Page 59 of Once upon a Summer Night

Ellie liked him. He was kind and considerate, though she could tell his manners were a bit practiced. But she took that as a compliment, that he thought she was worthy of putting his best foot forward.

“I have a confession,” she said, stopping to admire the view from the middle of the pedestrian bridge. It was strange how unintimidated she was by him, even though he was clearly from old money. And old money in Britain was not always, but quite often, a sign of titles and estates and aristocracy. When she offered to split the dinner bill, he looked at her in surprise, as though such a thing were foreign to him (and which he politely declined). His clothing was understated but expensive; his taste in everything from books to music, refined. He was classically trained in piano, a graduate of Eton, Harvard, and ultimately Cambridge, and he had spent years traveling the globe.

Her fears and nerves were unfounded, because even as she anticipated the swell of panic such a man of power normally evoked, Ellie felt at ease with him. He told her of his family, his work, and his short-term plans. She told him what it was like to run a London bookshop and about her aunt. They hadn’t stopped talking since Colin reluctantly returned to the car and left them alone.

“A confession? I’m all ears.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I have never been able to finishUlysses.”

Reg burst out laughing. “Well, that is surprising, coming from a bookshop owner!”

She giggled. “I know. It’s just that I can’t seem to get past the first fifty pages. It bores me to tears.”

He turned fully to her. “Who do you like, then? Other than, of course, Fitzgerald.”

She stared out over the river, the twinkling lights on the water reminding her of Boston, though they looked completely different.Focus on Reginald, not Colin. She slid aglance to her date, noting how his eyes never strayed from her face. He’d been a gentleman all night, and his interest in her was unmistakable.

“Jonathan Swift, Bram Stoker, Oscar Wilde…”

“Those are some of the Irish greats, absolutely. What Englishmen do you enjoy?”

“Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, oh! And Chaucer, of course.”

“Any others?”

She noticed he stepped closer, and though she didn’t tense, she didn’tnottense, either.

“Shakespeare, definitely. I’m sure there are others.”

He stepped closer to her. “Any other Brits that you might fancy?” He leaned closer, his cologne drifting over her senses, and Ellie knew he was going to kiss her.

And she was going to let him.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and his lips gently settled over hers. He slowly wrapped his arms around her, and she embraced him, but something was off.

She tilted her head, hoping to change the angle, and he responded. She opened her lips, and his tongue found hers, and there was…nothing.

Not even ahintof desire.

She carefully extricated herself from his arms and searched his face. He looked amazed, blown away, thrilled—and she wondered if maybe she missed something.

She studied him for a moment, confused by herself. She should be swooning with delight; he was everything she’d always dreamed about as a girl, before Andrew smashed her teenage dreams straight on through to reality. Reg was damn near perfect. But there was one thing he was not.

And that one thing was standing between her and a happily ever after.

Move on, Eleanor. You can’t change Colin’s mind. Happiness is a choice.

She glanced into Reginald’s deep blue eyes, then wrapped her arms around one of his and started to stroll. “Yes, Reginald. I definitely fancy another Brit.”

Gwen eyed Ellie speculatively.“So the date was awesome?”

“It was.”

“Did he kiss you?”

Ellie rolled her eyes. “Yes, he kissed me.”

Gwen squealed, then paused. “Wait a second. I know that look.”

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