CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

AMELIA

I braced myself. Truly I did. But nothing could have prepared me for the day.

When I round the corner to my usual meeting spot, a crowd—larger than my typical group of twenty—mill about. Not too dire at first glance. Most people seem disinterested, some tapping away on their phones. Others are caught up in idle chatter. Yet, a few rogue figures stand out, armed with cameras too hefty for casual snapshots.

Before I can announce myself, it’s blood in the water. Cameras and smartphones are shoved into my face so aggressively that I stagger back. “Amelia Stevens! Was that whole handcuffs stunt scripted?”

Whatever semblance of respectful distance the media maintained at the gala and the irritating hanger-oners of yesterday? Gone. This is a no holds barred barrage of questions.

“Were other players involved?”

“Were you fired from the Titans?”

“How long have you and Jake been seeing each other?”

I manage the most polished smile I can muster, edging back to carve out a bit of breathing room.

Amidst this frenzy, several bemused faces—likely my actual tour attendees—look on, their expressions a blend of curiosity and mild alarm. One chap alternates between checking his phone and squinting at me, clearly second-guessing whether he’s in the right spot at all.

Stay calm. Breathe. This whirlwind of attention comes with the territory when you’re dating a superstar athlete. No need to get my knickers in a twist.

I manage a weak “No comment.”

“Answer the question!”

Gritting my teeth, I turn to the few souls not brandishing recording devices. “Here for RhythmRoutes East Village?”

A smattering of nods and a couple of timid yeses sound. A mum clutches her son’s shoulder, anxiously looking around, while he seems more intrigued by the chaos than concerned.

Two giggling twenty-somethings look on, amused by the spectacle. Nearby, a pair of Asian tourists hover with cameras hanging from their necks that could rival the professional ones.

An elderly woman, her face tanned to a crisp and sporting a bright blue visor, beams triumphantly at her partner, wearing the green counterpart. “Told you this was the place to be! Way better than those boring bus tours,” she gloats. He grunts and gives me a skeptical once-over.

While chaos swirls around me, I check off names against my list and distribute headsets.

“Hi, I’m Amelia Stevens, and welcome to Rhy?—”

A mic is thrust in my face. “When did you get into the BDSM lifestyle?”

Anxious mum frantically shields her child’s ears, but the kid wriggles free, his eyes lighting up at this unexpected lesson in the birds, bees, and bondage.

Is this even allowed? Should I call the police? I weigh my options but decide to confront the ill-mannered lout. “I’m sorry, this tour is exclusively for registered attendees.”

“I paid!” the mic-wielding man shoots back, waving his phone displaying the confirmation email and thrusting out his other hand. I reluctantly pass him a headset.

Another fellow, maybe a rival, eyes him, then raises a hundred-dollar bill in the air. Before I can even process what’s happening, green-visored-grunter snatches it from his grip, swapping the cash for his headset and drags his squawking partner away. The newcomer turns to me, flashing a smug, victorious grin. My stomach twists, but I force a tight smile, doing my best to hide the sting.

I launch into my spiel about The Cube , increasing my own volume over the questions and herding the group over to the first stop. Some reporters drop back, but my new “guests” are persistent, dogging us.

A voice breaks through. “Are you pregnant with Jake Cunningham’s child?”

That’s quickly followed by a hooting. “Bet it’s not for a lack of trying!” Snickers sound.

“…Arlington Hall, you could catch?—”

“When are you due?” This isn’t even from a press person, but from one of the curious onlookers, the same guy who was checking his phone earlier. I thought he was verifying the details, but now it’s obvious his interest is more in me than the sights.

“I…ah.” My feet glue themselves to the pavement, and I swear I can feel every eyeball on the tour laser-focused on my belly. I laugh hysterically internally. The only thing in there is a ball of despair, not a baby. I mutter another “No comment,” before quickly moving to the next stop, everyone trailing behind as I rattle off facts about the Fillmore East and gesture dramatically at the lamppost outside.

We pass a sex shop on the way to Madonna’s first apartment, and one guy asks why I’m not pointing it out. “Supposed to be the best place for ball-gags!”

