Page 27 of Hush Money

“It is.”

I go straight to the sofa and install myself before she can object further. “Great. I love carriages.”

“You never mentioned you were a Bridgerton fan,” she says, following me and sitting way down at the other end of the sofa.

“Bridgerton. Huge fan. Love it. Watch it every chance I get.”

A glimmer of amusement from her. “This from the guy who I’m guessing never watches TV and would probably only watch European soccer and, I don’t know, Martin Scorsese movies if he did.”

I laugh because she’s not wrong. Matter of fact, either choice sounds delightful.

She narrows her eyes at me. “So who’s your favorite Bridgerton character?”

“Smedley Whitkins,” I say without missing a beat.

She bursts into laughter that lights up not just her brown eyes but this whole cottage and my world and my soul. I want to laugh with her but I can’t, because that’s when it hits me. That’s when I know. I don’t have much of a heart left after what I’ve been through with my marriage. But the damaged remnants love Tamsyn. Love her. She’s so smart. So funny. So kind and good. So fucking sexy.

And she gets me. The parts of her that I let her see, anyway.

Her laughter tapers off, probably killed by my silent intensity as I resolve to keep my newfound realization to myself and keep things light for now. It’s too much, far too soon. I barely got her to agree to stay as it is. I’m not about to say or do anything to scare her off. Instead, we stare at each other for a long beat or two, during which we come to the unstated but mutual conclusion that I’m not leaving and she’s not kicking me out.

“So,” she finally says, her color high as she clears her throat. “How did it go with the detective?”

“What? Oh, the detective.” I glance away, determined to get my brain back online as quickly as possible. “Fine, I guess. She left right after you did.”

“She seems nice.”

“She also seems pretty sharp. I’m hoping she’ll help us figure out what’s going on. I’ve already reached out to my private investigators. I want some answers.” I shoot her a pointed glance. “And I don’t want to talk about that part of my life any more tonight.”

“Aye, cap.”

I decide to ignore the sarcasm. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Oh, I, ah…” She tries to look upbeat and smile but fails miserably. “Tomorrow is my dad’s birthday. So I want to go to his grave. Maybe bring some flowers.”

Whoa. I didn’t see that coming. “Oh. Where’s the grave?”

“Brooklyn. My old neighborhood in Bushwick.”

The thought of her making this sad and solitary journey back to Brooklyn does not thrill me, and I’m sure my expression reflects it.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she says, frowning.

“Why didn’t you mention this sooner?”

“During all our downtime in the last day or so, you mean?”

“Point taken. Is my driver taking you?”

A startled laugh. “First of all, I had no idea you had a driver, but I’m somehow not surprised. Second, no. Of course not. That’s too much trouble.”

“So you’re taking one of the cars?” I say, thinking that the Range Rover makes the most sense for her. It’s nice and sturdy, and all traffic into the city involves maniacs and people with death wishes.

“No. I’m taking the train.”

“The train? I can have someone take you. Hell, it might make more sense to send you in the helicopter.”

“The helicopter? You have a helicopter?”

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