Page 36 of Cross My Heart

“No, she wasn’t,” Hugh calls across the room. “Just your heterosexuality.”

“Don’t believe a word they say,” Max says, giving me a wink. “He’s all talk, no trouser.”

My eyes find Saint’s, and he chuckles at the memory. Max looks between us. “What?”

“That’s what I told Saint,” I admit, and Max chortles with laughter.

“I like her already,” he says, slapping Saint on the back, and going to pour a glass of wine.

“Are you a student at Ashford?” Annabelle asks, friendly, drawing me over to the fire. She’s the kind of pretty that I’m used to seeing on the pages of magazines: sparkling blue eyes, pouty lips, and an aristocratic nose.

“Graduate student,” I correct her immediately, not wanting them to think I’m just another one of Saint’s adoring conquests.

Except, you want to be…

“I’m here on fellowship for the year,” I add.

“Oh, fun! I was at Magdalen, back in the day,” she continues, naming one of the other old, exclusive colleges. “And these guys will never let me hear the end of it. Old college rivals,” she explains.

“Booo!” Hugh calls. Annabelle gives me a look.

“See?”

“So, what do you do now?” I ask, beginning to relax. This group seems fun enough, and I just need to keep a low profile, and ask a few questions, to get a sense of who these people are—and how their paths might have crossed with Wren.

“Do?” Annabelle echoes. “Oh, you know, this and that.” She makes a fluttering gesture with her hand. “I’m on a couple of charity boards, and of course, planning the wedding is a full-time job all on its own!”

“Of course,” I echo, hiding a smile. I forget that these people live in a very different social class to me—the kind where jobs and careers are voluntary, and not necessary to pay for rent and groceries. “I can’t imagine. Is the date soon?”

“A couple of months,” Annabelle replies. “I have a wedding planner, but she’s more stressed than mummy, and I’m spending all my time trying to calm the both of them down! And then there’s the florist—”

“Dinner is served,” Saint announces, interrupting Annabelle’s monologue of wedding prep.

“And don’t worry, he didn’t cook,” Imogen says with a smirk. “I saw the caterers leaving, just as I arrived.”

“Only because my famous lamb takes a good three hours to roast,” Saint protests, smiling broadly.

“You mean, the famous lamb that gave half of us food poisoning last year?” Hugh teases him.

“I still say that was the dodgy kebabs you had on the way home!” Saint meets my eye and gives me a wink. I smile back, surprised. Seeing him relaxed among friends is a new side to him, warmer and more at ease.

And even more tempting.

The others make their way through to the dining room, and I follow. “Don’t believe a word of it,” Saint tells me, sounding amused. “I’m an excellent cook, I can promise you that. I make a world-class omelet.”

“Offering to make me breakfast already?” I give him a knowing smirk. “Isn’t that kind of cheap pickup line beneath you?”

He smiles. “That wasn’t my intention at all, but it’s interesting that’s where your mind went… Straight to bed.”

His hand settles on my back for the briefest moment as he guides me into the room, and I feel a rush of heat.

It’s the first time he’s touched me—on purpose, at least.

How is that possible? I wonder. After everything we’ve already shared…

“Here,” Saint shows me to a chair at the formal dining table and pulls it out for me. “You’re right next to me.” His voice is low, and when I glance up, sliding into the seat, I see my own heat reflected in his eyes.

He feels it too.

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