Was it all a lie?

~Jasper~

I was driving too fast.

I knew it. I could feel it in the way the car clung to every bend, in the hard pull of the steering wheel beneath my hands, in the blurred streaks of white and red lights sliding past the windows. The speedometer had climbed well beyond anything reasonable for the wet London streets, but I couldn’t seem to make my foot ease off the accelerator.

Rain struck the windscreen in relentless sheets. The wipers swept it aside only for more to replace it a second later, matching the furious rhythm of my thoughts.

My father’s voice still filled my head.

Cold. Controlled. Certain.

As if the decision had already been made and my presence at the dinner table had been nothing more than a formality.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel until the leather creaked beneath my palms.

Another family dinner.

Another carefully prepared speech about duty, legacy and the responsibilities I had apparently been born owing to people who had died centuries before me.

Another evening spent being reminded that my life did not truly belong to me.

The traffic light ahead changed from green to amber. I accelerated through it before it turned red, earning an angry blast from the horn of a taxi pulling out behind me.

“Go to hell,” I muttered, though the driver couldn’t hear me.

The anger wasn’t aimed at him.

It had nowhere useful to go.

It had been sitting beneath my ribs from the moment I entered my parents’ dining room in Belgravia and saw the papers arranged beside my father’s plate. Even then, I had known the meal wasn’t really a meal. My parents never placed documents on the table unless they intended to corner someone with them.

Usually me.

The dining room had been warm, pristine and suffocating. Silver gleamed beneath the chandelier. The long table could have seated fourteen people comfortably, but that evening there had been only four of us: my father at one end, my mother at his right, Thomas opposite me, and me in the chair that had always seemed positioned less for comfort than interrogation.

Thomas had been unusually quiet.

That should have warned me.

My father waited until the first course had been cleared before he rested one hand over the papers and looked directly at me.

“The board has approved the redevelopment proposal.”

I had put down my wine glass without drinking from it.

“What redevelopment proposal?”

His expression barely shifted.

“The Ashbury site.”

For one suspended second, I had been certain I had misheard him.

The Ashbury school had been abandoned for nearly two decades. The roof required extensive repairs, the west wing had suffered water damage and most of the original windows would need to be restored by hand. It was precisely the sort of building my father considered a financial inconvenience.

It was also the project I had spent nearly a year trying to save.

I had drawn the first restoration plans myself. I had met with structural engineers, preservation officers and members of the local council. I had walked through those empty classrooms and imagined shelves filled with books, workshops held in the old assembly hall, children reading beneath the tall windows instead of another gated development rising in its place.

The building could become something again.

Not a monument to wealth.

Something useful.

“You told me the final decision wouldn’t be made until next month,” I had said.

“The numbers made the decision quite simple.”

“The numbers aren’t the point.”

“To you, perhaps.”

My father’s tone had remained maddeningly calm.

I could still see him now: Charles Edmund Sterling, Eleventh Earl of Westmere, seated at the head of the table as though the title gave him authority over every breath taken beneath his roof. His dark suit had been immaculate. His expression had carried that particular mixture of disappointment and patience he reserved for conversations in which he believed I would eventually accept that he was right.

“What exactly has been approved?” I had asked, although I already knew I wasn’t going to like the answer.

“The property will be sold. The buyers intend to demolish the existing structure and construct luxury residences.”

The words had landed harder than they should have.

Not because I was surprised.

Because some stubborn, idiotic part of me had believed I might finally convince him that value could mean something other than profit.

“You agreed to sell it without speaking to me.”

“I was under no obligation to ask your permission.”

“It was my project.”

“It was your distraction.”

Thomas had lifted his eyes from his plate. My mother had released a quiet breath.

“Charles,” she had said softly.

My father ignored her.

“You have spent enough time indulging this fixation,” he continued. “The company requires your full attention. There are decisions that cannot continue to be postponed simply because you would rather wander through derelict buildings with a sketchbook.”

I had leaned back in my chair and stared at him.

That single sentence contained everything he thought of the work I loved.

An indulgence.

A fixation.

A childish refusal to grow into the role he had selected for me before I was old enough to understand what a title was.

“I’m not postponing anything,” I said. “I attend the meetings you insist I attend. I review the projects you send me. I have done everything you’ve asked.”

“You do the minimum required of you while making it perfectly clear that you resent every moment.”

“Because I do.”

My mother’s cutlery touched her plate with a delicate sound.

“Jasper.”

There had been a warning in her tone.

I had ignored it.

My father folded his hands before him.

“You are twenty-six years old. It is long past time you stopped behaving as though responsibility is something being inflicted upon you.”

I laughed once, without humour.

“What would you call it?”

“Your inheritance.”

“I don’t want it.”

Silence spread across the table.

Not shocked silence. We had travelled this road too many times for that.

It was the heavy, exhausted silence of people who had repeated the same argument for years and still believed saying it louder might change the ending.

My father’s eyes hardened.

“What you want is no longer the only consideration.”

“It has never been a consideration.”

“That is not true,” my mother said.

I looked at her.

Elizabeth Sterling had perfected the art of appearing gentle while placing a hand over the lock of a cage. She never issued commands the way my father did. She reasoned. She softened. She spoke of family and love until resistance sounded like cruelty.

“You have been allowed considerable freedom,” she continued. “More than most men in your position.”

Allowed.

As though freedom had been a privilege temporarily granted by them.

“I didn’t realise I needed permission to decide what to do with my own life.”

“You are not an ordinary man,” my father said.

“No. You’ve made certain I never forget that.”

His jaw tightened.

“You are Viscount Halston. One day, you will be the Earl of Westmere. Sterling Estates will be yours. Westmere Hall will be yours. Thousands of people depend, directly or indirectly, on this family’s decisions. You do not have the luxury of pretending none of it exists.”

“I’m not pretending it doesn’t exist. I’m saying I don’t want to lead it.”

“And I am saying that wanting is irrelevant.”

I had glanced at Thomas then.

He was twenty-two, four years younger than me, and already more comfortable in that world than I had ever been. He understood the rules of it. He knew how to sit through endless dinners without looking trapped, how to speak to investors without wanting to tear off his tie, how to accept my father’s instructions without treating each one as a personal challenge.

Thomas wasn’t weak.

He wasn’t stupid.

And I did not resent him.

If anything, part of me envied the ease with which he seemed to fit into the shape our family demanded.

