Page 94 of Better Luck Next Time

He laughed. “So we’re doing this part without the costumes?”

She lifted her brow and gave him a stern look.

Linking arms with her, he said in what sounded like a cross between an English and a Southern accent, “Yes, Miss Buchanan, let us go. Posthaste.”

She burst out laughing as they started to walk across the massive front lawn. Could it be called a lawn when there was a fountain in the middle of it? “Is that your version of a British accent?”

“You might find this shocking, but we didn’t have international accent classes in business school.”

“Well, they obviouslyshould,” she said, nudging her shoulder into his arm. “Think how useful it would be to speak to a French businessman in English with a French accent.”

He shook his head, his lips twitching. “Or perhaps he might find it slightly insulting?”

“Why, Mr. Hamilton,” she said, leaning away and feigning a look of reprimand. “Are you being contrary with me?”

He glanced down at her. “Never, Miss Buchanan.” Something shifted in his expression and he said with a seriousness only slightly undermined by his accent, “I never want to be contrary with you.”

She studied him for a second, and some of the uneasiness she’d felt about him, aboutthem, faded. Funny, how she’d mostly forgotten about it over the past ten or fifteen minutes. Then again, when she was with him, she never felt distrustful. It was only when she was away from him that the doubt began to seep in.

Coming to a stop, she dropped his arm, placed her hands on his chest, and stretched up to kiss him. “Thank you for this. All of it. I never want to be contrary with you either.” Then, feeling a little wicked, she added, “Unless it’s fun.”

“Oh, behave,” he said, his eyes full of mirth. He reached for her arm, gently tucking her hand over his forearm again, and they walked in silence for a few seconds. Something between them seemed to have shifted slightly, like they both felt more settled and secure.

She dropped her accent and asked, “Have you been here before?”

“When I was a kid, but I don’t remember anything about it except that my mom got me ice cream for not touching anything inside. I’ve been back once since moving to Asheville, for a meeting with several other brewers, but I didn’t get a tour of the entire place.” He squeezed her hand against his side. “I’m glad I’m doing it with you.”

This was getting too sappy for her comfort, so she lifted her chin and said in her British accent, “Can we take a stroll around the gardens later, Mr. Hamilton?”

“We can do anything you like, Miss Buchanan,” he responded in his British/Southern hybrid.

They played ‘Who are you?’ while they waited in line, skipping over the CrossFit guy’s family reunion, and Finn determined that a man with bushy sideburns close to the entrance was an ax murderer.

Adalia grinned, shaking her head. “Why would an ax murderer be going into the Biltmore?”

“I’m sure there are a dozen places to hide bodies in there,” he said with a serious face. “Perhaps somewhere in the dungeon.”

She took a step back and gave him an inquiring look. “You think they have a dungeon?”

“All these old mansions do,” he said matter-of-factly. “Or maybe he’s here to check out the dungeon to use for his next grisly murder.”

“Youdorealize that your stories just keep getting worse and worse, don’t you?” she teased. “Should we be concerned about going into a house with a dungeon an ax murderer is scoping out for his next crime?”

“Don’t worry,” he said with a smug smile. “I’ll protect you.”

She nudged her shoulder into his arm again. “MaybeI’llbe the one protectingyou.”

He laughed. “I believe that you could. We can protect each other.”

“There’s an ax murderer here?” asked the fuchsia-haired woman with thePrivate Eyesaddiction. She and her husband had filed in behind them, and the woman had been keeping an eagle eye on Adalia. Apparently she’d been listening in too. “You have the police on speed dial, don’t you, Bernard? Keep your hand over the button.”

Adalia leaned closer to Finn. “Look what you’ve done,” she whispered in a mischievous tone. “You’re scaring the other tourists again. If we get kicked out before we even get in, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Then I’ll sacrifice myself to make sure you make it in, Miss Buchanan,” he said in his fake accent.

“I should hope so,” she said. “But I don’t want to see it without you, so you better do some smooth talking if a security guard shows up.”

A man in front of them turned around and lowered his voice. “They have hidden doors, you know.”

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