Mr. Mayfair (Mister)

I didn’t know what I was saying either. The fact was we hadn’t discussed dating in real life. I guess that’s what we were doing now—discussing what happened when we got back to London.

“You want to call it quits when we get back to London?” he asked, his voice a little colder and more distant than it had been just seconds before.

I gnawed at the inside of my cheek. Did I?

I liked Beck. I really liked having sex with Beck. And he was funny. And cute when he was serious. And seriously cute when he was in work mode.

He’d rescued me from Matt and suggested we didn’t attend the ceremony today.

Beck seemed like a good guy. But so had Matt.

I needed to figure out if I had some fundamental flaw that only allowed me to see the good things in people.

Florence had pointed out how selfish Matt had been and how I’d given in to him all the time, but I’d never seen it like that.

I needed time to let my focus readjust. Or retrain my instincts or something. I needed to fix the part of me that was broken and didn’t see things how they really were.

What I didn’t want to do was jump from the frying pan into the fire.

My stomach churned as I realized that Beck and I were probably a horrible idea. History showed that my instincts were off. If it felt right, it must be wrong. Surely he would agree when he thought about it. “We’re going to be working together. Maybe it’s not a good idea to be mixing business with . . .” I wasn’t sure what he was suggesting. I was half hoping he’d agree, half hoping he’d talk me around. No doubt he’d talk me into whatever he had in mind. “You know, sex.”

Beck turned away from me and stared straight ahead. “Okay, we’ll keep it professional.”

That was it?

I’d expected him to present a counterargument. That was his MO, right? I’d assumed I’d have to at least put up a fight. I’d seen Beck in action. When he wanted something, he didn’t stop at anything.

Looked like he didn’t want me. Enough.

I guess my judgement wasn’t so wonky after all. My doubts around him were well founded.

Thirty-Two

Beck

All I’d wanted to do was focus on my work, but since leaving Scotland, it was as if my brain had been dunked in a black fog which I just couldn’t find my way out of. It had only been days but it felt like weeks—months.

I drummed my fingers on the black, glossy table, skirting the edge of my pint glass.

“Is that water?” Dexter asked as he arrived, wincing as if I were nursing a pint of battery acid.

“With a wedge of lime. Got a problem with that?” Alcohol was the last thing I needed. I wanted my head to be less fuzzy not more.

He slipped his jacket onto the back of his chair and nodded at the barman. “Where did you develop your mood? A car crash?”

“Fuck off, nothing’s wrong with my mood,” I snapped.

“Right,” he said, leaning back and thanking the barman as they slid a glass of whiskey in front of him.

“You’re a tit for paying for this place.” I never understood why people paid memberships to get into what was essentially a bar and restaurant. I glanced around Dexter’s club—the ceiling was a reflection of the table we were sitting around, and gold streaks shot out from the circle of dark glass like the sun trying to escape an eclipse. It looked like the kind of thing Stella would point out to me. “There are a thousand bars like this in London.” That wasn’t quite true. This place was nice, but I expected Dexter to be more frugal.

“Okaaay,” he replied. “Are you going to tell me why you look like your dog just died?”

“Nothing wrong with me. I’ve just been waiting for you lot to arrive.” I hadn’t been able to focus in the office, which wasn’t like me, so I’d taken myself off to the gym, then come straight here. I’d been hoping the exercise would clear my head, but nothing was working. All I could think about was Stella. Where was she? What was she doing? What was she thinking about? Who was she with?

“And you’re not flirting with the waitresses, which means you either lost a shitload of money or you didn’t get your own way on something important. Which is it?” he asked.

Jesus, did this guy think he was my therapist? “Neither, Madame Zelda. Stop trying to read my mind or fortune or whatever.”