“You have Thomas,” I said.

Thomas’s head snapped up.

My father’s expression turned glacial.

“Thomas is not the heir.”

“He’s better at half of this than I am, and he actually enjoys it.”

“Jasper,” Thomas said quietly.

“This has nothing to do with Thomas’s abilities,” my father said. “The line of succession is not arranged according to personal preference.”

“Then perhaps that is the problem.”

My father pushed his chair back slightly.

“You were not born to repair crumbling buildings, Jasper. You were born to inherit an empire.”

I had stared at him across the polished table.

At the man who could look at an abandoned school and see the price of the land beneath it.

At the man who could look at his eldest son and see nothing except the title he would one day carry.

“That empire is yours,” I said. “I never asked for it.”

My mother closed her eyes briefly.

Thomas looked between us.

My father’s face went completely still.

“You speak as though this family has done nothing but burden you.”

“You want honesty? Fine. Most days, that is exactly what it feels like.”

“Everything you possess exists because of this family.”

“I know.”

“The education you received. The opportunities you were given. The doors your name opened—”

“I know.”

“Then perhaps you might attempt gratitude instead of behaving like a spoiled child who has been denied a hobby.”

The word sliced through what remained of my restraint.

“A hobby?”

“You heard me.”

“I have spent years studying architectural conservation. I have worked beside engineers, restorers and craftsmen who know more about those buildings than any person sitting on your board. But because the work doesn’t produce the kind of profit you respect, you call it a hobby.”

“I call it what it is.”

“No. You call it what you need it to be so you can dismiss it.”

“Enough,” my mother said, more firmly this time.

But neither of us stopped.

My father reached for the next document.

“And since we are discussing the future, there are further matters that require your attention.”

I knew immediately what he meant.

I gave a humourless smile.

“Of course there are.”

“You will attend the Ashbourne Foundation gala next month.”

“No.”

“You were not asked.”

“I’m still not going.”

“Victoria will be there.”

Thomas shifted in his chair.

My mother watched me carefully.

I leaned back, disbelief replacing some of my anger.

“So that’s what this is. You destroy my project, order me into the company and arrange my social calendar in the same conversation.”

“No one is arranging anything,” my mother said. “Victoria is an old friend.”

“Then she can remain one.”

“Her family has been close to ours for generations,” my father said. “She understands the demands of your position.”

“And that makes her what? A suitable breeding arrangement?”

“Do not be vulgar.”

“Then stop discussing my life as though you’re negotiating another property acquisition.”

My father rose from his chair.

So did I.

Thomas said my name, but I barely heard him.

“Sit down,” my father ordered.

“No.”

“This conversation is not finished.”

“It is for me.”

“You will not walk away from me.”

I had looked at him, the anger inside me so sharp it had almost become calm.

“Watch me.”

Then I had left.

Now, as I drove through the rain, the scene repeated itself in fragments.

My father’s voice.

My mother’s measured defence.

Thomas’s uneasy silence.

The papers on the table declaring that the Ashbury school—the building I had imagined filled with light and books and people—would be reduced to rubble because luxury flats offered a better return.

My knuckles ached from gripping the wheel.

I pressed harder on the accelerator.

The engine responded instantly, surging forward as the road opened ahead of me. Rainwater sprayed from beneath the tyres. Buildings passed in streaks of pale stone and glowing windows.

For several reckless seconds, the speed felt good.

Simple.

There was only the road, the engine and the illusion that if I moved quickly enough, I might outrun the life waiting behind me.

Then the rear of the car shifted slightly over a slick patch of road.

Not much.

Barely enough to matter.

But enough to snap something back into place inside my head.

I corrected the wheel, eased off the accelerator and released a breath through my teeth.

“Brilliant,” I muttered.

I was furious, not suicidal.

And the strangers driving through London had not volunteered to become collateral damage in another argument between Charles Sterling and his disappointing heir.

At the next opportunity, I turned off the main road and continued more slowly through Bloomsbury. The streets were quieter there, softened by rain and the late hour. Reflections trembled across the black pavement beneath streetlamps. Umbrellas hurried past in pairs, their owners bent against the weather, while buses moved through the intersections like great illuminated shadows.

My anger had not faded.

It had simply become too heavy to carry at speed.

I found a place to pull over and switched off the engine.

Silence settled inside the car, broken only by the rain tapping against the roof.

For a moment, I remained behind the wheel.

My chest rose and fell too quickly. My hands were still wrapped around the steering wheel. In the darkened windscreen, I could see the vague reflection of my own face—tight jaw, damp hair fallen forward, eyes that looked as tired as I felt.

Viscount Halston.

Future Earl of Westmere.

Heir to an empire I had never asked to inherit.

I hated how impressive it sounded when spoken aloud.

I hated even more how little it resembled the man I wanted to be.

Thomas would have handled the evening differently. He would have listened. He might have disagreed, but he would have done it without turning dinner into a battlefield.

My younger brother understood compromise.

I understood doors slamming behind me.

That did not mean my father was right.

It did not mean I would surrender the rest of my life because centuries of dead Sterlings had decided the eldest son belonged to the family before he belonged to himself.

I pushed open the car door.

Cold rain struck me immediately.

I had left the house without a coat, wearing only a black hoodie, and the fabric offered little protection. Within moments, water gathered in my hair and slipped down the back of my neck.

I locked the car and began walking.

I had no destination in mind.

That was the point.

For once, I didn’t want to know where I was expected to be.

The September night was colder than it had seemed from behind the windscreen. Wind moved between the buildings and caught against my wet clothes. I shoved my hands into my pockets and walked along the pavement, past shuttered shops and darkened upper windows.

The city felt different in the rain.

Quieter, despite the distant traffic.

More honest somehow.

Water polished the pavements and blurred the lights, stripping London of its sharp edges. A bicycle rushed past, its tyres hissing over the wet road. Somewhere behind me, a door opened and released a brief burst of laughter before closing again.

I kept walking.

My anger slowly drained, leaving exhaustion in its place.

By the time I reached Lamb’s Conduit Street, the soaked fabric of my hoodie clung uncomfortably to my back, and a shiver ran through me hard enough to make my shoulders tense.

Most of the businesses were closed.

Their signs were dark, chairs stacked behind windows, doors locked against the rain.

Then I noticed a pool of warm light farther down the street.

A small café still had its lights on.

Above the window, the sign read:

THE QUIET CHAPTER

Books and coffee.