“Bet she’d look good with a ball gag on.” A snicker follows.

Why should it be any of their business if I’m a fan of ball gags or not?

Of course, that’s followed up with: “Have you or Jake ever shopped at a store like this before?” And then: “Are toys something you’re personally interested in, or was it all just for the prank?”

With each stop, my intended audience shrinks, replaced by a growing horde of reporters who seem to spring from the concrete.

By the time we reach Avenue A, only two couples remain. One woman keeps shooting irritated glances at the press and then pointed stares at me as though waiting for me to put a stop to it. I’m trying, lady. I really am.

But not to her standards because halfway through, she yanks off her headphones and marches up to me. “We’re leaving.” She nods to the group of vultures still eagerly snapping away. “We’ll get a refund.” It’s not a question. Dumbly, I nod. Because what else can I do?

At the end of the day, I’m perched on the edge of my bed, my gaze drifting to the RhythmRoutes sign. It’s a silent reminder of mounting pressures, but I push those thoughts aside as I wait for Jake’s face to pop up on my phone.

He’s seen the photos and the gossip that’s been posted and has been sending me comforting messages throughout the day. They boost my mood briefly, but then my mind spirals back into the chaos.

As promised, at exactly 7 p.m., the screen lights up, and there he is, still at the stadium, looking as weary as I feel. But he flashes the familiar smile that never fails to lift my spirits. “Hey, you.”

“I miss you.” The words tumble out before I can catch them.

“You okay?”

I manage a half-hearted shrug. “Not great. But I’m managing.” I muster up a brave front. “How do you handle all this madness?”

Jake scrubs a hand through his hair, but his voice is reassuring. “It’ll die down, Sweets. Trust me.”

His smile turns cocky. “And hey, after we win on Saturday, they’ll have something else to chatter about, and the focus will be back on me and my awesomeness.”

I give a small laugh at that. Off-screen, someone calls out to him, and he looks away for a second. “Be right there!” he hollers before turning back to me apologetically. “Sorry, Sweets. I only had a few minutes, but I wanted to hear your voice.”

“It’s fine. Take care.”

“Hang in there, okay?”

“I’ll try.”

Even after he hangs up, I keep staring at the screen. For those precious moments, I was transported away from all the craziness of the day, the weight of judgement, gossip, and cameras, and the nagging anxiety around money.

But now the reality of my situation sets back in. This is the new normal. A niggling thought worms its way through me. None of this, absolutely none of it, would have happened in Fordwich, where the biggest drama was a double booking. Oh yes, and the man you’re with, showing up with his pregnant fiancée.

Fine. So not that much better. But at least it wouldn’t be in your face.

Tomorrow, I tell myself. It will be better tomorrow.

Wednesday.

It’s not.

I really thought I had a handle on things, armed with a cup of oolong and bucketful of good intentions, my shoes slapping against the pavement in a staccato rhythm that matches my dubious heartbeat. It’s not going to get to me today. All I need to do is employ some coping strategies. Breathing. Reframing. I sip my tea, my version of liquid courage.

Catching my reflection in a shop window, I attempt an expression that I hope screams “cool, calm, and collected.” I’m in my tour-guide chic—a proper coat on instead of a bulky parka, spiffy Chelsea boots, and meticulously applied makeup. I force on a practiced smile. The glass, however, is merciless, reflecting back a woman who’s clearly a nervous wreck masquerading as a functioning adult.

By the time I reach to St. Mark’s, my game face is on. More people have shown up, though few look like they are there for the music. A chill starts up inside me at the sight of the vultures.

But as the tour kicks off, it’s apparent that the universe hasn’t received my memo of positivity because I walk straight into gems including “Any truth to the buzz that your safe word is ‘touchdown’?” and “Does he call out plays in bed? What’s the penalty for a false start?”

We’re marching past the famed mural on Second Avenue when serendipity throws me a bone in the form of Dave, a local busker I know from a spot farther along my route, who strums into view, his guitar slung over his shoulder. Relief washes over me at a familiar face in the sea of skepticism.

