Page 67 of One Wrong Move

“English literature?”

“Yes. She raised me on Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters, Dickens… Actually, it’s partly why I was so excited about this job being in London. I love period dramas, the history, the beautiful architecture. My mom might come for a visit later, and we’re looking at doing one of those tours. You know, the one that stops at Shakespeare’s birthplace and Jane Austen’s home and stuff?”

“There are tours like that?”

“Nate,” I tell him seriously, “there are tours for everything.”

He smiles into his glass. “Of course there are.”

“So, I’m going to try to do that. Mom’s been… well.” The recent conversation, about how Dean had spoken to her and tried to influence her to change my mind, dampens my excitement a bit. She’s been supportive. Mostly. She just doesn’t understand, and that was hard in the beginning, when I was still doubting my own decision.

The food disappears at the speed of the rising sun outside our window. The golden rays illuminate London and make the serpentine Thames glitter wherever it’s glimpsed between the buildings.

For a few long minutes, we just sit and take it all in. It isn’t until we leave that I realize I never took a picture. But forgetting to photograph beautiful moments is the best of signs.

It’s six thirty when we emerge back onto the sidewalk. The tiredness is like a blanket around me, heavy and welcoming, and even Nate looks like he could do with a nap. He runs his hand through his hair several times while we wait for our cab.

Some people throw us curious glances. It’s fairly deserted since it’s Saturday, but a few who walk by are in suits. Working, despite the weekend, here in the financial district.

With Nate in his tux and an undone bow tie, and me in my golden dress, it looks like we’ve been partying until dawn. A couple that’s stayed out all night.

That thought makes me giggle.

Nate brushes his shoulder with mine. “What are you thinking of now, Harpy?”

“Harpy?”

“You said you’d never had a nickname, so I’m testing some out.”

I giggle again. “Well, harpy is terrible. And I was thinking what the people walking by must be thinking of us right now.”

Nate leans in, his breath by my ear. “About how much they want to be us.”

I roll my eyes. “No, they’re not.”

“Of course they are. You think I can’t be arrogant, or belittling, or entitled?” His gaze makes my stomach tighten. “I will tell you exactly what they see. They see two people who’ve had the night of their lives. They see frivolity and excess, the result of a night of partying. And if they’re male, well…” His lips curve into that crooked smile, the real one. “They very much want to be in my shoes right now.”

My throat feels dry. “Because they think you’re going home with me?”

“They do.” He chuckles, and the tension in my stomach breaks. “And I am. Just not that way.”

My smile widens. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“Don’t worry,” he says dryly. “I won’t.”

It’s a miracle that I manage to stay awake in the cab. We walk in muted silence up the steps to the townhouse. The sun is high over the rooftops now, and birds chirp happily from behind the garden walls.

“What time did you wake up yesterday morning?” he asks.

“Seven-fifteen.” I glance at my watch. “Shit. I have another twenty minutes for this to be considered an all-nighter.”

“Then we’ll just need to keep you awake for the next twenty minutes.” Nate locks the door behind us, and I wander into the living room, an area I haven’t used as much as I would have liked, mindful of his space.

Now I throw myself on the giant couch.

He chuckles. “TV?”

“Please, or I won’t be able to keep my eyes open. And make it really, really loud.”

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