The sort of place my father would probably describe as charming while calculating how much the building could earn if it were converted into private offices.

I stopped beneath the narrow awning and wiped rain from my face.

The interior light glowed through the glass, soft and inviting against the cold street. It was late enough that the place should have been closed, but the lights were still burning.

Another shiver moved through me.

For the first time that evening, the choice before me was entirely my own.

I reached for the door.

The bell above the door gave a soft, tired chime as I stepped inside.

Warmth met me first.

It settled over my rain-soaked clothes and cold skin, carrying with it the scent of coffee, old paper and something faintly sweet—vanilla, perhaps, or whatever had been baked there earlier that day. After the sharp wind and relentless rain outside, the place felt almost unreal. A small pocket of light hidden behind glass while the rest of London drowned in darkness.

I closed the door behind me and stood still for a moment, allowing my eyes to adjust.

The café was empty.

At least, it appeared to be.

Small wooden tables filled the front half of the room, each surrounded by mismatched chairs that somehow belonged together despite looking as though they had been collected from half a dozen different houses. Warm amber lamps hung above them, casting pools of soft light over scratched tabletops and abandoned sugar bowls. Along the walls, tall wooden shelves climbed almost to the ceiling, packed with books of every size and colour.

Some stood neatly arranged.

Others were stacked horizontally wherever space allowed, as though the shelves had long ago surrendered any hope of order.

A few worn armchairs occupied the corners, one beside a narrow window streaked with rain. Handwritten cards had been placed between the books, offering recommendations in different styles of ink. Near the counter, a chalkboard listed coffee, tea and cakes beneath the words Today’s Favourites.

The whole place felt lived in.

Warm.

Safe.

Nothing like the sterile elegance of my parents’ house.

I wiped a hand over my wet hair and glanced toward the counter.

No one.

There was a half-filled bucket on the floor, a cloth draped over the edge of the sink and several chairs already turned upside down on top of the tables nearest the back. Whoever worked there was clearly in the middle of closing.

I should have left.

The sign on the door might still have said open, but the place was obviously done for the night. I had no desire to become the sort of entitled bastard who walked into a business seconds before closing and expected everyone to rearrange their evening around him.

Then another shiver ran through me.

I looked at the rain hammering against the window.

Leaving immediately became considerably less appealing.

“Hello?”

My voice carried farther than I expected through the quiet café.

There was a sudden thud from behind the counter.

A second later, someone rose from beneath it.

I took an instinctive step back.

She did too.

For one brief, ridiculous moment, we simply stared at each other.

She had been crouched down, evidently placing something on a lower shelf, and my voice had startled her badly enough that she almost struck her head on the underside of the counter. One hand flew to her chest as she straightened, her dark eyes widening.

“Oh my God.”

I couldn’t help it.

I laughed.

Not a polite breath of amusement. An actual laugh, sudden and unguarded, pulled from somewhere that had remained untouched throughout the entire evening.

Her expression changed immediately.

The surprise disappeared, replaced by a narrow-eyed look that informed me she did not find the situation nearly as entertaining as I did.

“I’m glad one of us is enjoying this,” she said.

“I’m sorry.”

I wasn’t.

Or, at least, not entirely.

She stared at me for another second, clearly deciding whether I was worth the effort of answering, and that gave me enough time to properly look at her.

My amusement faded.

Christ.

The first thing I noticed was her eyes.

They were dark brown, deep enough to appear almost black in the warm light, framed by thick lashes that made them look larger than they were. They were still fixed on me with the remnants of alarm and mild irritation, but there was something softer beneath both. Something quiet and observant.

She was beautiful.

Not in the cold, immaculate way of the women my mother placed beside me at charity dinners and family events. There was nothing rehearsed about her. No carefully perfected expression, no awareness of how she ought to stand or which angle best displayed her face.

She was simply there.

And somehow that was far more distracting.

An extraordinary amount of dark brown hair surrounded her face and spilled over her shoulders. Thick curls fell almost to her waist, slightly untidy from the long day, catching warmer shades wherever the light touched them. A few strands had escaped across one cheek, and she pushed them back impatiently as she continued studying me.

The movement drew my attention to her face.

Her skin was pale and clear, warmed slightly across the cheeks. Her features were delicate without making her look fragile, and her lips were naturally full, soft and unsmiling.

My gaze stayed there a fraction too long.

I forced it back to her eyes.

That did not help.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

I glanced behind me at the door.

“The sign says you’re open.”

Her gaze shifted toward it, and something resembling annoyance crossed her face.

“I told him that lock sticks.”

“To whom?”

“My boss.”

“Should I be concerned that your first instinct was to blame him rather than welcome a customer?”

“You came in while I was under the counter and nearly made me crack my head open.”

“That’s a fair point.”

She folded her arms.

The movement caused the oversized rust-coloured cardigan she wore to shift over her shoulders. Beneath it was a short black dress with thin straps and a fitted bodice, the front drawn together with a line of small black laces. It narrowed around her waist before spreading softly over her hips.

I looked away before my attention became too obvious.

Or before she noticed that it already had.

The cardigan fell almost to the hem of her dress, loose enough to make her appear wrapped in warmth, but it did very little to hide the shape beneath it. The dress followed the full curve of her breasts and drew inward at a narrow waist before settling over rounded hips. Black tights covered her legs, disappearing into heavy lace-up boots that looked practical enough for standing behind a counter all day.

There was an appealing contradiction to her.

Soft curls and dark eyes.

A small black dress and heavy boots.

A mouth made for smiling and an expression suggesting she might throw me back into the rain if I inconvenienced her.

I had known her for less than a minute, and already I found myself wanting to see which side of her would win.

“Can I get a coffee?” I asked.

Her eyes moved over me, from my wet hair to the dark hoodie dripping quietly onto the wooden floor.

Then she looked toward the coffee machine.

“The machine is already clean.”

I followed her gaze.

It stood on the counter behind her, polished and silent.

“It still appears to be working.”

Her head turned slowly back toward me.

For one second, she said nothing.

Then she pointed toward the entrance.

“So does the door. You’re welcome to use it.”

The laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

Again.

Her eyebrows lifted, but this time I thought I saw the faintest movement at the corner of her mouth.

“You’re very hospitable,” I said.

“We pride ourselves on it.”

“I can tell.”

“You arrived after closing.”

“The door was unlocked.”

