Stunning doesn’t sound just-friendly, but I like it. “It’s not that fancy. I’m just trying to help you make a good impression.”

  “Oh, you’ve definitely made one,” he says, and oh my, did he just go there?

  I don’t mind that he did.

  But I’m also not entirely sure if we should be playing these flirty games, so I gesture to his light-blue button-down. “We both look proper. You look nice too.”

  “I aim to please,” he playfully responds, and we call a Lyft.

  Inside the car, I ask about Tom, his recently engaged friend.

  “We’ve become pretty good buds through our running group,” he says as we swing past the park. “It’s my relatively new hobby.”

  “New, as in, post-divorce?”

  “Yes. Try not to be blown away by the coolness of it. But yup. I needed to do something to get out of the house. Turns out, Tom was doing it for the same reason—a little distraction after his last marriage ended.”

  I touch his hand, linger there, solely to offer him comfort.

  For no other reason, of course.

  “It sounds like you were trying to make the best of things,” I say.

  “I suppose that’s a fair way of looking at it,” Sam says, and he glances down at our hands, still touching, before looking up to meet my eyes once more. “Tom’s a cool guy. His family is crazy rich, so the engagement party’s going to be insane. I can’t imagine what the wedding will be like.”

  I arch a brow. “He must love her a lot—to trust in love again after a divorce.”

  “He does.” He shrugs, his eyes vulnerable. “Sometimes love doesn’t work out. But then you get a second chance.”

  “This stuff’s always hard, isn’t it?” I ask, a little wistfully, as the car slows at a light. “Engagement parties and weddings. After you’ve . . . gone through a breakup. They were hard for me right after my last one, anyway.”

  “When was that?” Sam asks softly.

  “A while ago now. Jeremy was great . . . until I found out he was seeing someone on the side,” I say, then shrug.

  “He’s a fool.” Sam shakes his head. “What an idiot.”

  I shrug. “He was, but he also helped me realize what’s important to me. I want a man I can trust. Someone who’s easy to talk to.”

  Someone like you, I almost add, but hold myself back. Where did that thought even come from?

  “But enough about me,” I say, ready to change the topic. “Are you okay? With going to the engagement party today?”

  For a moment, Sam stares out the window. I wonder if I’ve gone too far, but then he smiles. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m better since you’re here.”

  He turns his palm up and laces our fingers together. The simple act sends shivers all up and down my body.

  Alarm bells go off again, warning me to keep this friendly. But I don’t entirely want to listen.

  Especially as I drink him in. His sharp jawline. The way he runs his hands through his dark hair. The way his eyes light up when he talks.

  The way he makes me feel safe.

  Then, of course, there’s the fact that his hand still lingers on mine.

  He glances down at it and then at me. For a moment, all I can do is look into his eyes.

  The eyes of a thoughtful, funny, single man.

  The car pulls to a halt at Roehampton Club, jolting us out of the moment. Probably for the best.

  We duck out of the car, and as Sam flashes me a grin, my stomach flips.

  Deliciously.

  And dangerously.

  Warning me that I need to be cautious.

  Because I’ve been burned, and I don’t want to go through that again.

  Roehampton Club is covered in beautiful greens with flower beds dotted throughout. A bar is set up on one end, and Sam and I head over to order drinks. On our way, a stunning woman with glossy blonde curls and a short white dress stops Sam to say hi.

  “And who is this lovely lady with you?” the blonde asks with a knowing glance.

  “This, Lily, is my good friend, Maeve,” he says. “And, Maeve, this is Lily, Tom’s fiancée.”

  “Congratulations. I’m so happy for you,” I say, shaking her hand as she beams.

  “Maeve’s also in the bar industry,” Sam says. “She owns The Magpie.”

  “I know that place. I was there a few weeks ago. Had the most delicious martini. The place was packed, but your bartenders were fast and polite,” Lily says.

  “That makes me very happy to hear,” I say.