Until he starts challenging my stories. “That’s not quite how it went down,” he interjects, eyeing the nearest camera, radiating authority even though I know for a fact that his words are more fiction than, well…fact.

Somehow, Dave still manages to hijack two of my guests and an influencer with his tall tales. No sooner does he saunter off with his ill-gotten entourage than a woman dressed like a punk rocker sidles up beside me. My spirits lift for a second. “You have a question?”

“Hi! I’m Gina!” She beams. “You pass my shop around the corner every day—Bound to Please? We’re the one with the Shibari display?” At my blank stare. “The ropes and mannequins? Anyway, we develop top-tier toys for the discerning BDSM enthusiast. Would you consider a sponsored post, or maybe a shout-out during your tour?” she pitches eagerly. “We do toys suitable for individuals, couples, and multi-partner play.”

As I’m processing this unexpected business proposal, a particularly bold voice from the anonymity of the crowd pipes up, “Totally up for an MFM with you and Jake Cunningham.”

Marla attempts to continue, “Of course, we would compensa?—”

“I’m sorry, that isn’t the focus of RhythmRoutes,” I interject, quickly turning back to my own group, pointing at a famous mural, trying to steer the crowd’s attention to the art.

But before I can begin discussing it, another speculative offer rolls in. “Or you and a few of the Titans cheerleaders could make some music history of our own.”

I shoot a death stare his way, even as a mix of hoots and chuckles fills the air.

I continue to navigate through a minefield of inappropriate offers, unsolicited business proposals, and the ever-present doubting Thomases, Peters, and Pauls, my mind stuck in a loop of, “reframe, reframe, reframe”—like some magical incantation that might restore order.

Finally, we reach the gates of Albert’s Garden, and I gesture toward a brick wall in the far corner. “The Ramones’s first album—” I start, but am cut off by a jarring question.

“How do you justify your presence at public events for children? Do you think your chosen lifestyle is appropriate for that?”

My stomach churns with something uncomfortably close to shame, even though my brain’s screaming I’ve done nothing wrong.

“Pardon me?” That’s what slips out of my mouth, instead of a fiery “How dare you” or a sharp “Get the bloody hell out of my way.” No, like some well-mannered automaton, I stand there and say, “Pardon me.” As in, pardon me while I brace for your next blow. I’m ready now. More please.

I keep praying for a miracle. And one comes. Kind of, though not the sort I had in mind. The sky turns a shade of doom, and before I can herd my dwindling flock to shelter, the heavens unleash a deluge of biblical proportions, washing away any pretense of control I had over the day.

The tour is a washout, literally, and I terminate it less than halfway through. Most of my actual clients flee, leaving only the reporters, still snapping, unfazed by the downpour.

I look up at the sky and swipe at my face. Off comes my made-up bravado, streaking my fingers, a dark reminder to spring for waterproof next time.

At least Jake is out of the spotlight, deep in preparation for the playoffs, and I’m glad for him.

But there’s a tiny voice reminding me of his promise to weather this storm with me. The only support I have are his texts and a few quick phone calls, as useful as a parachute in a snowstorm, but I dismiss those thoughts quickly. It’s not his fault.

By Thursday, my panic has reached a new high. The rain hasn’t let up, forcing me to cancel yet another tour.

To make matters worse, my broker contacted me. Because of my lack of a credit history in the United States, the landlord wants an extra month’s rent.

I’m somehow able to wrangle a few more days to come up with the funds. But I’m worried. Really worried. Because my google reviews are nosediving and requests for refunds are coming in fast and furious. Tips? What a joke. If I burn through the rest of my savings, I’ll literally have no money.

Photos of me from the day before surfaced, and I’m an absolute wreck. I should have popped into a loo somewhere, put on a bit of blush and lipstick. Or at least run a comb through my hair. Because I look like I’m channeling Medusa. Or the corner bag lady. A hag. Flattery, thy name is not Amelia Stevens.

