Right Number, Wrong Girl

But… so was Nancy, technically. After all, all I needed was to check Camilla’s email and find the one where she’d told her that I would be coming, and it would blow a hole in any assertion that she didn’t know.

Not that it made it better.

It was still going to be one’s word against the other.

Talk about a Mexican stand-off.

I did know that I wanted to get the hell out of Cavendish House before Hugo found me again. He’d been dragged away by his father a few minutes before the end of my meeting with the duchess, and I was more than ready to be done today.

My head hurt—actual stress headache, not a hangover—and I needed another hot shower to clear my head.

Like I didn’t have enough rambling through my mind right now, I also had this shit with all the things Her Grace thought were wrong.

If only she knew that I’d been thinking about the fact I’d kissed her son a little over twelve hours ago.

Sure, I’d been naïve to assume that Hugo wouldn’t be here this morning, but a girl could hope.

My next naïve hope was that I could leave without him trying to speak to me.

I knew he would. My misplaced kiss last night had taken him by surprise. I knew that much, and I’d demanded he leave the second I’d realised what Drunk Sophie had done.

I wanted to believe that he would think I had no recollection of that little mishap, but Hugo was too smart for that.

He was going to want to talk to me.

I was going to have to talk to him eventually—I just didn’t want that to be today.

I finished gathering the last of my party things into the bag and zipped it up. I was going to go back to the cottage, curl up into a ball in the shower, and avoid everything I needed to do.

I also needed to order some clothes.

I’d only bought enough for a few days, and I was running out of things to wear. Thank God for next day delivery, that was all I could say.

I was wasting electricity and water having to run the washing machine without a full load. I was this-close to raiding Nora’s cupboards and freshening up her towels just to justify washing my knickers.

It was a sad state of affairs.

“Can we talk?”

I jerked up to standing and looked at Hugo. “I can’t. I have too much to do to fix all this.” I slung the backpack over my shoulder, grabbed the folder, and headed towards the door where he was.

“Sophie,” he said softly, holding his arm out so I couldn’t pass.

“Please let me past you,” I replied.

“We need to talk.”

“I’m too busy to talk to you right now. Please respect that and let me do my job.”

Hugo sighed heavily and dropped his arm.

“Thank you.”

“You can’t run from this conversation forever,” he said in a low voice. “You’re going to have to speak to me sooner or later.”

I looked up at him with a sharp glare. “Then I choose later,” I snapped, pushing past him into the hallway so I could leave as soon as possible.

I was a little surprised he didn’t follow me outside, but I was relieved. Even if a part of me wishes he had followed me to my car—then I could be angry that he wouldn’t leave me alone.