Page 33 of One Wrong Move

“Yes, reserved for those who live here on Clarence Square.” The dogs race ahead, sniffing at the grass inside the garden. “Which is you at the moment, love.”

I smile at him. “Thank you. I’m Harper Elliot.”

“Richard Edwards,” he says.

There’s something so wonderfully formal about him, his entire demeanor, and the two dachshunds. Each has a beautiful collar with a tartan print.

“Nice meeting you, dear. And please tell my neighbor that he has a most wonderful Aston Martin.”

“I will, definitely.”

He nods at me again, like a gentleman bidding adieu to a lady, and walks into the garden with the dogs trotting along beside him. The gate swings shut behind him, and I search for my own key in my coat pocket.

It fits perfectly.

A locked garden. I’ve never heard of that before. I sit on a bench and breathe in the scent of trees and grass, listening to the water in the fountain gurgle until I feel like myself again.

Nate isn’t home. I called out for him as I walked up the stairs, but there was no reply. I focus on getting ready for our dinner. When it’s almost seven, I shoot him a text.

It feels weird.

All of it, when I think about it too much, feels weird. Staying in Dean’s friend’s house. Going to dinner with said friend. Having drinks. But when I stop myself from overthinking it… it’s fun.

Exciting.

I’m comfortable around him, for the most part, in a way I didn’t expect to be. He’s easy to tease, and he gives as good as he gets. And something about the light way we communicate brings me peace.

My phone vibrates with a text.

“I’m downstairs. Ready when you are.”

What? When did he get in?

This is the problem with living in a home this big. You can’t hear a thing happening.

I give myself a final glance in the mirror. The silk skirt, the camisole, and an oversized blazer in hand. The reflection staring back at me looks good. I’ve always loved this, the art of getting dressed. Mixing up the things I find in vintage stores. My hair is a curly mess, but at least it’s somewhat under control, and I throw on a headband to keep the mass of it in place.

Nate is lounging in the armchair in the entryway, set at the bottom of the stairs. One arm is thrown over the back, long legs stretched out while he’s leaning against the cushion. He’s looking at his phone with a faint frown.

The sharp suit from the other night is nowhere to be seen. He’s in a pair of gray slacks and a linen button-down, the top two buttons undone again.

He looks up when he hears me.

The frown disappears, replaced by the slight curve to his lips. “Hello.”

“Hi. Have you been waiting long?”

His eyes glide down over my outfit for a long moment. “Forever,” he says.

Something in his tone makes me blush.

We leave the house on foot. He asks me where we’re going, but I tell him it’s a secret.

“And we’re walking?” he asks.

That makes me chuckle. “Yes and no. One of your cars would not have helped. Not if we’re having drinks later. This place is close.”

“How do you know restaurants to go to already? You’ve been in London for five minutes.”

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