Page 112 of That Reunited Feeling

“Oh, well, if it’s for Maggie.” Jude softens slightly. “I know exactly what she’d like.”

Jude squeezes between Hugo and the rack of foliage. He makes zero effort to move.

As she leads the way farther into the shop, Hugo’s focus drops to her backside. Of course it does. He looks at me over his shoulder and makes aphwoarface.

“You know Maggie, then?” he asks Jude’s butt.

“One of my favorites. I love thelocals.” Jude’s tone suggests what she doesn’t like is out-of-towners who think they’re God’s gift to women.

She stops by some sort of palm that’s about five feet tall. “Maggie admires this every time she’s here.” She shoves her hands into her pockets and keeps her eyes firmly on the plant. “I know she’d love it.”

“Well, I definitely can’t carry that back up the hill.”

“Or out the front door,” I chip in. The pot looks huge even from where I’m standing. It must weigh a ton.

“For Maggie, I would deliver,” Jude says.

“And what would you do forme?” I can see only the back of Hugo’s head, but I’d bet my London flat he’s looking at her under his waggling eyebrows. Something that a surprising number of women seem to find appealing.

“Deliver it to Maggie.” Jude’s voice is deadpan. Guess she’s impervious to the eyebrow thing.

“Well, I can make do with that. For now.” Hugo takes out his wallet. “Where do I sign?”

The thought of watching Hugo try to pick up anyone right now is pretty unbearable, but the thought of him trying to pick up Hannah’s cousin is beyond intolerable. “Like I said, I’ll wait outside.”

Leaning against the redbrick wall, I pull my phone from my pocket. Five new texts. My stomach flutters with anticipation—or is it foolish hope?—every time there are new messages. Then it shrinks when none of them is from Hannah.

Of course, I don’t expect to hear from her. She was clear. And she was right. There’s no point keeping in touch.

But I can’t shake the hope. Will I still be jittery ten years from now every time I get a text, just in case it’s finally from her? Possibly.

Hugo appears by my side, a satisfied grin decorating his face.

“That”—I point into the shop—“is Hannah’s fucking cousin. If you’ve just picked her up, you need to go right back in there and cancel. You can’t shag her and then fuck off back home when that’s exactly what Hannah’s accused me of doing.”

“Worry ye not.” He puts his arm around my shoulder, yanks me off the wall, and leads me back the way we came. “She’s really fucking hot. In a stern kind of way. And knows a shitload about plants. Not my type, though.”

I draw back and look at him with exaggeratedly wide eyes. “You mean the famous Hugo Powers charm failed you for once?”

He mimics my stare. “You mean just like the famous Tom Dashwood get-up-and-go seems to have gotten up and gone?”

I sigh and shake my head.

“Anyway,” he continues, pulling up the collar of the parka, “when are you coming home?”

“Home?” I’m suddenly unsure where he means.

“Yeah, London. You know. Where you live. Where your business is.” He stops in his tracks and gasps. “Oh my God. Do you feel more at homehere?”

“Here in Blythewell?” I scoff. “God, no. Village life is not for me. I can’t bear the thought of living among local gossips who’re outraged if you don’t deadhead your roses at the right time, and you can’t fire your cleaner for being useless because she’s the daughter of the plumber you need to fix your sink.”

“I meant ‘here’ as in this country. The States,” Hugo says. “Not specifically this little place.”

Since I can only dream of having an answer to that question, I just shrug.

“Yeah,” Hugo says. “It must be odd growing up American, then becoming British as an adult. Where do you feel most like you belong?”

On the tip of my tongue are the words “Next to Hannah,” but I bite them back. That would be ridiculous and pathetic.

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