  Sam beams. “The place is packed every night, and she runs it like it’s nothing.”

  I blush, and as I’m about to talk up Sam’s bar, a tall, broad-shouldered man comes over and gives Sam a big bear hug.

  “This is Tom,” Sam explains, and Tom pulls me into an equally crushing hug.

  “So glad you could make it,” Tom says. “Make yourself at home. Enjoy the food.” He stops to press a kiss to Lily’s cheek and she smiles at him adoringly, clearly over-the-moon in love. “I need to steal this beautiful lady away. Lots of people to say hi to.”

  After they leave, Sam and I wander through the crowds, nibbling on the crab-stuffed mushrooms and spring rolls. He keeps me laughing with jokes and stories from his American childhood. We drink pinot grigio as he tells me about the major differences between Los Angeles and New York, saying that Los Angeles has better views, but New York has more honest people, and then saying London’s a perfect mix of the two. We even talk about Dean and how we think he’s fitting into American life.

  “He’s probably disgusted by parts of New York,” Sam says. “All that greasy pizza.”

  I laugh. “You make him sound like such a stick-in-the-mud! He ran a bar. He’s not afraid of grease.”

  “You don’t know grease—not until you’ve had New York pizza.”

  “Maybe you’ll have to show me sometime,” I say.

  Sam smiles. “Maybe I will.”

  Perhaps it’s the wine, but that sensible part of me—pragmatic, smart Maeve—is quickly losing out to the Maeve who’s been laughing all day with Sam. Before I can respond, the DJ starts up with toasts to the happy couple. Soon enough, he’s calling everyone to the dance floor, and Sam stands and extends his hand to me.

  “How about a dance?”

  The prospect sends tingles down my spine, and it’s the tingles that sound those warning bells again. Laughing is one thing. Shivers are another. Shivers leads to more, and more could lead to heartbreak.

  Correction: tingles and shivers could lead to more, but they don’t have to. I’m only agreeing to a dance. Nothing wrong with that. Hell, there’s nothing wrong with any of this.

  This is just a dance.

  And dance is what we do.

  Sam leads me to the floor by the hand, but there’s a fast song playing, which is perfect. It’s all fun and games and whirling and laughing. We get our groove on for two more songs before the DJ switches it up with a slower tune.

  A couple’s tune.

  I sense more than see Sam’s questioning look. No pressure, just wondering. I’m not sure I’m ready for his arms around me, even in public.

  So, I fan my face and say, “I’m parched. Ready for a break?”

  He nods, not seeming to think anything of it. “I’ll get us drinks. Meet you at the table?”

  “I’m just going to nip over to the ladies’ first.”

  While I’m there, I eye my flushed face in the mirror. Get a grip, Maeve. I’m having fun, flirting with that sexy American man. Why balk at a slow dance? People dance at parties.

  I feel safe with him. No pressure. So, the question isn’t so much can I trust him, but can I trust myself?

  Back at the table, Sam has snagged us some cake along with our drinks. Later, he takes me home, and he’s quite proper as he wishes me goodnight.

  A blip—more than a blip—of disappointment surprises me. I wouldn’t have minded an improper goodbye.

  4

  Maeve

  A few days after the engagement party, a bouquet of flowers arrives for me at The Magpie.

  I eye them curiously, and the note too.

  Maeve,

  Thank you for suffering through that with me. It might be the most fun I’ve ever had at a required social gathering.

  Yours, Sam

  How did he know about the sunflowers? It’s not as if I’ve broadcasted that they’re my favorite. How could he know that they remind me of summer days and fresh starts?

  I text Dean immediately. He’s the only one I’ve told about my love of sunflowers—I gushed to him about getting them for the opening of The Magpie.

  Maeve: Did you tell him?

  Dean: Tell who what?

  I bet I can imagine his face right now. Hell, I don’t need to imagine it. I FaceTime him, and immediately, a satisfied-looking Dean shows up on my screen. Looks like he’s at his new bar—The Pub.

