Page 36 of Tattered Edges

“Thanks for the tea.”

I didn’t wait for her to speak a word of response.

It was my turn to make a dramatic exit.

So, I did.

Ratherthanreturntothe bookstore in my flustered state, I tucked my hands into my mittens and wandered around for a while. I thought about calling Diane, but it was first thing in the morning for her. I knew if she answered and saw I was upset, she would stop getting ready for the day and focus on me—but I didn’t want to be the reason she was late to the gallery. Moreover, it was silly to wallow. I’d already been disappointed by the Blackstones. To let myself go through those emotions all over again seemed self-depreciating.

Cognizant of my responsibilities and my promise of a timely return, after a half an hour in the cold I found my way back to Tattered Edges. When Victoria asked me about my visit with Eloise, I told her it went as well as expected—which was not well at all—and that I didn’t much feel like talking about it. She respected my wishes and distracted me with her ideas for a new window display.

At six thirty, I sent Victoria home, insisting I could close up shop by myself. Fifteen minutes after the top of the hour, I was headed upstairs. Still not hungry after the feast I’d had a tea, I didn’t worry over dinner. Instead, after I slipped out of my shoes, I pulled my mother’s book out of my purse and found my way to the couch. I didn’t bother flipping through the pages, but I extracted my father’s letter from the inside and unfolded it.

Archie and Eloise clearly had no interest in a relationship with me, and that was fine. In a way that took me by surprise, I’d found great purpose and pleasure in taking ownership of the bookstore. It was the whole reason I packed up my life and hauled it halfway around the world. Admittedly, I’d done so with anothing-to-loseattitude; but after only a week, I had a new awareness of what was at stake. Now, I had everything to lose—or, more accurately—something important to fight for.

Except, one thing Eloise said at tea stuck with me all evening. The truth that Sawyer Blackstone hadn’t seen fit to invite me into their world before he left it. It was a reality I’d thought about countless times in the weeks since I learned who he was. WhoIwas. He’d kept me a secret from his family, and himself a secret from me, just as my mother had kept me from him. Considering this, it was hard to blame my siblings for their lack of interest in me, and their perception that I was nothing more than an obstacle. In their eyes, I wasn’t significant enough for Sawyer to fully claim as his. I was some sort of charity to whom he’d bequeathed the most insignificant part of himself.

Except, that wasn’t true.

Regardless of whether or not any of us agreed with him, he had his reasons—and I had his letter. One sided as it was, it was the only conversation we would ever have. That night, I wanted to have it again.

I read through all three pages of his letter, handwritten in a neat, masculine script. Absorbing the words again, in London, in his flat, on his couch, and with a vague idea of the man he was, I reminded myself that life and love was complicated. There was no perfect way to go about it. I was twenty-six years old when he found out about me. He was forty-eight and married with two grown children he’d raised and set free.

He was wrong to think I didn’t need him. He was a coward for keeping himself hidden in the shadows. But Eloise had it wrong.

At least—she didn’t have it all right.

He had claimed me. He’d left me my birthright.

I was beginning to read the letter again when I noticed the absence of a sound. Rather than something being turned on, I was hyper aware something had been turned off. I frowned, trying to identify what was missing. The lights were on, which meant I still had power. I set aside the letter, got off the couch and headed for the kitchen. Upon opening my fridge, I confirmed it was still running, too. It took five minutes of me wandering around to figure out what the problem was.

My hands hovering over the radiator meant to warm the living room, I realized my heat was malfunctioning.

The first place I was drawn to was my fuse box. Unfortunately, that was not the least bit helpful. The boiler switch was still on. I reset it anyway, but nothing happened. After a quick Google search, I surmised I had a problem with the building’s boiler itself.

Of course, I knewnothingabout boilers.

I sent Victoria a text, curious if she had any ideas. She responded almost right away, informing me broiler problems were a common occurrence at thirty-one St. Andrew’s Hill.

Sawyer usually fiddled around a bit and could get the thing going again. Only trouble is if you’re afraid of heights. It’s located on the roof.

I groaned in frustration as I read her reply.

My day had started off so well.

I wasn’t afraid of heights, but I knew there was no point in venturing up to the roof. Simply locating the boiler wouldn’t fix the problem. I needed someone who knew what he was doing.

Chances were good I needed Rory.

The last couple of days had been eventful enough that I hadn’t given him a ton of thought. Now that he was on my mind, the last thing I wanted was to play the damsel in distress again. I didn’t think I had much of a chance with him in the first place, but I knew if I became the needy neighbor, it would tank my desirability. At the very least, I wanted to be the fun, smart, cute American woman next door. Except, I wasbooksmart, nothandymansmart.

I pulled up the weather app on my phone. The low that night was going to be thirty-two degrees.

Fahrenheit. Not Celsius.

It was nearly eight o’clock. I wasn’t a physicist, but I knew it would take time for the temperature inside to drop to unbearable levels. Plus, I had brick walls, insulation, and was located in the top half of the building. With any luck, I could tough it out until morning and then call in an expert who knew how to fix a boiler.

It was a solid plan for about ninety minutes.

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