“I’m aware of that now.”

“And the lights were on.”

“I need light to clean.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“Thank you.”

“But it does create a rather misleading impression.”

She stared at me.

I smiled.

For the first time, her mouth betrayed her. The corners twitched upward before she pressed them together, trying to suppress it.

The small victory pleased me far more than it should have.

Then her gaze dropped to my clothes again.

I saw the precise moment her irritation softened.

Perhaps it was the water still dripping from my hair. Perhaps it was the fact that my hoodie was completely soaked and clinging to my skin. Or perhaps I looked as cold as I felt, because her eyes lingered on me for a moment before she released a quiet sigh.

“I’m not making coffee.”

“I believe you’ve established that.”

“I can make tea.”

I tilted my head.

“Tea?”

“It’s hot. You’re clearly freezing. And unlike the coffee machine, the kettle won’t need to be cleaned again because you have terrible timing.”

I smiled at her.

“That sounds almost kind.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

She turned away before I could see whether she was smiling.

“I have English breakfast, Earl Grey, peppermint and chamomile.”

“English breakfast.”

“At this hour?”

“Is there a time limit on tea now?”

“There is if you plan on sleeping tonight.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

She glanced back at me over her shoulder.

Her lashes lowered slightly, and for the briefest second, I forgot what we were discussing.

She had no idea what that look did to her face.

Or to me.

“English breakfast, then,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“You can sit down.”

“I’m dripping.”

“I noticed.”

“I’d rather not destroy your furniture.”

She looked toward the floor beneath me.

A small puddle had already formed around my shoes.

“It may be too late to save the floor.”

“I’ll pay for the damage.”

“That would be a very expensive cup of tea.”

“I’ve had worse.”

She gave me a curious look, but instead of asking what I meant, she turned toward the kettle.

I remained near the counter for a moment, watching her move.

It was difficult not to.

She reached for a ceramic teapot from a shelf above her head, rising slightly onto the toes of her heavy boots. The movement caused the cardigan to slide farther down one shoulder, revealing the thin strap of her dress and the pale curve of skin beneath it.

My eyes followed the line before I stopped myself.

She set the teapot down and gathered her hair over one shoulder to keep it away from the kettle. The curls fell in a thick, dark mass nearly to her waist.

Then she bent to take something from a cupboard below the counter.

My gaze dropped.

I was only human.

The dress fitted closely over the curve of her hips and the rounded shape of her backside before the skirt flared slightly. The cardigan did not entirely cover either. When she straightened, I quickly redirected my attention toward the shelves behind her.

Books.

Perfectly harmless.

I walked toward them before she could catch me staring.

The wooden floor creaked beneath my shoes. I paused beside one of the taller shelves and examined the titles without actually reading any of them.

Behind me came the quiet sounds of her preparing the tea.

The kettle being filled.

A cupboard door closing.

A spoon touching ceramic.

I ran one finger along the spines of several books, pretending to be absorbed in the selection.

I wasn’t.

My attention kept drifting back toward her.

She moved efficiently around the counter, stacking clean cups, wiping away drops of water and carrying a few final plates toward the small kitchen at the back. Every so often she pushed her curls away from her face, only for them to fall forward again.

The dress and cardigan made no sense together.

The cardigan looked as though it belonged to a cold afternoon spent reading on a sofa. The dress belonged somewhere else entirely.

Together, on her, they worked.

Far too well.

She turned toward me unexpectedly.

Our eyes met.

I had been staring.

There was no point pretending otherwise.

One dark eyebrow lifted.

I reached for the nearest book.

It slipped from my wet fingers and landed on the floor with a heavy thump.

Her mouth opened.

Then she laughed.

It was not the restrained smile she had tried to hide earlier. It was warm and soft, her face brightening so suddenly that I simply stared again.

Her laugh changed her completely.

It reached her eyes, turning them luminous beneath those absurdly long lashes. A faint dimple appeared near one corner of her mouth, and colour rose over her cheeks.

For a second, I forgot to pick up the book.

“That was graceful,” she said.

“I’m usually much better with books.”

“Do you often throw them at the floor?”

“Only when they disappoint me.”

Her gaze moved to the book lying beside my shoe.

“You didn’t even open it.”

“I judge quickly.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

I bent to retrieve it, hiding my smile as I did.

When I straightened, she was still watching me with amusement.

I returned the book to the shelf.

The wrong way around.

She looked at it.

Then at me.

I corrected it without comment.

Her smile widened.

There it was again.

That warmth in my chest.

Unfamiliar after the evening I’d had.

Unwelcome, perhaps.

But not unpleasant.

“The tea’s ready,” she said.

I walked back toward the counter.

She had placed a dark green ceramic cup on a small wooden tray, along with a little jug of milk and a bowl of sugar. Steam curled from the surface, carrying a warm, familiar scent into the air.

“Do you always serve tea like this after threatening customers with the door?” I asked.

“Only the especially irritating ones.”

“I’m honoured.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

She placed both hands on the counter.

I stopped opposite her.

Up close, her eyes were even darker than I had thought. They were not a flat brown, but layered with warmer shades near the centre, like polished wood beneath amber light.

I picked up the milk.

“How do you take it?” she asked.

“I can manage.”

“That wasn’t an offer to help. I was curious.”

“A little milk. No sugar.”

She watched as I poured it.

“Surprisingly restrained.”

“You’ve known me for three minutes.”

“Long enough to form an opinion.”

“And what is it?”

“You’re annoying.”

“That quickly?”

“You’re very efficient.”

The smile tugged at my mouth again.

I lifted the cup and took a careful sip.

It was hot enough to sting my tongue, but the warmth spread immediately through my chest and stomach. I had not realised quite how cold I was until then.

She watched for my reaction.

“Well?”

I took another sip, slower this time.

“It’s good.”

Her expression softened.

“Just good?”

“Very good.”

“That’s better.”

“You made tea. You didn’t negotiate a peace treaty.”

“You complained about the coffee.”

“I asked for coffee.”

“You questioned the operational status of the machine after I told you it was clean.”

“I was making an observation.”

“You were being difficult.”

“And yet you made me tea.”

Her lips curved.

“I felt sorry for you.”

“That’s devastating.”

“I’m sure you’ll recover.”

“I’m not sure I will.”

She rolled her eyes, but the colour in her cheeks deepened.

I watched it spread over her pale skin.

