Page 19 of Floored

"Have you made your pilgrimage to Mecca yet?"

Her reference to Yorkshire—where the Brontë sisters grew up, where they lived their lives—made me smile. "Ah, no. But I can't wait to go."

"I think between now and when we meet again, you should. Spend a few days there, in fact. Immerse yourself in their world, which was vastly different than if young ladies had grown up here or in London. If you want to start outlining your paper, as you're deciding how to narrow your focus even further, I think Haworth is the best place for you to do so."

I nodded. "Okay. I can do that."

We set up our next meeting, and the ideas for my paper, the thought of a few days away in Haworth had me so excited, I couldn't even wait to book my train tickets until I got back to my place. I found a glossy black bench along a moss-covered brick wall and sat.

God bless the internet and all the spending money I'd saved prior to this trip because, within fifteen minutes, I had a train ticket and a double-bed room at a hotel in Haworth that used to be an old apothecary shop. And it was across the street from the Brontë Parsonage Museum.

"Now this," I murmured, "is not bullshit at all."

It had nothing to do with the scenery I'd see or the size of Haworth, which was a pinprick on the map compared to London. It was the feeling of rightness I had, that I was where I was supposed to be, on the path that made the most sense. Normally, I was the flailing one, hopping around so no one noticed I had no freaking clue what I was doing half the time. If I just kept moving, I could avoid that thought I'd had in Atwood's office.

How do I not know what the purpose of my life is?

That thought. That was what I didn't want to dive into.

And this was the perfect movement. Exactly what I needed.

With a spring in my step, I headed back to my flat because I had three hours to pack and head to the train station.

Just as I was digging the key out for the lock on my door, my phone buzzed in my back pocket.

"Hang on, hang on, dealing with old ass locks here," I muttered, jamming my shoulder into the door.

The phone buzzed again, and I figured it was my sister Isabel because if my family had a pushy texter, it was her. I dumped my bag onto the chair by my small desk and fished my phone out.

Ohhh, hot damn. The excitement at seeing a UK number flash over my screen should've been criminal. Warning! Reaching critical levels of hope!

Unknown number: Would you believe me if I told you that I'd been too busy playing football to text you sooner?

Unknown number: It's Jude, by the way. From the pub a couple of weeks back.

Unknown number: Now I've gone and texted three times, which is excessive, but I am sorry it took me this long. I'd love to see you again.

As I read the texts one more time, I tried to smother the smile that bubbled up. But like any self-respecting woman would, I tucked my phone away and packed my bags for my trip.

Jude would get a response, but not just yet.

He may have been spectacular, but his ass waited weeks to message me. Twenty-four hours wouldn't kill him.

After a quick check of the weather showed the same kinda cold, sorta rainy weather, I packed the appropriate amount of layers and waterproof boots, and I hauled my ass to Paddington Station.

It was only mildly difficult to put Jude's texts out of my head as I leaned my forehead against the glass window separating me from the rapidly moving British countryside. As it passed in front of my increasingly heavy eyelids, as the pleasant hum of the train started lulling me to sleep, I couldn't believe how exhausted I was.

Allowing myself to nap was an easy choice as the days I'd held the tired at bay were slowly catching up with me. The four-hour train ride to Haworth passed quickly, though I woke at the train station with a drool spot on my wadded up sweatshirt and a crick in my neck.

From the moment I walked through the center of the small village, I knew this was the perfect place to spend a few days to hone my project. After checking in to The Apothecary Guest House, I freshened up in the bathroom, then took my notepad and slowly wandered the steep cobblestone streets, and I remembered what Claire told me the day I talked to her at Buckingham Palace.

I ran my fingers along the mossy stone walls, damp from the air and musty with history. Closing my eyes, I tried not to think about what anyone was doing at home, what I might be missing, or what might come after this. Instead, I immersed myself. By the time I stumbled back to my hotel room after a dinner, washed my face, and brushed my teeth, my brain was whirring with ideas, and I fell face-first onto the bed. As I drifted off, I had a vague thought I should reply to Jude.

Sleep pulled mightily at me, and his handsome face was the last thing I thought of, which was probably why I had hazy dreams about the way he kissed me, the way he touched me. It explained why I rolled over the next morning and didn't give it a second thought before reaching for my phone.

Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I took a moment and read what he'd said again.

Would you believe me if I said I'd been too busy playing football to text you sooner?

---