As Alistair paled and cut a scathing glance toward my father, I knew I’d guessed correctly. He cared more about my money than me.

  “If you’d bothered to ask, I would have explained my financial situation to you,” I told him. “And now, because you tried to force me, the answer is definitely no.”

  I spun on my heel and threaded my way out of the restaurant, clutching that stupid tassel as if it were a talisman.

  14

  Aya

  I stepped out onto the street, back straight, chin up, and my legs trembling. I assessed the row of gleaming vehicles at the curb and a distant double-decker bus as my heart continued to race like maracas.

  Returning to my flat didn’t seem smart. My father would show up and rage. Still, I had to leave this area before Alistair tried to talk me into his way of thinking.

  I’d gone along with it before, not caring enough, but… Jenna’s comments continued to flit through my head. And the malas, my malas, I decided, had ignited some tiny spark inside me. Now a flame had flickered to life. I didn’t wish to be the foreign bride of a British aristocrat as my mother had been.

  I clutched my handbag to my chest, feeling a little lightheaded. What a bloody awful time to realize my blunders. Rain dripped down my face and into my eyes. Not a taxi in sight. I turned left and began to walk, in three-inch heels not made for traversing distances. I pulled out my phone, hoping to find a rideshare vehicle nearby that could take me to a hotel where I could regroup.

  “Need a lift?”

  I turned toward the street to find Lindsay in the back of a charming, mid-century Aston Martin painted a sparkling black, its chrome shined to gleaming. I hesitated.

  “I know you don’t trust me, and I understand why, but please, let me do this for you. Alistair’s recovered from the shock and your father…” Lindsay grimaced. “He’s the biggest asshole I’ve ever met. And that’s saying something, because I grew up with a terrible asshole.”

  My lips twitched. Lindsay opened the door, and after another second’s hesitation, I slid into the luxurious interior. I looked up, shock reverberating through my body as Lindsay gripped my burned, torn fingers.

  “Thank you. I know you didn’t tell Alistair no for me, and I know I don’t deserve anything from you, but still…thank you.”

  “You love him,” I said, shaking my head. I hadn’t thought Lindsay capable of real feeling.

  She laughed as she blinked back tears. “Since I was seven. Isn’t that ridiculous? And yes, I know that makes me an even bigger dick for crushing on Nash and being willing to take him to bed all those years ago. You need to know we never slept together—I never touched Nash again after Hugh’s party, because he didn’t want me to.”

  I remained quiet, processing. I’d ended up in a vehicle with Lindsay Herrington-Smythe, my teenage nemesis.

  As if she could read my thoughts, she said, “High school was a destructive time for me. My parents’ divorce had upended my life. Alistair and I had always been close, and suddenly, I wasn’t able to see him. I was furious and devastated. I had sex with boys I didn’t care about and who didn’t care about me. I lashed out at you. At everyone, really.” She dropped her gaze. “It’s not an excuse. I know I was wrong. And so mean. When I learned Alistair was interested in you, I assumed it was my penance, but seeing you two together…”

  Her lower lip wobbled as she raised her gaze. “I love him, and losing him devastated me. But even saying that doesn’t encompass what you and Nash had. If I hadn’t been so selfish, so willing to make others hurt just because I did, I would have realized that.”

  I extricated my aching fingers and gave my hand a shake.

  Lindsay zeroed in on the bracelet. She narrowed her eyes, but then gave a tiny nod. “Did you know Nash went straight from Vegas to a three-month rehabilitation program?” she asked.

  My stomach clenched. “I heard. From Cam Grace’s wife. She was at The Children’s Ball.”

  “Mmm. I was there—in Vegas.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Do I want to know?”

  Her smile turned rueful. “Nash hates me more than you ever could.” She hesitated but then clamped her lips shut and shook her head.

  “Tell me the rest,” I said.

  She raised an eyebrow at my tone. “Steve asked me to visit. I hoped Nash would come after you, sweep you off your feet—”

  “And you’d collect Alistair,” I finished.

