Page 179 of One Wrong Move

“He’s a good chap.”

“He is,” she says, and chuckles. “Chap.”

“I’m a Londoner, you know.”

“Yes, you are.” She rests her chin on my chest and looks at me through long lashes. “It’s a shame you never spoke to any of your neighbors for years.”

“I needed you to come into my life. Teach me to stop and smell the roses,” I say.

She rolls her eyes again. “I think you smelled plenty of roses before me, Nathaniel. A rich bachelor in London, and before that, in New York… Driving sports cars. Tall, dark, and handsome. Charming, and with money to burn…”

I lift an eyebrow. “Nathaniel? And are you implying that I’ve been around the block, so to speak?”

“Maybe I am,” she says. “And I know that’s hypocritical, because you had to see me with Dean, which I’m so sorry for now. I never meant… If only I figured things out sooner.” She sighs and shakes her head. “The past is the past. But regardless… I don’t think I want to know about all the women who’ve been up in your third-floor suite here before me. Pretend they never existed.”

“Before you, I’ve never slept with a woman in this house.”

Her eyes widen. “Never?”

“No. Harper… since the day I met you, I lost interest in others. There haven’t been many encounters at all since I saw you at that bar four years ago.”

Her green eyes are on mine. There’s a soft vulnerability there that I could drown in. “Really?”

“Mm-hmm. Nothing ever went anywhere, because I was emotionally entangled with you. It wouldn’t have been fair to someone else, to encourage a relationship when I was in love with you.”

She swallows. “I can see that. I’m?—”

“Don’t apologize again,” I say quietly and brush her hair back. “There’s no need. You had your journey, and I had mine. And I’m very, very happy with where it led us both.”

A smile curves her lips. “You’re a romantic, you know.”

“I’m well aware,” I say with a grin. “It was my bane until it became my strength.”

She sighs softly and rests her head on my chest. We lie in soft silence for a bit, my hand stroking along the soft skin of her arm, before she speaks again.

“There’s one letter left to open.”

I sigh. “I know.”

She reaches for the manila envelope lying beside us on the blanket and turns it over to reveal the stamp on the back. The letterhead I recognize all too well. Contron. But the name written on the front is mine and it’s in my father’s nearly illegible scrawl.

I look over at the sky. “If he’s resorted to ranting in handwritten letters now, I’m not sure I’m interested in hearing it.”

“Have your siblings gotten letters?”

I take a deep breath. “Yes.” My group chat with Connie and Alec had lit up three days ago when they got their letters in New York. Mine took longer to reach me across the ocean.

They’d told me to read it. Wow, Connie had written. I need time to process this, Alec had said. Let’s reconvene in a few days.

Which could be good.

Or, more likely, very bad.

“You can read it.”

Harper’s hands freeze on the letter. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I like your voice.” I close my eyes. Listen to the sound of paper being torn, and hear her small gasp of surprise.

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