Mr. Mayfair (Mister)

This was the perfect moment for Henry to tell me he had property in Mayfair. That he owned some rundown building that needed to be redeveloped, but he was staring out across the countryside, as if I’d been talking about the weather.

Patience. This was our first conversation. And I had a plan, even if it had been thrown off track a little.

“How interesting,” Matt said, clearing his throat and seemingly flustered.

“Excuse me, I need to make a call,” Henry said, and I tried not to inwardly groan. Losing an opportunity to chat with Henry was bad enough. There was no way I was going to get left with Stella’s tool of an ex-boyfriend.

“That reminds me,” I said. “I have to return an email. Good to meet you both.”

I pulled my phone from my pocket and wandered toward the knoll that led down from the house. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get through the next week surrounded by these people, who were all sweetness and conversations about the weather on the surface. Perhaps it wasn’t just the surface. Maybe an indulgent life and summers shooting clays and playing croquet provided unlimited charm.

I’d never know. I’d never fit in with these people. My father had made sure of that.

Eighteen

Stella

I cleared the smudge of mascara from below my right eye and set about trying to avoid the same mistake on my left eye. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this way before seeing a man. I couldn’t even quite figure out what it was I did feel. Was it nerves? Even when I was first dating Matt, I didn’t remember a physical reaction just at the thought of a man. The way my breath got higher in my throat when I thought about Beck, the way my skin seemed to tighten when I remembered our kiss—it was all new. I kept replaying our kiss in my head, wondering what had brought it on—whether he’d kissed me out of necessity or desperation or if it had been, as he’d described, just about desire. And when I saw him again, would he have had a change of heart and not want to kiss me? And if he did want more kissing, should I resist him, reminding myself that everything between us was a lie?

Too many questions.

I popped t

he mascara wand back in the tube. Beck wasn’t back from whatever it was the boys were doing today, and I didn’t want to look as if I’d been waiting for him. Thankfully my pedicure had made it to four days without a chip, so I grabbed a pair of black sandals. Tonight, women and men had separate dinners, again in some kind of effort to recreate hen and stag nights. It seemed a little forced and ridiculous and although I didn’t want to admit it to myself, part of me wanted to spend the evening with Beck despite knowing this growing warmth I felt for him might be entirely in my head.

I jumped at the rattle of the door handle but managed to do up my second sandal and stand as Beck entered the room.

“Hi,” I said as if I’d just been caught doing something I shouldn’t and nerves tumbled about through my stomach like autumnal leaves in a breeze.

His gaze swept down my body. “You look . . .” His eyes grew bigger and then finally met mine. “Nice.” The way he said it reverberated in the base of my spine as if he’d pressed his tongue against my skin. How did he make the word “nice” sound so sexy?

“Thanks,” I said, hoping he couldn’t read my thoughts.

“You look as if you’re leaving,” he said as I picked up my evening bag.

“We have this separate dinner thing,” I replied, opening up my bag and checking that I had everything I needed, despite having checked it just before he came in. I just couldn’t look at him in case he saw how much I enjoyed our kiss earlier. I wanted to be cooler than that. Like it was no big deal that this hot, sexy guy sought me out to kiss me in front of everyone. Like it was real. “Drinks started at six-thirty.”

He checked his watch. “I was hoping we could talk.”

The leaves landed with a thud. In my experience, whenever men wanted to “talk” it was never about anything good.

He pulled his jacket off, tossed it on the bed, and stalked toward me as if he were on a mission. I took a step back when it looked like he was going to mow me down, but as he reached me he circled an arm around my back and slid his hand behind my neck, kissing me again. This time it started more urgently, as if he’d been storing up his kisses all day. My body sagged—soft against his hard, marble-like chest. He was warm and smelled so good, like a forest floor after a rainstorm.

His moan sent vibrations through my body, weakening my bones and making me gasp.

“Talk, huh?” I said as we pulled away.

He swept his thumb over my cheekbone. “Yeah. I didn’t want anything to be . . . I wanted to check I wasn’t out of line earlier.”

“When you kissed me? So you did it again?” Nothing about him seemed fake. But then again, I’d believed everything Matt had told me as well.

He shrugged. “Apparently.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

“Don’t sweat it?” he asked as he toed off his shoes and sat on the bed while he removed his watch.

“You felt the need to kiss me, so you did. No big deal.”