumpers. Her look is earnest-meets-expensive—a little rustic, a lot luxe. The window is a showstopperpacked with white roses, silver branches, and cream-flower stags arranged like guardians protecting the realm. It’s equal parts “Claridge’s winter wedding” and “you’re paying for the story.”
It’s beautiful, a touch smug, and the subtext is clear. Belinda has staked her claim on this particular corner of the kingdom.
And if you cross her?
Well, she’ll rearrange your life into something less than pretty…
The bell chimes as I enter, and Belinda looks up from where she’s fussing over an elaborate white poinsettia and twig bouquet behind the counter.
When she spots me, her expression goes from professional welcome to Arctic tundra in record time.
“Well. Oliver.” She doesn’t quite seethe my name, but it’s close. “You’re up and about awfully early this morning. Considering the evening you had after you left the pub…”
Well, there goes any doubt that she’s seen the pictures…
“Morning, Belinda. Lovely display. Very festive.” I flash my most charming smile. Never let them see you sweat or cave to so much as a hint of shame. “And yes, about last night… That’s why I’m here, actually. I think we should talk.”
“If you’re here to apologize for yourfriend, I’m afraid that would be a waste of time.” She turns back to her flowers, dismissing me with the efficiency of someone who’s dealt with her share of aristocrats. “The woman demolished a very expensive, very time-intensive-to-create floral arrangement, made poor little Timothy Blake cry, and ruined the tableau before I got a single shareable photo.” She clucks her tongue before adding beneath her breath, “Not to mention flashing her knickers in a room full of children.”
“Knickers? She didn’t flash her knickers. I think I would have noticed if—” I catch myself before I make things worse, forcing another smile as Belinda shifts slitted brown eyes my way.“Right. Yes. Well, of course, you’re correct. It was an unfortunate outcome, all around. Though in her defense, the doorwasquite stuck, and she was dead on her feet. She’d just flown in from New York on a miserable flight.”
“I don’t care if she’d just flown in from Mars.” Belinda jams a stem into the arrangement with unnecessary force. “She’s reckless and unprofessional. And clearly has no respect for the care and skill that goes into creating a piece of art. If she did, she would have done a better job of apologizing.”