It was subtle, but unmistakable.

Interesting.

For all her sharp answers, she was not quite as unaffected as she wanted me to believe.

I leaned one elbow lightly against the counter.

“You should do that more often.”

Her fingers paused around the cloth she had picked up.

“Do what?”

“Smile.”

The flush grew warmer.

“It suits you.”

She looked down at the counter, wiping at a spot that had already been perfectly clean.

Then she lifted her eyes again, peering at me from beneath those thick lashes.

“Does that usually work on other women?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never used it before.”

She studied me, trying to decide whether I was lying.

I wasn’t.

Not exactly.

I had flirted before. I was not inexperienced, and I had certainly said things designed to make women smile. But I had never used those particular words, and I had never meant them quite so simply.

Her smile had genuinely caught me off guard.

I wanted to see it again.

“That’s a very convenient answer,” she said.

“It also happens to be true.”

“Of course it does.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I’ve known you for…” She glanced toward the clock mounted behind the counter. “Far too little time.”

“And you’ve already decided I’m dishonest?”

“I decided you’re charming enough to know exactly what you’re doing.”

Charming.

That was better than annoying.

“Perhaps I’m improvising.”

“You dropped a book because I looked at you.”

My mouth opened.

She raised one eyebrow.

I laughed quietly and looked down at my tea.

“So you noticed.”

“It was difficult not to.”

“I was distracted.”

“By the book?”

“Not remotely.”

Her blush returned.

She turned away from me and picked up a stack of menus.

I allowed myself to watch her for another second.

Then two.

The cardigan shifted as she reached across the counter, revealing more of the fitted dress beneath it. My eyes traced the gentle line of her waist before following the fuller curve below.

I took another drink of tea to give myself something else to do.

It did not help.

She moved toward the nearest tables and began collecting the small sugar bowls. I followed her progress with my eyes, more interested in the way she walked than in anything on the shelves.

There was nothing exaggerated or deliberate in her movements. She was not trying to attract attention. That made it worse.

Or better.

Depending on perspective.

The skirt of her dress moved lightly over her thighs as she crossed the room. Her cardigan hung loose around her, falling open enough to reveal the shape of her body each time she turned. She was slim, but not slight. The narrowness of her waist made the soft fullness of her breasts and hips more noticeable.

I looked down at the tea before she caught me again.

It had been some time since a woman had unsettled me this quickly.

It was not merely that she was beautiful.

She was.

Painfully so.

But beauty was not rare in my world. I had spent years surrounded by women who were photographed for magazines, women whose families had spent generations perfecting the art of looking flawless beneath chandeliers.

This was different.

She felt real.

Her cardigan was too large. Her boots were practical. Her hair refused to remain where she put it. She had nearly hit her head on the counter, insulted me within a minute of meeting me and then made tea because she noticed I was cold.

I knew nothing about her.

And still, I wanted to.

She returned to the counter carrying the sugar bowls.

“You’re staring again,” she said without looking at me.

I nearly choked on my tea.

“I’m admiring the décor.”

“Of course.”

“The shelves are impressive.”

“You were facing the wrong direction.”

I set the cup down.

“You’re very observant.”

“I work in a café. Watching people is half the job.”

“And the other half?”

“Making coffee for people who arrive during opening hours.”

“I thought we’d moved past that.”

“We haven’t.”

“Will we?”

“That depends on whether you plan to leave before sunrise.”

I glanced toward the windows.

Rain still streaked the glass, though it had softened from a violent downpour to a steady fall.

“I’m almost finished.”

“With the tea or with irritating me?”

“The tea.”

She shook her head, but I saw her smile again.

I took another sip and looked toward the shelves.

If I finished the drink and walked out without buying anything, I would have no reason to remain longer. More importantly, I would have no reason to return.

The thought occurred before I could examine it too closely.

I stood and carried my cup toward the counter.

Then, as casually as I could manage, I turned toward the nearest shelf and took the first book my hand landed on.

I studied the cover.

Or tried to.

“You’re not going to read that.”

I looked at her.

She was leaning against the counter now, arms folded, amusement in her eyes.

“You don’t know me.”

“You’ve been holding it upside down.”

I looked down.

The book was, in fact, upside down.

I slowly turned it around.

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to laugh.

“I was testing you,” I said.

“Of course.”

“You passed.”

“Do I get a prize?”

“I’ll buy the book.”

“That’s not a prize for me.”

“You work here.”

“I don’t own the shop.”

“Then perhaps I’ll have to think of something else.”

“That sounds threatening.”

I examined the cover properly this time.

It appeared to be a dense historical biography about nineteenth-century agricultural reform.

I had no intention of reading it.

She pushed away from the counter and crossed toward me.

The faint scent of something warm and floral reached me as she approached. Not perfume exactly. Shampoo, perhaps, or whatever soap she used.

She stopped beside me and looked at the book in my hands.

“You definitely won’t read that.”

“You seem very confident.”

“You asked for coffee after closing, complained when I said no, dropped the first book you touched and spent the last ten minutes pretending to examine shelves while watching me.”

I looked at her.

“I wasn’t pretending very convincingly, was I?”

“No.”

“And yet you still made the tea.”

“I told you. Pity.”

“Right.”

Her eyes held mine.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

She stood close enough that I could see the darker ring around her irises. Close enough to notice that the flush had not entirely left her cheeks. Close enough that my attention returned, despite my better judgement, to her mouth.

Her lips parted slightly.

Then she looked away first.

She reached past me toward the shelf.

Her arm brushed mine.

It was barely contact at all, softened by the sleeves of our clothing, but I felt it with absurd clarity.

She pulled out a slim paperback and placed it on top of the biography in my hands.

“Read this instead.”

I looked down.

“Persuasion.”

“Jane Austen.”

“I can read the cover.”

“That’s reassuring.”

I glanced at her.

“I don’t read romance.”

“You don’t read books you hold upside down either, apparently.”

“Is that your professional recommendation?”

“It is.”

“Why this one?”

Her expression changed.

Not dramatically. The teasing remained, but something thoughtful entered her eyes as she looked down at the book.

“It’s about two people who lose years of their lives because they allow other people to decide what’s best for them.”

The words landed somewhere uncomfortably close to the argument I had just left behind.

I stared at the title again.

Two people losing years because they allowed others to choose for them.

My father’s voice returned.

Wanting is irrelevant.

I ran my thumb over the edge of the pages.