  She shrugged. “That would have been ideal.”

  I clutched my purse in my lap. “Where are we going?”

  “Do you have your passport?”

  “I do,” I said. I never left my flat without it—another way to ensure independence from my father.

  Lindsay leaned in, her blue eyes wide with a fire that used to mean she planned to rip some poor girl’s self-esteem to tatters. But this seemed more tempered. Maybe I was searching for humanity where there was none. Or maybe Lindsay meant what she’d said.

  I couldn’t be sure.

  “What’s left for you here, Aya?” she asked. There was a softness to her voice I’d never heard before. “Do you even like England?”

  No, I don’t. This place had never felt like home. The last home I’d had was Austin—not just because of my relationship with Nash, but its small-town charm and big-city amenities. The place was flush with STEM jobs and ideas. The lakes and bike trails begged to be used, and the summers were hot and sunny—perfect for outdoor activities, unlike the constant gray drizzle I’d survived here.

  But that wasn’t the point. I missed Austin, but my life was here.

  Wasn’t it? Did I even have a life?

  Lindsay was tempting me. I narrowed my eyes. “Ah. With me gone, you plan to have Alistair marry you—for your inheritance. I guess that means he’s the clichéd impoverished nobleman seeking an heiress.”

  Lindsay tossed her head, the proud, obnoxious girl I’d known back in full force. “That is my plan, yes. One my father wants with more desperation than I do—the one thing we have in common. For the record, I didn’t care about Alistair’s financials until he passed me over. But yes, I’ll still marry him. Once I get him to ask me. I do think he cared for you, so his wounds are going to smart.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “His pride, you mean.”

  She smiled, a wide, genuine one that caused her eyes to sparkle. “Oh, you trampled that, and I, for one, enjoyed the show. I expect his mother to start the smear campaign on your reputation and good works by the end of the day.”

  Lindsay reached forward but dropped her hands before she touched me. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Really. I picked on you because you were different. You never seemed to fit with us, and Nash never cared.”

  He hadn’t. I was the one who’d been insecure.

  “Nash gave you that bracelet, didn’t he?” Lindsay waved her hand. “Don’t bother answering.” She pulled out a piece of lined notebook paper and offered it to me. “This is Nash’s address.” She dropped her gaze. “Hopefully the program worked, and Nash is once again in control of his faculties.”

  My pulse sped up. “Why do you have that?”

  She hesitated but once again shook her head. “Steve gave it to me.”

  “Steve?”

  Lindsay sighed. “I told you: he called and asked if I’d come to Vegas. He said Nash needed a push, and I was the best person for that job, seeing as how I’m the one who started the chain reaction.” She pinched her lips together. “As much as I hate being the villain in your story, I am, and I’m sorry.”

  I studied her, searching for deception. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  She shook her head. “Look, here’s what you have always failed to grasp about Nash Porter. He’s one of the world’s most eligible bachelors. He’s gorgeous, and he’s never been interested in a woman who isn’t you. Most of us can’t stand that. At least I couldn’t—drove me crazy that he never even looked at me. I came up with all kinds of dreadful reasons why destroying your relationship was nearly as good as having him for myself.”

  I mulled that over. “Okay, but why would you help me?”

  “Fair question. But am I really helping you? I mean, you know I want Alistair.”

  “I think you are helping me, and it’s making me uncomfortable.”

  Lindsay stared at me for a long moment. “Maybe I’m not the complete ogre you thought I was. Maybe I’ve learned some things about myself and the world. Or maybe it could be a wild goose chase, and I’ll enjoy laughing at your expense. Ah. We’re here.”

  She opened the door and ushered me out into the watery late morning. Then without another word and only the smallest of waves, she shut the door and her car pulled from the curb.

  I turned to face Heathrow Airport.

  My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out, unsurprised to find a voicemail from my father. As dread settled its heavy weight over me, I pressed the play button and stared up at the terminal. Over the drone of jets, my father’s sharp voice filled my ears.