  “Maeve, I’m about to—”

  I don’t let him finish. “You told him, didn’t you? About these?”

  I flip the screen so he can see the sunflowers, and then I flip back to me. Dean dares to look innocent. Not just pretending-to-look-innocent either. Actually innocent.

  “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Is that so?”

  Dean eyes me closely. “Wait a minute. Are those from a guy? Are you dating?”

  “No,” I say. “Sam sent these. As a thank you for going to his friend’s party.”

  Dean laughs. “So you are dating.”

  I roll my eyes. “Never mind. What’re you up to?”

  “I’m sorting some deliveries here. Want to see?”

  “I do,” I say, and he shows me around The Pub.

  “It looks great.” Truly it does, but I also love seeing him so happy.

  But I still have my sunflower mystery to solve.

  “And you didn’t tell him about the flowers?”

  “I swear I didn’t. I don’t have that much of a cupid in me. Plus, some men, you know, remember things about the people they like.”

  I hum, kind of doubtful, then say goodbye.

  I pace around The Magpie.

  Sam could have gotten lucky. They’re a popular flower, after all. But most men will send roses. These flowers . . . they’re bright, joyful. So much like Sam.

  I get out my phone, snap a picture, and send it to him. Then I type out a quick text.

  Maeve: Thank you for these. How’d you know they’re my favorite?

  Sam: Good! I was hoping that hadn’t changed. You mentioned it a while back. Something about the way they make everything seem just a little lighter and new again, right?

  The memory comes back to me all of a sudden. Sam, Naveen, Anya, Dean—all of us walking along the Thames last summer. We talked about our perfect Sunday, and I’d casually mentioned that every Sunday should start with fresh flowers.

  Sunflowers, in particular.

  For exactly the reason he’d said.

  But that was almost a year ago. How in the world had he remembered?

  Sam: It always stuck with me. Now, I can’t see a sunflower without thinking about you.

  And that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

  Maeve: You have a great memory. Really, thank you. I don’t know how I’ll make it up to you after the charity event. Somehow I don’t think it would be the same if I sent you sunflowers.

  For a minute, the bouncing dots keep appearing and disappearing on my screen. Then, finally, a message pops up.

  Sam: You could wear those yoga pants again.

  I laugh.

  Maeve: The yoga pants really do it for you, huh?

  Sam: Or jeans. Or anything, actually. I’m not really particular. You look good in everything, Maeve.

  Maeve: You do too.

  I want to keep flirting. But I’m still so wary. What if we are better off as friends? What if flirting leads to dating and it changes the whole dynamic, not just between us but in our circle of friends?

  What if we don’t like dating as much as we like being friends? There’s no reset button. Even if we don’t crash and burn, things can never be precisely the same.

  I don’t keep him hanging on a typing bubble while I think about all this. In fact, I dwell on it for a day, and then two.

  I talk to Sierra, ask her advice over FaceTime.

  “Is it crazy to date a friend?”

  She whistles, low and worried. “You might be asking the wrong person.”

  “And why is that?”

  She sighs, a sound both frustrated and wistful. “There’s this guy . . . he’s my brother’s good friend and teammate. And I might, just might, have it bad for him. And he’s a friend of mine. So it’s very complicated.”

  “So stay away? That’s your verdict?”

  She laughs. “I’m not sure I can. What about you?”

  That’s a very good question.

  I’m not sure I can either when it comes to Sam.

  I mull the issue over more while business runs, while Sam and I exchange texts not just about terrible drink orders but more, and while my day starts to feel incomplete if I don’t have a string of messages in our text thread by evening.

  I’m a busy woman. I run my own business, and it takes up a lot of my time. I don’t have time for one-night stands, particularly with men who throw around sleazy pickup lines and eye-fuck my boobs.

  But Sam’s not a one-night stand. He’s gorgeous. Sweet. Smart. Funny. Kind.