“That sounds cheerful.”

“It isn’t, always.”

“And you still recommend it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because regret doesn’t make a story hopeless.”

She said it simply.

As though it were obvious.

I looked at her face, at the quiet certainty in her dark eyes, and wondered what a woman her age could possibly know about regret.

Perhaps more than I did.

Perhaps nothing.

Either way, I found myself placing the unwanted biography back on the shelf.

“I’ll take it.”

Her smile returned.

“I knew you would.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You’re very pleased with yourself.”

“I got a man who claims he doesn’t read romance to buy Jane Austen.”

“You should put it on the sign outside.”

“I might.”

She took the book from me and walked back toward the counter.

I followed, carrying the empty cup.

She accepted it from me and placed it beside the sink.

“How much?” I asked.

She told me the price.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet.

For a fraction of a second, I hesitated.

Most of my cards carried my full name.

Not only Sterling.

The title as well, on some of the accounts managed through the family office.

It should not have mattered. She had not asked who I was, and I had no reason to hide anything from a woman I would likely never see again.

Yet I found myself taking out cash.

I placed a note on the counter.

She opened the register, returned my change and slid the book into a small paper bag printed with the café’s name.

“The Quiet Chapter,” I read aloud.

“That is generally what signs are for.”

“I was appreciating it.”

“You appreciate things very slowly.”

“I like to be thorough.”

Her eyes flickered toward mine.

The colour returned to her cheeks.

I smiled.

She handed me the bag.

Our fingers brushed.

This time, neither of us moved away immediately.

It lasted less than a second.

Still, something tightened low in my stomach.

She withdrew her hand and tucked a curl behind her ear.

I picked up the bag.

“Thank you for the tea.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And the book.”

“You can thank me after you read it.”

“Assuming I do.”

“You will.”

“There’s that confidence again.”

“I’m rarely wrong.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“You’re free to return and complain if you hate it.”

The words were casual.

Perhaps she did not even realise what she had offered.

A reason to come back.

I looked at her for a moment.

“I might do that.”

“You’ll have to come during opening hours.”

“That sounds restrictive.”

“Most civilised people manage.”

“I’ll try to improve.”

“I wouldn’t set unrealistic goals.”

I laughed again.

Three times in one evening.

Before entering the café, I could not remember the last time I had laughed once.

I stepped away from the counter and walked toward the door. The warmth of the tea remained in my chest, though the thought of returning to the rain was not appealing.

My hand settled around the handle.

Then I stopped.

It occurred to me that if I left now, I would have nothing except a book and the memory of dark eyes.

I turned back.

She had already picked up the cloth again and was wiping the counter, though she was watching me from beneath her lashes.

“What’s your name?”

A small smile touched her lips.

“Lily. Yours?”

Lily.

The name suited her.

Soft, simple and far more memorable than it had any right to be.

“Jasper.”

It was the only answer that came naturally.

The only part of me that did not feel tangled in duty or expectation.

For that moment, it was enough.

Her smile deepened.

“Nice to meet you, Jasper.”

“The pleasure is mine.”

I meant it.

Her gaze lowered briefly, and once again I saw that faint, appealing flush beneath her pale skin.

I opened the door.

Cold air swept inside, carrying the rain with it.

“Goodnight, Lily.”

“Goodnight, Jasper.”

The bell chimed behind me as I stepped back onto Lamb’s Conduit Street.

The door closed, sealing the warmth of the café behind glass.

I stood beneath the awning for a moment, the paper bag held securely beneath one arm. Through the window, I saw Lily return to her work. She gathered the cups, pushed her long curls over one shoulder and bent to retrieve something from beneath the counter.

My eyes followed her before I caught myself.

I smiled.

Then I stepped into the rain.

It no longer seemed quite as cold.

I walked slowly toward the car, replaying the last half hour with an attention entirely disproportionate to its importance.

Her eyes.

Dark, watchful and warm when she forgot to guard them.

Her full lips curving into that reluctant smile.

The pale blush that had spread across her cheeks when I flirted with her.

The way she had looked at me through those long lashes, as though she had no idea what it did to a man standing on the other side of the counter.

And her body.

There was no point pretending I had not noticed it. The fitted black dress, the narrow waist, the soft fullness of her breasts and the curve of her hips beneath that oversized cardigan had made ignoring her nearly impossible.

But it was her eyes I returned to.

Again and again.

I reached the car and glanced at the paper bag tucked beneath my arm.

Persuasion.

A romance novel.

I shook my head at myself.

A grin pulled at my mouth before I could stop it.

“Lily,” I murmured.

And still smiling to myself, I unlocked the car.

The drive back to Belgravia took less time than I expected.

Or perhaps I simply noticed less of it.

The rain had begun to weaken, no longer falling in heavy sheets but tapping steadily against the windscreen as I moved through the quieter streets. The city blurred past in reflections of gold and white, traffic lights stretching across the wet road like ribbons of colour.

I drove more slowly now.

Not because the anger had vanished.

It hadn’t.

My father’s words were still there, lodged somewhere beneath my ribs, sharp enough to hurt whenever I allowed myself to think about them.

A hobby.

The Ashbury school reduced to numbers on a page.

My future discussed like a company acquisition.

Victoria’s name placed casually between business proposals, as though a woman and a building could be negotiated with equal ease.

But something had shifted.

The rage that had consumed me when I left the house no longer felt quite as immediate. It had been interrupted by warm light, a cup of tea and a girl with dark eyes who had threatened to send me back into the rain.

I glanced at the paper bag resting on the passenger seat.

Persuasion.

Even the sight of it made the corner of my mouth lift.

I had bought a romance novel.

Willingly.

My father would have considered that further proof that I had lost all sense.

The thought made me smile properly.

Then Lily’s face appeared in my mind again.

The slight narrowing of her eyes when I laughed at her.

The way her expression had softened when she realised how cold I was.

The colour that had spread over her cheeks when I told her she should smile more often.

And that look beneath her lashes.

I tightened my fingers around the steering wheel, though this time it had nothing to do with anger.

She had been entirely unaware of what she was doing.

That was what made it worse.

Or better.

I still hadn’t decided.

By the time I turned onto the familiar street, the windows of my parents’ London residence glowed against the dark. The house stood in a neat row of pale stucco façades, dignified and immaculate, every exterior detail preserved as carefully as the family reputation.

Nothing about it appeared disturbed.

