Page 72 of One Wrong Move

He probably doesn’t need a wingwoman anyway. He might already have someone.

The more I think about it, the more it feels obvious. Of course he does. Which leads me to wonder why he hasn’t just said so.

Maybe he keeps that close to his vest, too. Another thing that he doesn’t share easily or at all.

I turn in feeling more dejected than I have in weeks. However, even the comfort of my glorious bed isn’t enough for restful sleep.

I wake up early on Saturday morning, the day Nate is supposed to host a party at the townhouse.

Yet he’s still not home. The place is still empty.

I go out for a walk in the neighborhood. The spring weather is beautiful, the sky is blue, and I love the architecture in Kensington. It’s almost noon by the time I get a text from Nate.

Nate: Finally got a flight out. It’s been a shitshow here. My assistant and the party planners should be at the house soon to start setting everything up. Don’t worry, they’ll stay on the first floor.

Damn. Does that mean I won’t see him until the party? I’m typing a question about when he’ll be arriving when I’m interrupted by two energetic barks.

Stanley and Quincy, the two dachshunds, and Richard are headed my way. He’s wearing another flat cap but no jacket this time, just a dress shirt with a down vest.

“Good morning,” he tells me. Quincy sits politely at his feet while Stanley nips around mine. “Isn’t it a fine day?”

We end up walking together in the garden. Now that I know how to access it, I’m here more often, in this beautiful and serene space reserved for local residents. The fountain in the middle bubbles happily, and Stanley revels in my pets, his little tail wagging. His floppy ears are like silk.

“I have a ball in here somewhere,” Richard mutters and reaches into the pockets of his vest. He holds up the ball to me with a knotted hand. “If you want to keep him entertained.”

I spend a solid hour chatting with Richard and playing with the dogs. He’s British, almost aggressively so, but he doesn’t seem to mind my small talk and aimless hovering. Quite the opposite.

When I finally head home, the townhouse’s glossy black door is wide open. Two men walk up the steps, carrying a giant cooler between them.

Preparations have begun.

I wave hello to the middle-aged woman standing in my living room—in Nate’s living room—and giving orders to caterers, porters, and all kinds of other personnel.

I sneak past everyone up to my room. Nerves keep me there for most of the afternoon. I read a book, search for a potential new apartment, and select what two art museums I want to go to the next day.

As the afternoon drags on, I choose a dress to wear tonight, only to change my mind and pick out another, and then another. I finally settle on a black dress that goes down to my ankles. It covers a lot… but it’s formfitting, and that makes it revealing all the same. I usually wear an oversized blazer with it, but standing in front of my huge bathroom mirror, I decide to skip the blazer.

The old me would cover up. Not the new me. Not London me.

Downstairs, the music starts to play, and I hear a pair of hurried feet descending the stairs outside my room.

Nate.

He’s home.

I don’t know anyone but him at this party.

I barely know what kind of party it is.

Cracking open my bedroom door, I peek through the gap. There are voices downstairs. Plenty of them, and for a moment, I consider closing the door and hiding. And maybe the old me would have done that.

Retreated with a book.

But that’s not the person I want to be. The person I’m working really hard to become, to inhabit, who embraces opportunities when they strike.

I walk down the stairs.

The first floor of Nate’s townhouse has been transformed into an elegant bar. People mill about, glasses of champagne in hand. The front door is open, and a man is standing just outside. Is that a bouncer? At a house party? Music is playing from speakers I can’t see. They must be hidden.

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