Page 31 of One Weekend in London

“They were my mum’s favorite. She always said they reminded her of hope and new beginnings.”

My heart twists, the pain sharp and lasting. Reaching across the table once he’s seated, I cover his hand with my own, twining our fingers together.

“Want to tell me about her?”

I don’t mean to pry, I truly don’t. But after he was there, listening as I blubbered over Mamaw and confessed how her death shattered me, I want to do the same for him. I want to be his rock, his anchor. And truth be told, that scares the heck out of me.

Too much, too fast, but it feels so right...

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes distant. Then, when he speaks, I have to stop myself from crying on his behalf and swooning all at the same time.

“She was my whole world growing up.”

One sentence and my chin starts wobbling. The emotion lining his voice, the longing mixed with unmistakable fondness—goodness gracious, it’s downright soul-wrenching.

“My father was a right bastard, too busy chasing his next million to give a toss about us, the woman he used until he was finished with her and the bastard son he never claimed as his own.”

That son of a biscuit.

If he were here, I’d stab him in the eye with the fancy salad fork in front of me. I know nothing of my own parents except they decided last minute they weren’t ready for a baby, abandoning me at the hospital where I was born. That’s how I ended up as a ward of the state before Papaw and Mamaw came along, saving me.

I don’t begrudge my parents for that. They may have left me behind but at least they didn’t throw me in a dumpster. Besides, I have the best family ever now. Even if they are a little insane and a whole lot loud. Rhys’s dad though? Trash.

One-hundred-percent pure trash.

“But Mum?” he continues, interrupting my murderous thoughts, once more claiming my full attention. “She poured everything she had into giving me a good life, even when we had nothing.”

Amazing—that’s precisely how she sounds.

“She used to take me to this little garden in the city, even though it was a devil of a trek from our flat. We’d pack a picnic lunch and spend the whole day there, just the two of us. She’d push me on the swings and teach me the names of all the flowers. Those times are my happiest memories.”

Tears sting my eyes at the raw emotion in his voice. Exactly how many dang times can I cry in one day? If the past few months are anything to go by, too many to count.

Clearly, I’m an emotional basket case.

“She’d be so proud of the man you’ve become.”

Rhys clears his throat, blinking rapidly. “Her name was Victoria. And I like to think so.” Victoria. Like Caroline, his assistant, the name seems to fit her. Perfectly. “That park was our special place. These days, when I’m missing her, that’s where I go. To feel close to her again.”

It takes everything in me not to leap over the table and straight into his arms, where I’d hug him until my own arms grew so weak I no longer could. But, not knowing if he’s done speaking, I stay still, remaining seated and hardly even breathing.

Until I no longer can.

Tracing my fingertips over the back of his hand, I circle his knuckles in slow strokes. “I’d love to see it sometime, if you want to share it with me.”

The approving smile he gives me is blinding, along with the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, leaving me awestruck.

Nearly obsessed.

“I’d like that, love.” He flips his hand over, taking mine in his. “More than you know.”

“Good, because—”

Our moment is interrupted by a white-jacketed chef approaching the table, a loaded tray balanced on his palm.

“Lunch is served,” he announces with a crisp nod as he begins to lay out an array of mouthwatering Southern dishes—golden-fried green tomatoes, creamy shrimp and grits, juicy pulled pork sliders nestled on mini brioche buns.

And, of course, two generous helpings of bourbon bread pudding and peach cobbler, the crowning glory.

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