Page 8 of Play On

In fact, I should do it now, in a move of supreme cowardice. Noah is probably asleep. I can text him and be done with it.

I get up and go to my bedside table to retrieve my phone off the charger. I tap the screen and it immediately illuminates my room, the glow of it providing some light. To my surprise, I see I have a new text.

From Noah.

I gasp when I see his name, and now I’m full of anxiety as I open the message. He sent this whilst I was sitting here at the window, because this wasn’t there when I checked the time before getting out of bed. I find myself holding my breath as I read:

Violet—I’m going to assume you’re going to read this in the morning, so good morning. Right now, it’s after two and I can’t sleep. I’m blaming you, Lady Violet Banfield. I can’t stop thinking about you and can’t wait for our date in London next week. You should be flattered—I’ve never felt this way before.

To my surprise, I feel a lump swell in my throat. Why am I getting upset? I don’t really know Noah. We haven’t had a date. I shouldn’t be reacting like this.

But I know why I am. Noah is special, and I’m about to shove him away.

Even if it’s for the best in the long run, even if I’m sparing myself a train wreck in the future, this is hurting my heart at the moment.

I begin to reply to his message, and my hands are shaking.

“God, Violet, stop acting like a lovesick idiot,” I whisper to myself. I start typing:

Hi, Noah, I’m up, too. But I’ve been thinking about our date next week, and I’m sorry, I don’t think it’s a good idea. I got caught up in the weekend, and I really think it’s best that we stay friends. I have my life inDorset, you’re going to have the season coming up and you’ll be in Surrey/travelling, and I think this is the best for both of us. I’m sorry I didn’t think this through before I accepted your date. Wish you all the best, Violet.

My finger hovers over the send button.

Don’t do it,my heart suddenly shouts at me.You’ll regret it if you do.

I will my heart to shut up and then I hit send.

“Shit!” I immediately gasp as I do.

What am I doing? Do I really want to do this without even giving it a try? Maybe Noah doesn’t care about everything I’m worrying about. May—

Noah Darby is typing …

I hold my breath as I wait for his text to come through, and finally, it does:

Understood.

I stare at the one word that is on my screen.

And to my surprise, I begin to cry.

* * *

I don’t wake up until later on Monday morning, and when I finally drag myself out of bed and downstairs, I find two painters in our den. Mum was changing the colour scheme here, and today is the day they are going to be here working. I say hello, noticing they have Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” cranked up—which is an interesting choice for painting, I’ll give them that—and continue on my way to the kitchen.

Mum and Dad headed out early this morning to look at some furniture. They plan to be back by noon. There’s no sign ofNicholas or Amelia, his girlfriend who works alongside him here at Wintersmith Hall.

My thoughts are distracted for a moment when I think of Nicholas and Amelia, and it brings a smile to my face. Amelia came to me seeking an opportunity to start a bridal business here at Wintersmith Hall—and Nicholas said he would entertain supporting the idea to Dad and Mum as long as Amelia worked alongside him to learn estate management first. It’s an interesting situation. Amelia lives nearby at Swallowhedge, one of the grandest estates in all of England—but her parents havezerointerest in opening the home to the public, let alone having a bridal boutique and hosting weddings on-site.

I always knew Nicholas was madly in love with Amelia from when we were all teenagers, but something happened to keep them from becoming romantically involved. They had some kind of falling out—Nicholas would never speak of it—and went from being the best of friends to despising each other. This nonsense went on for years, but now?

They’ve decided they’d rather date instead.

And from the way they look at each other?I know they’re in love.

I reach the kitchen, thinking about how they found each other, and as I open a packet of crumpets and put one into the toaster, Noah comes back to the forefront of my mind. Bits of our conversations float back to me, and I can see the way he looked at me with those deep brown eyes of his as if I were the most interesting woman he’d ever spoken to. He actually listened to me, even though I talked endlessly. I know he did because he was actively engaged the whole time, responding to what I said or asking me questions.

Noah was different from any man I’d ever met.

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