Page 13 of One Weekend in London

But I downright refuse to dwell.

As every self-respecting Winslow was raised to do, I only allow myself a moment to wallow, to feel the full weight of my own cosmic joke of a life, before adding a heaping dose of starch to my spine and sucking in a fortifying breath.

I can still fix this.

All I have to do is head back to the bar and sweet-talk whoever’s now manning the door that leads into the lounge from the hotel lobby, ensuring all guests are following the snooty dress code, and get myself back inside.

I’ve done it once; I can do it again.

But there’s one not-so-tiny problem.

Returning to The Opulence means potentially running into Rhys again. The very man possessing a knee-weakening accent, who stepped in like a modern-day knight outfitted in custom armor when that creep at the bar got handsy.

And whose bourbon-kissed eyes seemed to read my every thought with ease, piercing the paper-thin mask of bravery and resilience I’ve been fighting to keep in place, nearly unveiling the heartbreak I’m so desperately trying to put behind me.

After just one meeting, he’s under my skin.

My thoughts utterly consumed by him.

Swallowing hard, I slip off my heels and push off the bed, then start pacing the length of the room, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet with each step. I should be relieved he came to my rescue tonight, protecting me more than Maxwell ever did.

Grateful, even.

I mean, it’s not like I’m some blushing virgin, all doe-eyed and in danger of having my silk panties charmed slap off by a devastatingly handsome face and a smile that’s so toe-curling it could make the devil himself blush.

But there’s something about Rhys’s intensity, the sheer magnetic pull of his presence, that has me twisted in what I suspect are an intricate web of permanent knots, my belly filled with a kaleidoscope of butterflies.

The inexplicable draw I feel to him is dangerous. Reckless, even. The way he makes me want to toss caution out the nearest window and give in to anything he asks for is the exact opposite of everything I need in my life right now.

Control. I need control.

So why can’t I stop picturing how his full, impossibly kissable lips tilted at the corners when he grinned down at me? The way his intoxicating eyes drank me in like I was a tall glass of ice-cold sweet tea on a sweltering August afternoon?

It’s almost as if…

My wild thoughts scatter when a loud ringing echoes through the silent room. Nearly jumping out of my skin, I whip around to see my open MacBook lit up, the FaceTime icon bouncing merrily on the screen.

Crossing the room in quick-footed strides, I plop down at the antique Edwardian desk and click the Accept button without even bothering to read the name or number flashing across the screen.

At this point, I’ll take any distraction from the Rhys-shaped rabbit hole my brain keeps trying to tumble down, taking what remains of my sanity with it.

The screen fills with three familiar faces—Lillian, Tasha, and Papaw—and my shoulders unclench a fraction. I swear I’ve never been so grateful to see their pixelated selves in my whole life.

“There she is!” Tasha’s smile is beautiful and bright, matching her giant heart. “How’s my favorite international absconder doing?”

I can’t help but grin back as I fiddle with my hands and shift in my seat, unable to sit still. Tasha just has this way about her. She may still be young, just a teen, but she puts people at ease without trying, her presence never failing to temporarily push away their burdens.

It’s one of the many traits she and Lillian share.

“Oh, you know.” I force myself to sit straighter and flick my hair back over my shoulder, feigning nonchalance despite my anxiety nearly overwhelming me. “Just living the dream. Sipping tea with the King and mingling with the other royals.”

Lillian giggles, shaking her head.

But it’s Papaw’s reaction that truly captures my attention. Arms crossed over his faded overall-covered chest, he huffs and rolls his eyes, reminding me of Weston when he’s seconds from throwing a full-blown tantrum.

“Hi, Papaw.” His faded blue gaze narrows, his mouth unmoving. “I see you’re still grumpier than a bear with a sore paw over my little vacation.”

When he doesn’t reply, I sigh, my belly feeling as though it’s gnawing itself in half, something it always does when he’s upset with me.

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