Much Ado About You

And I’d get to spend more time with Roane.

“Now I can’t pay you much, like, but you can stay in the apartment rent-free.”

A tremor of excitement ran through me. My immediate reaction was to scream YES! at the top of my voice, but that goddamn sensible side of me took control first. “I’m only here as a tourist. I’d need a work visa for that.”

Penny waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Already looked into it.” She pulled a folded-up piece of paper out of the back pocket of her jean shorts. “I filled out the employer form and I have the address you need to send it to, to update them about the change in situation of your stay.”

I gaped.

But what about Greer?

“My friend is pregnant—”

“I thought she had her boyfriend, Anders, or something?”

“Andre.”

Penny took a step toward me. “Before you come up with excuses not to do it . . . can I ask if you want to do it?”

The only thing back in Chicago for me was Greer. The thought of missing out on the majority of her pregnancy made my heart twinge in my chest . . . but . . .

Three more months running the bookstore, getting paid to do something I was loving more and more by the minute.

Three more months with Caroline, Milly, and Dexter.

Three more months with Roane.

Something stressful that had been knotted tight in my belly for a week, something I didn’t want to put a name to because it seemed ridiculous to feel so strongly about a person when we’d known each other only a few weeks . . . well, that something began to dissolve, loosening, relaxing.

I was relieved.

“Yes.” I nodded a little frantically. “Yeah, I want to do it.”

Penny smiled, and gripped my hand. “Then why not do it?”

Why not indeed?

Three months was plenty of time to figure out my life, and I’d get to do it during the summer on the coast of England. Rent-free.

I’d be crazy to turn this down, even if a certain farmer and his friends weren’t a factor.

“If they give me a work visa, I’ll do it.”

Smiling from ear to ear, Penny pulled me into her arms and squeezed me tight. “Thank you, Evie. You’re a godsend, lass.”

* * *

• • •

We were lucky to procure the table and benches in the garden of The Anchor an hour later. On a day like today, on a Sunday, the pub was heaving with tourists. We’d walked in just as a family was leaving, however, and Caro nabbed the table outside before anyone else could.

The three of us sat sipping our drinks, Roane and I drinking cider, Caro a soda, while Shadow lounged at my sand-dusted feet.

The cousins had kept quiet about Penny’s visit with me on the beach, but I could see they were growing impatient. They’d obviously expected me to offer up the reason for her tracking me down. I wasn’t sure what to say. I didn’t want to get their hopes up in case my work visa was denied.

Not that I should presume to think their hopes would be high at the possibility of my staying.

Yet, somehow, I knew they would be.

“So what—”

“Caroline Robson.” Roane was cut off by the appearance of a familiar blond woman.

She stood over our table, staring down at Caro, wearing calf-length army pants and a khaki tank top. Her calves and arms were enviously toned, while her face was somewhat weather-beaten. It made it hard to determine what age she was.

But I recognized her.

She was the quad bike blonde.

I’d seen her a few times driving through the village on her quad bike, but I’d forgotten to ask Roane about her.

“Uh, it’s Mordue,” Caro corrected shyly.

“No, it’s not.” The blonde scoffed and shot Roane a commiserating look. “ ’Bout time you took back your legal name, girl. Hell can stuff it.”

Hell? I mouthed at Roane. Did she mean Helena?

At the twitch of Roane’s lips, I made a strangled noise to cover my amusement.

“You must be the American.” The blonde turned her eyes on me. They shone an indeterminate color in the sun. Green or blue. It was difficult to tell. “I hear you’re behind the market, along with this one.” She gestured to Caro.

“That’s right.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m Evie.”

The blonde took my hand and shook it vigorously. “Annie Foster.”

Foster?

I’d met a Foster already. Maggie Foster was an older woman who owned the art gallery/jewelry store. I’d been in and bought a bracelet for Greer. Maggie was sweet and affable and a good listener. She’d questioned me about my stay, and I’d spent an entire lunch break chatting her ear off. Not that she’d minded. In fact, I got the distinct sense she enjoyed company.

I really ought to stop in to see her more.

“Any relation to Maggie?”