Page 23 of One Wrong Move

He mutters something I can’t catch and picks up my bag. “Let’s go, Harp, we’re headed home.”

Harper

“These,” I say, “are all yours?”

Nate runs a hand over his jaw. He doesn’t look at me as he closes the car door behind him, and heads to the trunk to unload my bags. “Two of them are.”

“These two… to the right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Shit,” I say, looking at a small vintage sports car. Aston Martin? It has to be it. Parked beside it is a towering SUV—a Land Rover. Its paint sparkles under the overhead lights. “I didn’t know places in London had garages like these.”

“This square does,” he says. He’d pulled into an underground garage in Kensington. We’re off on one of the quiet streets bordering Chelsea, close to the area where he picked me up mere hours ago.

It feels like it’s been days.

I grab my backpack as Nate takes my large suitcase and starts heading to the exit. Five minutes and two locked doors later, we emerge onto the quiet sidewalk of the Kensington square. There’s a small fenced garden at the center, with high trees that reach far above the surrounding townhouses.

And what townhouses they are. They look impeccably maintained, white brick construction with beige stucco around the windows and stoops. Glossy black doors beckon, their numbers emblazoned in gold.

“Number eight,” he says. “That’s mine.”

His code unlocks the gate, and I walk up to the front entrance. The townhouse is two… no, three stories tall. I’ve never been inside one of these. Just walked by them to and from my way to work, wondering about the people who have twenty million pounds to own one.

People like Nate.

“I’ll get you a set of keys and the code,” he says, unlocking the door. It swings open, revealing an interior bathed in soft light. “Come on in, Harper. Welcome.”

I step into the entryway. “Oh.”

“Yeah. It’s bigger than it needs to be, for one person, at least.” He rolls my bag to a stop at the bottom of a narrow staircase. “Want the tour?”

“Mm-hmm. Yeah, that would be… good.”

“All right.” Nate’s voice sounds amused. “Well, here’s the living room… the kitchen. It was renovated just before I bought it, and I kept it as it was.” My eyes dance over the light oak cabinetry, the expanse of stone countertops, and the giant island. The large kitchen table is next to the windows that must open to a garden.

“Here’s the study… and the den. I guess the Brits call it a sitting room. Or a drawing room? I’m not entirely sure.” He stops by a door closest to the entryway. “This is the first guest room. You can choose but, personally, I think the ones on the second floor are better.”

“Better,” I repeat. The guest room I’m looking at looks like a suite in a five-star hotel.

“Yes. Larger.” Back out of the room, he grabs my suitcase and pauses on the first stair, looking at me over his shoulder. There’s a crease between his eyebrows. “You okay, Harp?”

I swallow. “Yes, absolutely. I’m just overwhelmed.”

“Overwhelmed,” he echoes.

“Yeah. You know, for a bachelor, you have a beautiful taste in interior design.”

His lip quirks, and then he turns, starting up the stairs with my giant bag in hand. “I didn’t decorate it.”

“Right. Of course.” Because he’d paid someone or bought it furnished. I knew. I knew he was a Connovan and worked for his family’s giant company. Knew he had more money than God himself. Heard it all from Dean. Had even seen it on occasion, when our paths crossed at parties. But the reality hits me anew. The magnitude of it all.

Dean’s occasional jealous comments ring in my head. How uncharitable they had seemed to me. I often thought he was silly, considering how rich Dean was himself. In my eyes, both men were unbelievably lucky and successful.

But now I see the difference. This isn’t rich. This is wealth.

Halfway up the stairs, I freeze. And just stare.

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