No sign from the outside that its eldest son had walked out in the middle of dinner after telling the Earl of Westmere to watch him leave.

I pulled into the private parking space behind the house and switched off the engine.

For several seconds, I remained where I was.

The paper bag rested beside me.

I picked it up before getting out.

I could have left it in the car.

For some reason, I didn’t want to.

Cold air caught at my wet clothes as I crossed the short distance to the back entrance. My hoodie had not begun to dry. It clung to my shoulders and back, heavy with rain, and water still slipped occasionally from my hair onto my forehead.

The door opened before I reached for the handle.

Harris, who had served my family for as long as I could remember, stood on the other side. His expression remained professionally neutral, but his gaze moved briefly over my soaked clothes.

“Lord Halston.”

“Harris.”

“May I take your—”

He stopped.

I wasn’t wearing a coat.

His eyes flicked to the wet hoodie instead.

“I’m fine,” I said.

He stepped aside to let me enter.

Warmth closed around me again, but it felt different from the warmth of the café.

The house smelled faintly of polished wood, beeswax and the flowers my mother insisted were replaced twice a week. The hallway lights were dimmed for the night. Every surface gleamed. Every painting hung perfectly straight.

Nothing was misplaced.

Nothing ever was.

“Is everyone in bed?” I asked.

Harris hesitated for barely a second.

“Her Ladyship is in the drawing room.”

Of course she was.

My father would have retired to his study, where he could convince himself that the evening had ended exactly as he intended. Thomas had probably escaped upstairs the moment he realised there would be a second round.

My mother waited.

She always waited.

Not to apologise.

To explain.

I handed Harris my car keys but kept hold of the paper bag.

“Thank you.”

He nodded.

I walked down the corridor toward the drawing room, leaving faint wet marks on the polished floor behind me. Normally, someone would have appeared almost immediately to deal with them.

Tonight, I hoped my father saw every one.

The door to the drawing room stood partly open.

My mother sat on one of the cream sofas near the fireplace, still wearing the dark green dress she had worn to dinner. Her heels had been removed and placed neatly beside the table. A cup of tea rested untouched in front of her.

She looked up when I entered.

Relief crossed her face first.

Then concern as she took in my appearance.

“Jasper.”

I remained near the doorway.

“You’re soaked.”

“I noticed.”

“Where have you been?”

“Driving.”

Her eyes sharpened.

“In this weather?”

“And walking.”

She rose from the sofa.

There was always something composed about my mother, even late at night. Not a strand of hair had escaped the elegant twist at the back of her head. Her makeup was still flawless. Only the faint tension around her mouth betrayed the evening she had endured.

“You should change before you catch cold.”

“I intend to.”

I turned toward the stairs.

“Jasper, wait.”

I stopped but did not face her immediately.

A familiar heaviness settled over me.

I had known this was coming from the moment Harris told me she was still awake.

My mother moved closer.

“Your father is very upset.”

I let out a quiet laugh and looked at her.

“Is he?”

“This isn’t amusing.”

“No. It really isn’t.”

“He should not have spoken to you the way he did.”

That surprised me enough to hold my attention.

For half a second, I almost believed she might finally say what I needed to hear.

Then she continued.

“But you must understand the pressure he is under.”

There it was.

The soft click of the lock.

I looked away.

“I’m not doing this tonight.”

“He is trying to protect the future of this family.”

“By selling a building I’ve spent a year trying to save without even telling me?”

“The Ashbury project was never financially viable.”

“It wasn’t meant to make us richer.”

“Sterling Estates cannot operate on sentiment.”

“It doesn’t need to. It already makes more money than any of us could spend in several lifetimes.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“It is exactly the point.”

My voice carried through the quiet room.

My mother glanced toward the open door before lowering her own.

“You will wake the household.”

“I don't care.”

Her lips pressed together.

I could see her choosing her next words carefully, smoothing them into something that would sound reasonable.

“Your father believes you are capable of far more than you allow yourself to pursue.”

“I am pursuing exactly what I want.”

“You are hiding in restoration projects because they allow you to avoid the position you were born to hold.”

I stared at her.

“You sound like him.”

“I am trying to make you understand him.”

“I understand him perfectly.”

“No, you don’t.”

She stepped closer, her expression softening in a way that might have worked when I was younger.

“He has spent his entire life preserving what generations of this family built. He knows that one day the responsibility will fall to you, and he worries you will not be prepared.”

“I attend the meetings. I review the reports. I know the business.”

“You resist every step.”

“Because I don’t want it.”

“You cannot simply reject who you are.”

“I’m not rejecting who I am. I’m rejecting who he wants me to be.”

Her face tightened.

“You are Lord Halston.”

“I am Jasper.”

“You are both.”

“Not to him.”

The words came out quieter than the rest.

For one brief moment, my mother said nothing.

The fire cracked softly behind her.

Rain tapped against the tall windows.

I could feel cold water slipping from the ends of my hair onto the back of my neck, but I no longer cared.

“He is proud of you,” she said at last.

I almost laughed again.

Instead, I looked directly at her.

“He called the only work I care about a hobby.”

“He was angry.”

“He sold the Ashbury site.”

“It was a business decision.”

“He told me what I want is irrelevant.”

“He did not mean—”

“Don’t.”

My voice was low, but it stopped her.

She blinked.

“Don’t stand there and translate him into something kinder because you think I’ll accept it more easily from you.”

“I am not translating anything.”

“You always do.”

“That is unfair.”

“No, Mother. What is unfair is expecting me to sit at that table while the two of you dismantle my life and then thank you for the privilege.”

“We are not dismantling your life.”

“You sold my project. You ordered me to attend the gala. You brought up Victoria as though the next logical step is to choose the woman I’m supposed to marry.”

“No one is choosing a wife for you.”

“Then why was her name part of a conversation about my obligations?”

“Because she understands your world.”

“My world.”

I shook my head.

“You mean yours.”

“It is yours whether you like it or not.”

There was more steel in her voice now.

A glimpse of the woman beneath the gentleness.

I knew her well enough to recognise it.

“You see?” I said. “That is exactly the problem.”

“What is?”

“Neither of you cares whether I’m happy.”

Pain flashed across her face.

“That is not true.”

“Then why does every conversation end with what I owe the family?”

“Because you do have obligations.”

“So does Thomas.”

“Thomas is not the heir.”

