Page 81 of One Wrong Move

“Because of your mutual friend,” he says. “This ex-fiancé of yours, who, judging by what you’ve told me, seems deserving of the ex role.”

“I agree. He’s also the reason I was hesitant about hanging out with Nate in the first place. My plan has always been to get as far away from my ex as possible. But now…” I look down at the dog resting his head on my lap, eyes closed, soaking up affection along with the evening sunshine. “Now, we’ve become real friends, too.”

“Of course you have,” Richard says. “I think that’s a knack of yours.” He stretches out his legs with a muffled groan and looks at Stanley, who is lying supine at his feet. “In youth, friendship is easy to take for granted. It often comes by easily, but it can be gone just so. Plenty of opportunities to make new mates when your life is busy and your days are long. But as years pass, new friends are terribly hard to come by, and you realize you may have treated true friends far too cavalierly… and lost them.”

I follow Richard’s gaze to Stanley and his softly wagging tail. “I’m sorry if you’ve lost someone.”

“We all lose friends,” he says. “Just make sure you’re okay with the reason you lose them. Not talking this out with your fine fellow would, I believe, be a mistake.”

I nod slowly. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. We can’t live together and never address it.”

“You can. But take it from someone who’s lived seventy-eight years, if you don’t handle things as you must, they never truly go away.”

I smile. “Handsome and wise?”

Richard huffs a laugh. “You Americans and your compliments.”

“What would be the more British thing for me to say?”

He frowns in thought. “‘That’s sage advice,’ perhaps. Or nothing at all. Just a nod of approval.”

“I’ll do that next time.” I bend down to press a kiss on Quincy’s soft head. He smells like grass and dog, in the best of ways. “Thank you for listening, I really appreciated it.”

“Quincy and Stanley are good listeners,” Richard says. Even though I know, and he knows, who my compliment was actually meant for. We say our goodbyes, and I leave him and his dogs sitting on his favorite bench and reaching for the book he put down when I came.

The house is quiet when I walk through the door. The cleaners were still working diligently when I left for the day, but they’re gone now, and with them, all the evidence of last night’s party. The living room, the kitchen, the dining room—every area has been restored to the beautiful luxury I’ve gotten to know when I arrived here a few weeks ago.

Nerves make my stomach tight. I fight the impulse to escape to my room and, instead, walk into the kitchen. It’s Sunday night, and my usual routine is meal prepping. So that’s exactly what I start doing. Even as my mind is having a hard time focusing on cutting up the carrots and zucchini, stubbornly lingering on the previous night.

I had too much to drink. So did he, I think. That has to be the reason for what happened, and I know that, but it doesn’t make the memory hold any less weight.

Footsteps echo in the living room, shoes against the hardwood floor. My hand squeezes around the knife I’m holding, the carrot forgotten beneath the blade.

Nate enters the kitchen.

He’s in workout shorts and a black T-shirt, his hair ruffled and damp at the temples. There’s high color on his cheeks. He must have come from the basement gym.

He stops when he sees me. Glances from me to the array of food and Tupperware in front of me on the kitchen island.

One second passes.

Another.

“Hey,” I say. “Worked out?”

He nods and runs a hand through his hair. Gone is the easy, charming smile on his face, the one he had used too liberally last night. The fake one, I’ve started to call it.

“Yes.” His voice is smooth, but it holds a careful note. “Haven’t seen you around much today.”

“I went to the British Museum, actually. Another check mark on my list, and then I took a walk in the park.”

“Right. Enjoyed it?”

“Yeah, the museum was great. Really big. I’ll have to go back,” I say. The tension feels thick, like I could cut it with the knife I’m holding if I try hard enough. My pulse is racing. “The party last night was fun.”

Nate takes a single step closer, but his face is unreadable. “Yes. It was.”

“The caterers, they made those amazing cheese stuffed dates wrapped in prosciutto? They were so good, I’ve already googled recipes so I could try making them myself. Didn’t you think they were awesome?”

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