  “Aya, if you do not return to this restaurant in the next fifteen minutes, I will disown you. I’ll tie up your money in the courts, and I will personally see to it that you’re sacked.”

  No, I never really had liked England. Maybe it was time to go home.

  I clicked off my phone and walked into the airport.

  15

  Nash

  Why had I thought being home would help me get past the restlessness that continued to itch my skin? Including my time in rehab, I was one hundred and one days sober now, and I’d celebrated earlier today at the Grace family ranch with a large slab of Mama Grace’s peach pie.

  Surrounding myself with loved ones had helped to temporarily mitigate the itchy feeling, but I’d had to pretend not to see the side-eyes filled with concern. Each time Cam, Jenna, Kate, Rye, Steve, or Mama looked at me, I’d felt the weight of their worry, the heft of their hope.

  “How’s it going, son?” Steve asked, poking his head around the wall that separated the kitchen and dining room from the expansive living room in my Austin home.

  I shivered, as I did each time he called me that, because the meaning had entirely changed. Like the word, the relationship needed time to settle on my skin and sink in.

  “It’s not.”

  “Want to watch some TV?”

  “No.”

  “Need a snack?”

  He’d taken to treating me like a toddler. I frowned but didn’t bother to lift my head from the couch cushion. “I’m good. But thanks.”

  “Well…”

  “I’ll call you if I need you.”

  “Yes, sure. Of course.”

  Awkward—just like every other interaction we’d had over the past couple of weeks. But we were talking, even if our interactions didn’t exactly rise to the level of conversation. Mainly, I suspected Steve checked in on me to ensure I was sober.

  I was, and I definitely planned to stay that way, but contentment flitted beyond my reach. I sat up and finished my glass of sparkling water. No way did I want to slide back into the oblivion, though. Even if this place hurt.

  I stared up at the coved ceiling. Not a speck of creativity had flowed through me since I got sober, no matter how long I held my guitar—a gift from Jenna and one of the finest works of craftsmanship I’d laid eyes on.

  Oh, I had songs in my head. Beck’s “Loser” was the loudest, and Radiohead’s “Creep” settled in for its say, too. But no new melody twined between them, pushing those back.

  I’d felt like this since I gave up the substances—though, honestly, I hadn’t produced much that wasn’t crap in the year before I went to rehab. I’d been disconnected from everything. But whatever the reason, I hated my inability to make something. I’d held on to the belief that I would find my muse again, but now, months after I’d admitted myself and a month since my return to life, I just felt…empty.

  It was a terrible feeling.

  Not that my loneliness was new. Those two songs had taken up residence years before and rarely left for long. And beneath them, Patti Cline twanged out “Crazy.” I was crazy because I couldn’t get over the most recent society photos from the Sunday Times early edition.

  It was one of my only clues into Aya’s life, and I tortured myself with the possibility of seeing her face—and who would be next to her. She’d been linked to multiple men since she’d left Austin, all of whom I wanted to punch in the face.

  Much too often these days, Lord Dipshit and Aya were together. I lifted my head and stared at the image spread across my coffee table: Aya wearing a beautiful, peacock blue, embroidered gown, her lovely dark waves tamed into a rich-lady updo reminiscent of my mother’s. And her hand on Lord Dipshit’s arm. I’d glared first at the photo, my shoulders relaxing a fraction when I noted the lack of a ring. But the article was three months old, as was the photo. I was still catching up on British society news—well, information about Aya. I’d flung the paper down after I’d read that “sources close to Lord Aldringham expect an engagement announcement between his eldest daughter and Lord Seymour shortly. The ensuing union would tie together two powerful families in Britain.”

  I closed my eyes. Aya marrying a lordly prick to appease her father—I never would have believed it.

  That’s what she’d become. I thought I knew her better than that. I’d been so sure she’d see through the social climbing and...what?

  Come back to me?