“I know. Father made that perfectly clear.”

“You should not have involved your brother.”

“I didn’t involve him. I pointed out the obvious.”

“That he should inherit instead of you?”

“That he belongs in that world more naturally than I do.”

“Thomas has his own place.”

“And I’m apparently not permitted one.”

“You have been given every opportunity.”

“Given.”

The word tasted bitter.

“Everything is always given, isn’t it? My education. My home. My money. My freedom. All of it presented as a gift until I make a choice you dislike, and then suddenly it becomes a debt I’m expected to repay.”

She went very still.

For a moment, the only movement in the room came from the fire.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she said quietly.

“I don’t want you to say anything.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want you both to stop.”

Her brows drew together.

“Stop what?”

“Trying to force me into a life I have told you repeatedly I do not want.”

“Jasper—”

“No.”

I stepped back before she could reach for my arm.

“Tonight was too far.”

Her face changed.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he crossed a line.”

“The sale is not yet complete. Perhaps, when tempers have settled, the two of you can—”

“This is not only about Ashbury.”

I looked at her, making certain she understood every word.

“It is the project. The company. The title. Victoria. Every decision the two of you make while pretending my agreement is inevitable.”

“We are trying to guide you.”

“You are trying to control me.”

Her lips parted.

I continued before she could interrupt.

“I have tolerated it because fighting every expectation is exhausting. I have attended the dinners. I have sat through the meetings. I have allowed Father to dismiss everything I care about because it was easier than having the same argument every week.”

“That isn’t fair.”

“I’m finished caring whether it sounds fair.”

My mother’s eyes hardened slightly.

“What exactly are you saying?”

“That I won’t tolerate this anymore.”

“Jasper, you are angry.”

“Yes.”

“You should sleep before making declarations you may regret.”

“I’ve spent years sleeping on this.”

She stared at me.

For once, she seemed to have no carefully prepared response.

I held her gaze for another moment.

Then I turned toward the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

“To change before I catch cold. You seemed concerned about that.”

“Jasper.”

I stopped at the doorway but did not look back.

“Your father loves you.”

My hand tightened around the paper bag.

“Then he has a very strange way of showing it.”

I left before she could answer.

The corridor seemed longer on the way to the stairs.

I climbed quickly, ignoring the sound of my mother calling my name once more behind me. She did not follow. She knew me well enough to understand that pushing now would only drive me farther away.

My bedroom occupied the rear corner of the second floor.

It was the only room in the house that felt remotely mine, though even that was debatable. My mother had chosen most of the furniture years ago—dark wood, muted colours, expensive fabrics meant to appear masculine without ever becoming untidy.

I closed the door behind me and leaned against it.

Silence.

Finally.

The anger returned in small flashes.

My father standing at the head of the table.

My mother telling me he was under pressure.

Thomas looking as though he wanted to disappear.

I pushed away from the door and set the paper bag on the bedside table.

The café’s name faced upward.

THE QUIET CHAPTER

The sight of it disrupted the argument replaying in my mind.

Dark eyes replaced my father’s cold stare.

A reluctant smile replaced my mother’s careful concern.

I stared at the bag for a moment.

Then I shook my head at myself.

I was exhausted, wet and apparently losing perspective over a woman whose surname I didn’t even know.

I pulled the soaked hoodie over my head.

The fabric clung stubbornly to my arms before finally coming free. I dropped it onto the floor, followed by the T-shirt beneath it. Both landed with a heavy, wet sound.

My jeans were little better.

By the time I had stripped off the rest of my clothes, a trail of rainwater marked the floor from the door to the bathroom.

Tomorrow, someone would quietly remove every sign of it.

Tonight, I left it there.

I turned on the shower and waited until steam began clouding the glass.

The first rush of hot water over my skin almost hurt.

I stepped beneath it anyway.

Heat spread across my shoulders and down my back, slowly driving out the cold that had settled into me. I braced both hands against the tiled wall and lowered my head, letting the water run through my hair.

For several minutes, I thought of nothing.

Or tried to.

My body gradually relaxed.

The muscles in my shoulders loosened. The tightness in my jaw eased.

But the evening refused to disappear completely.

My father’s words came first.

Then Lily’s.

It’s about two people who lose years of their lives because they allow other people to decide what’s best for them.

I opened my eyes.

Water ran down my face.

The timing of her recommendation was almost absurd.

She knew nothing about me. Nothing about the argument I had left, the title waiting for me or the life everyone insisted I should accept.

Yet she had handed me precisely the story that would irritate every raw part of me.

I wondered whether she recommended it to everyone.

The thought displeased me more than it should have.

I turned off the shower.

The sudden silence felt loud.

I dried myself and returned to the bedroom wearing only black boxer briefs, rubbing a towel through my hair as I crossed toward the bed.

The paper bag remained on the table.

I pulled the book out.

The cover was simple. Unremarkable.

Nothing about it explained why I had carried it into the house as though it mattered.

I sat on the edge of the bed and opened to the first page.

Then I stopped.

Lily’s face rose in my mind again.

Not the first expression—the alarm when she appeared from beneath the counter.

The one afterward.

The slight lift of her brow when she caught me staring.

The flush on her pale cheeks.

The dark sweep of her lashes when she looked at me over her shoulder.

The fitted black dress.

The soft curve of her body beneath that oversized cardigan.

I closed the book.

Reading was clearly not going to happen tonight.

I placed it on the bedside table and pulled back the covers.

The sheets were cool against my skin as I lay down. I switched off the lamp, leaving the room in darkness broken only by a faint line of city light around the curtains.

I expected my mind to return to my father.

To Ashbury.

To the argument waiting for me in the morning.

Instead, I saw her.

Dark curls falling nearly to her waist.

Full lips trying not to smile.

Those eyes watching me across the counter—warm brown beneath amber light, sharp one second and gentle the next.

I remembered the brush of her fingers against mine when she handed me the bag.

Barely a touch.

Still, I could recall it with ridiculous clarity.

I turned onto my side and closed my eyes.

I had walked into the café because I was cold.

That was all.

I had needed shelter from the rain and somewhere to wait until I was calm enough to return home.

I had not expected her.

A laugh escaped me quietly in the dark.

A girl who refused to make coffee, insulted my timing and somehow convinced me to buy Jane Austen.

“Lily,” I murmured.

Her name settled softly into the silence.

A smile remained on my face as sleep finally pulled me under.