Page 174 of One Wrong Move

I cross the gallery in quick steps. Anticipation floods through me, hurrying my pace. And there he is. Standing as he was the first time I saw him in this gallery, months ago, on my second day here.

With his back to me, he’s facing a small painting picturing a vibrant blue pattern. Its size is the teeniest we’ve had in a while, barely larger than a single sheet of paper.

I stop beside him. “The painter was inspired by the broken pottery. The pattern doesn’t line up… because the shapes represent jagged shards. But it’s pretty.”

“It is,” Nate says. He’s not in a suit despite it being Monday and midday. Instead, he’s dressed in a pair of gray slacks and a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up. But he is carrying a laptop under his arm.

He glances at me, and we stand there, side by side, in front of the tiny painting. “I want to talk to you.” His voice lowers, turning intimate. “At the café across the square where we had a drink back in the spring. There are things I want to say, apologies… but only if you’re okay with it. I know I showed up here unannounced. One word and I’ll leave.”

My gaze swims, growing unfocused, and the shards of pottery disappear. “No, don’t leave.”

“So, you’ll have lunch with me?”

“Yes,” I say. “I have an hour. Maybe an hour fifteen, if I push it.”

“Let’s cap it at an hour,” he says with a smile in his voice. It makes my chest warm. “Wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”

We walk across the square, busy as ever with the summer season. People from all surrounding areas come here to eat their lunch. The restaurants and cafés open up their terraces.

“Are you okay? You found a safe place to stay?” he asks.

“Yes, at a small hotel nearby. Is your family still here?”

He smiles a bit. “Yes. They fly home tomorrow. Connie mentioned… speaking with you?”

“She was really nice. I like her.”

“She is. I’m sorry if she said anything that seemed like… pressure.”

“No, she didn’t. She was just looking out for you.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but we’re interrupted by a waiter before Nate can get the words out. Our table is in the corner, overlooking the square and the gallery across the way. My second home here in London.

Nate, being the first.

The thought nearly brings tears to my eyes. I swallow hard to chase the emotions away.

“I’ve missed you,” Nate says. “I know it’s only been a few days, but…”

I look down at my menu and blink rapidly. “I know. Me, too.”

“Yeah?” he asks, and there’s such intimacy in his voice that I want to forget about what happened. But it’s difficult. It’s so burned into me, the fear, the idea that I’ll end up in the way I was before. When I had no sense of agency over my life.

“Yeah. I miss the house, our dinners, our life together…” I shake my head. “Moving out was a big step. I know that. But I just needed some time to think.”

“I get that.” He sets his laptop down on the table between us, like it’s some kind of peace offering. Pushes his hair back. “Harp, I’ve realized I have so many things to apologize for. But let me start with this first… You’re right. I shouldn’t have paid Dean. What’s more, I should have asked you about it, offered my help. And respected whatever answer you gave me.”

I dig my teeth into my lower lip. “I know you were just trying to help. Trust me, I do. But it’s the last thing I wanted you to do in that situation.”

He nods. “I understand that now.”

“I want to stand on my own two feet. That’s what all of this, this, was about.” I nod my head across the square, at Sterling. “Dean was my problem to handle.”

“Yes. He was. Even if it would have been hard for me to accept and to stand by doing nothing,” he says, and leans in closer. His jaw looks tense. “I hate seeing you upset or hurt. It’s the worst thing I can imagine. And I absolutely hated seeing Dean speak to you the way he did, hearing how he’s… It made my blood boil.”

“Because you care for me,” I say. The words come out softer than I intended, but they come out nevertheless, spoken in the space between us. “And it hurt me because… I care for you, too. And it hurt that you didn’t tell me about it.”

“Care,” he repeats and shakes his head softly. “Yes. That’s one way to put it. But I’ll say it far more bluntly than that. Remember when you described the kind of woman you thought I would want?”

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