  It’s time to throw caution to the wind, starting with the return favor “date” Sam and I have lined up. It will mean exposing myself—sharing with him a part of me not many other people see.

  But it’s worth it. He’s worth it.

  It’s time to expose myself to trouble.

  * * *

  The day of the Night for Lost Stars benefit, I set out for St. James’ Park. I need fresh air and flowers and my favorite bench in my favorite spot.

  Rows of yellow and orange blooms mix with blue and white ones, the petals dancing gaily in the breeze. Their beauty makes it harder to be sad, which is why I came.

  Across from the bench where I sit, a white pelican zooms across the lake. Dad was the one who first brought me here, and he loved to point out the pelicans and tell me about how they’ve lived here for almost four hundred years. It was one of his favorite places, and now it’s mine too.

  I can do this tonight.

  I can tell Sam.

  I can trust Sam with this vulnerable piece of me.

  I head home from the park and shower. I twist my hair up into a chignon and choose some chandelier earrings that brush my neck. After some consideration, I pick out a violet dress with a slit up the side. As I swipe on some lipstick, my phone buzzes with a familiar ringtone.

  “Hey, Mum,” I say. “How’re you?”

  “Are you still at home? I thought you’d be on your way already.”

  I laugh. “It’s not for a few hours. Don’t worry. I’ll be there on time.”

  “Does it really start so late? Seems like it was earlier when I went with you.”

  I roll my eyes. “Same time, Mum.”

  “There’s something I want you to bid on,” she says.

  “I’m guessing you’ve been trolling the website since they announced the items?”

  “You make it sound like a bad thing,” she says. “I’m just being strategic. Now, there’s a guitar I want. Signed by Ed Sheeran.”

  “Mum, that’ll go for thousands of pounds,” I say. “Some hedge fund manager will snag it.”

  “Hope springs eternal. You never know,” she says.

  “I’m pretty sure hope won’t nab us the guitar. But if it makes you happy, I’ll bid.”

  “Just for fun. And fun is good, right?”

  I smile. “Fun is definitely good.”

  We chat some more about events in the past, then I say goodbye and hang up, holding the phone to my chest and thinking about fun, about good times.

  Thinking about letting Sam in on this part of my life.

  I take in a breath just as my doorbell rings.

  Sam’s here.

  The timing seems prophetic.

  I pull on my heels and grab my clutch. On the way out, I glance at myself in the mirror. Tendrils of hair frame my face, and not even an eyelash is out of place.

  I’m ready.

  Sam meets me at the door looking insanely sexy in a fitted suit. He sees me and whistles.

  “Damn,” he says. “This is how you should dress all the time.”

  I laugh. “Likewise. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you in a suit.”

  “Get used to it,” he says. “If I have to wear this to get you to wear that, then suits are my new wardrobe.”

  “You’re impossible,” I say.

  “And endlessly entertaining.”

  Sam’s Lyft is still waiting as we reach the sidewalk. He opens the back door for me, and we slide in.

  “I’m glad you liked the sunflowers,” he says earnestly, and as I thank him again, meeting his gaze, we share a moment, something unspoken passing between us. “Did they make things seem lighter for you?”

  Tha-thunk. My heart beats double time. “They did. They do,” I reply, speaking the truth.

  Time stretches out between us. Energy crackles like a live wire, sparking and spinning, and his lips, my God, I want to kiss them.

  The car brakes to a jerky stop in traffic. The moment passes, gone.

  Sam clears his throat. “So, what’s this event tonight about? What’re we saving? Animals? Babies?”

  I don’t answer right away. I take a breath first, wishing there weren’t another person here. Still, our driver hasn’t so much as glanced back since we got in, so I shouldn’t use him as an excuse.

  Time for honesty.

  “It’s to support ALS research, actually,” I say. Prickles of hurt spike the backs of my eyes, but I blink them away. It hurts—God, it’ll always hurt—but maybe time has started to work its magic. “Which . . . my dad died from.”