  That had always been my fantasy. But it wasn’t as if I’d made any move to tell her I still wanted her—no, craved her. I craved Aya Aldringham with more of a hunger than I’d ever had for the pills or powders I doused myself in.

  Not that it mattered.

  “I’m heading out, son,” Steve called.

  He rounded the corner and spread his arms. “How do I look?”

  His hair had grown out, meaning he needed product to tame the wavy mass. His eyes were sharp and hard under his thick, brown brows. His cheeks were sleek and cleanshaven, and his dark blue button-down was tucked into a nice pair of khakis—with a belt. He wore shit kickers, which kept me from completely hating on his outfit.

  I rose from the couch and swiped at the newspaper.

  “You look good. Shirt’s a good color.”

  The fuck I knew about fashion, but I did like the shirt. Steve filled it out well, and he was in better shape than me. He called it fifties fit, whatever that meant. He was mean about workouts when I didn’t fall into line with his daily torture, so I did my damnedest to stay on his good side.

  “Enjoy your night,” I said.

  I heard his boots cross the hardwood as he moved into the kitchen ahead of me.

  He stopped at the back door and cursed. “Are you expecting someone? Do I need to stick around? You could have told me. I got a hot date, and Sherry is not going to like me standing her up.”

  I stretched, trying to work the kinks out of my shoulders. “Nope. I’m not expecting anyone. You know that, seeing as only you and the Graces even know I’m back in town.”

  That probably wasn’t accurate. The media must know I was home by now, and the paps all wanted their shots of Nash Porter, post-rehab.

  I wasn’t in the mood for company. Already Steve was on my nerves just by being excited about a date. The uncaring asshole. He knew I was in a mopey stage.

  “Well, a car just pulled onto your road. I expect them at the gate…”

  The chime blared, and Steve scowled.

  I strode past him into the kitchen alcove—what used to be the butler’s pantry—where I kept one of the monitors. I looked down into the face that stared back and gripped the edge of the counter as my knees buckled.

  Unfortunately, my fingers slipped, too, thanks to the bloom of sweat that exploded on my palms and at the small of my back, temples, and upper lip. I landed hard on my ass. The air rushed out of my lungs, and my vision tunneled. At least the damn songs faded behind the ringing in my ears.

  “Nash?” Steve’s severe features appeared in front of my face. Concern morphed into trepidation as he studied me. If I looked half as bad as I felt—pale, shaky, sweaty—then I was a total mess.

  “You with me, son?”

  “Aya,” I whispered.

  “Whoa. You sure?” Steve turned toward the monitor.

  My ass ached nearly as much as my lungs. I couldn’t draw a full breath. My vision still seemed narrowed. “I told you, I—”

  “Are you going to let her in?” Steve asked, cutting me off. “Because she’s starting to look like she regrets pressing the button.”

  I rose to my feet so fast my head seemed to float away from my body, and I pressed the gate release so hard I jammed my knuckle. I was a mess.

  Sure, I’d been thinking about Ay—I always thought about her. But I wasn’t prepared to see her, talk to her...grovel at her feet. Not now, not when I was so recent from detox. Not when I was still trying to figure out how to be a real person.

  Why was she here?

  “Marry Me” by Thomas Rhett spilled through my head, followed by Lewis Capaldi’s “Before You Go.”

  That second tune suited Aya and me better. I wanted to touch her.

  I wanted to taste her mouth.

  I just wanted to hold her, soaking in her scent, the softness of her hair and the warmth of her body.

  Maybe, for the first time in years, I’d feel like I was home again.

  Why was she here? She had to hate me. She’d told me she did.

  “Get out of here,” I told Steve, making a waving motion with my arms.

  “Knocked you flat on your ass,” he mumbled. Then he clapped me on the shoulder. “Are you okay with this, son?”

  I shook him off. I’d showered recently, but I was wearing old jeans and a years-old T-shirt that had become a favorite simply because I’d had it so long. The logo was mostly faded to nothing, but it was soft, nearly threadbare in places. I looked…not my best. Not that I’d looked or felt that way in ages.