Red Clover Inn

“That’s the town where we’ll be staying. It’s west of Boston. Look it up. It’s small but it’s got to be on the map.” He paused. “I think.”

“Great, Dad.”

Greg heard the sarcasm in his son’s voice and grinned. “I’ll get back to you with details.”

When he disconnected, Greg felt both a sense of satisfaction and a sense of loss. He wished Andrew and Megan were with him now, in the quiet English countryside. He was accustomed to being apart from his kids but that didn’t mean it was easy. In some ways, they were better at dealing with his absences than he was. It was the life they knew.

He crossed the stream and continued on the dirt trail through the woods to a grassy field and finally onto a paved lane. Enjoying the quiet, the mystery of where he’d end up since he hadn’t consulted a map, he followed the lane toward the village, past fenced fields dotted with sheep and a large stone farmhouse. Dusk came late this time of year. He wasn’t concerned about getting caught in the dark too far out in the countryside.

Charlotte would be on her train by now. It would take five or six hours to get to Edinburgh. Greg supposed he could have told her about his plan to head to Knights Bridge. Maybe he should have told her, considering what he’d learned about her plans, but she’d been preoccupied with her encounter with swaggering Tommy and in a hurry to get out of there.

A rationalization for his silence, maybe, but why get her worked up? Let her get home and figure out if she wanted to change her mind about Knights Bridge. Why influence her decision?

And if she did change her mind?

Greg tried to ignore the tug of regret he felt. He was looking forward to staying with her at the abandoned inn in the same little New England town. From what he’d gathered, there was plenty of room.

“Could be fun,” he said half-aloud as the lane curved into the quaint, pretty village.

He hopped onto a low stone wall and admired the view of rolling farmland and traditional Cotswolds yellow-stone houses, breathed in the fragrant June air. He thought he smelled rain. He didn’t mind. He welcomed the prospect of rain after months in a hot, dry climate.

When he reached the pub, it was filling up with locals. Greg could have gone back to London with Brody and Heather, but he was content to sit at the bar and order a beer.

Ian Mabry drew the pint himself. “You don’t look as tired as you did last night,” the former RAF pilot said.

“Not saying much. How’s life after the military?”

“It’s grand. I’m marrying the woman of my dreams and I’m back home, here, running this place. I was ready to move on to something else.” He set the beer in front of Greg. “You’re a Foreign Service officer, aren’t you? Diplomatic Security?”

Greg nodded. “Just wrapped up an overseas assignment. I’m taking a desk in DC next.”

“Not enthusiastic?”

“I never saw it coming.”

Mabry grinned. “A promotion, then?”

Greg raised his beer. “You got it.”

“From what I hear, you’ve done everything as a DS agent. You know the ropes. You have credibility.” Ian Mabry looked as if he’d considered similar options in his day as an RAF pilot. “A promotion was inevitable, wasn’t it?”

“That’s what they say.”

“You believe you can do more good staying in the field.”

“It’s what I know.”

“You’ll bring that experience to your new job.”

“Does your background as a fighter pilot help with running a pub?”

“You’ve no idea,” Mabry said with a laugh.

Greg tried his pint, savoring the first swallow after his walk. Mabry’s upcoming marriage no doubt was making his transition from active duty to civilian life easier. Greg didn’t have family in Washington. A handful of DSS colleagues he considered friends and a few he planned to avoid or tolerate. He’d never been good playing bureaucratic games but it wasn’t that kind of desk job.

“It’s a promotion, pal,” he muttered. “Be happy.”

He finished his beer, realized he wasn’t hungry after all the wedding food and headed up to his room. As he shut the door, he heard raindrops slapping his window and then a rush of rain. He walked over to the window and opened it, welcoming the smell of the rain and the cool breeze. Rain sprayed him in the face. He smiled.

His peaceful interlude was interrupted with a text from Brody.

Back in London. You?

Chasing raindrops.

Greg?

I’m good. Quiet here. I like the rain.

Don’t agree to anything else and then forget.

Will do. Hi to Heather.

She says hi back.

That was it. The check-in to make sure he wasn’t dancing on the tables or passed out behind the bar. Greg understood. He’d arrived in England clinically exhausted, and he hadn’t covered himself in glory with his behavior last night.

Tonight would be different. He’d read a book in his room, listen to the rain and hit the sack early—and, once again, alone.

Four (#u16f08574-078b-5cce-a246-43c3ae6c6223)

Edinburgh, Scotland

Charlotte awoke early given her late bedtime, walked to a tea shop near her apartment and indulged in fresh scones, jam and cream. She’d arrived home at midnight and fallen into bed, more agitated than tired. She’d slept little on the long train north, instead reading and contemplating her life—a consequence of seeing her family, being at a wedding and the long train ride itself.

And Tommy.

She added a dollop of clotted cream to her scone. He’d had some nerve showing up at the wedding and then confronting her, but he’d never been good at reading social cues. She remained convinced he’d sought her out at the pub deliberately to get under her skin. Even if it hadn’t been his intent when he’d stopped at the wedding, he hadn’t been able to resist the temptation.

The scone was perfect, just what she needed. The nightmare that had been her brief, volatile relationship with Tommy Ferguson was behind her, and good riddance to it. She drank some of her tea. Still no hint of a headache. If her encounter with Tommy hadn’t triggered one, then maybe she was done with that particular fallout from her diving accident.

Weddings being what they were for her these days, she felt unsettled, self-conscious and slightly awkward, as if she’d done something wrong. She wasn’t usually introspective. If she had to have dreams tonight, she preferred them to be about Greg Rawlings and his taut abs, but she’d thought about him enough in the past thirty-six hours.

She’d booked her flights while on the train. She’d leave tomorrow for a two-week stay in the United States. She’d arrive in and leave from Boston but could easily change her return date or departure city and absorb any penalties. In addition to spending time in Knights Bridge, she’d fit in a trip to Washington to see about Max’s house. She had no firm schedule. That was new to her, but she tried to think of it as liberating rather than unnerving.

She took a meandering route back to her New Town apartment. A Samantha Bennett–Justin Sloan kind of love wasn’t in the cards for everyone. Any uncertainty she’d had about their relationship had evaporated yesterday. Unexpected and unconventional they might be, but Charlotte didn’t doubt that she’d be congratulating her cousin and her husband on their anniversary for decades to come. She didn’t want to believe she’d had her one chance at true love and had blown it by picking the wrong man, but she knew, deep down, that was exactly what she believed.

“Doesn’t matter,” she whispered to herself.