But amidst the ones of me impersonating drowned raccoon and some of Jake and me from the gala, they’ve also unearthed photos from Fordwich. Some from the inn. A few of my tours back in England. I hope they didn’t speak to Gran. Or Ben — who knows what he might have to say about me.

I scroll into the next photo and am startled. I squint. That’s not even me as a child. The hair color isn’t close at all. Whoever is posting this rubbish isn’t any top-caliber journalist. I see nothing from the New York Times . Something to be grateful for, yes? Because right now, I’m looking for silver linings.

I’m still staring up at the ceiling when my phone pings.

JCunningham

At the airport. Talk before I leave?

I might start sobbing if I hear his voice and can’t let him worry. My thumbs hover over the keyboard, and I type out the safest message I can muster.

Me

Currently marinating in the bath.

A beat. Then another. As if he knows I’m making up excuses.

JCunningham

Are you sure you don’t want me to get you a flight to the game?

Me

I promise I’ll watch it on TV. Good luck.

Friday.

It’s still pouring outside, each drop a thundering echo of the never-ending storm of gossip. My phone lights up with one salacious headline after another, only to dim just to be replaced by more. I don’t know why I subject myself to this torment. It’s a masochistic cycle I can’t seem to break, like some twisted modern version of penance where I whip myself with Wi-Fi instead of willow branches.

What am I doing about the flat? Is it too late to beg for another job with the Titans?

I miss Jake. More than I thought possible. He’s been at away games before, of course, but this time feels different. Now, without even those short stolen moments during the day, or those conspiratorial smirks meant just for me, his absence is a physical ache. I long for him to envelop me in his arms, tell me everything will work out. It’s so utterly unlike me to crave this support, when I’ve always been able to get by on my “buck up and get on with it” attitude, the very British keep calm and carry on. Well, I’m not calm, and I’m not carrying on, figuratively or otherwise.

Yvonne, Jeanine, and the rest of the Cunningham crew have been blowing up my phone. They’ve seen the posts, and Yvonne even offered to stay with me. I didn’t let her. I default to my “It’s fine.” It’s anything but.

In an attempt to find some semblance of normalcy, I wash already-clean dishes and turn on Survivor , muted in the background. There’s something oddly comforting, watching people outwit, outplay, and outlast, even if I can’t hear their triumphs or their tribulations. It’s the survival of the fittest, and right now, I feel anything but fit.

My phone rings and I ignore it. It’s probably another reporter. They’ve somehow discovered my number and have been texting and calling nonstop, rendering my device practically useless.

But what if it’s Jake?

Heart pounding, I grab it. But at the name on the screen, my stomach drops. It’s Gran.

For a moment, I’m tempted not to answer. But what if something’s wrong? “Hello.”

“Amelia.”

“Gran.”

“I have some news, and I thought it best you hear it from me.” Almost clinically, she goes on, “As you know, I’m getting on in years. It’s time I retired. I was waiting until you returned to tell you. But then you rang and told me of your decision to stay in New York. It was make other arrangements or continue to work. And I’m old. And tired. Your Aunt Elizabeth lost her husband last year and has suggested I move to Sutton Bridge and live with her.”

Guilt hits me. What did I expect? That Gran would run the place indefinitely? How na?ve had I been?

“And the inn?” I ask, barely above a whisper.

“I had always meant for you to take over.”

The guilt inside me deepens, but then she adds, “As such, I’ve had to make new arrangements,” she continues. “I’m considering giving the running of the inn to Benjamin and Margo. Permanently.”

The world is out of air. I shouldn’t be shocked, but I still am. My mind’s going a million miles over each sluggish second.

Gran pulls me back. “I’m not able to do it by myself. And given your decision to remain in the United States, it seemed only logical. After all, he has a child to think about now. They need the security. It’s only right that one looks after one’s family.”

“When?” I can’t stop my voice from cracking.

“I’m signing the paperwork in a fortnight. They’d like me to turn it over in the new year.”

“That soon?” I ask faintly.

“Yes.”

But even with all that logic, the words burst out of me. “But, Gran, why?” My hurt spills out, unrestrained.

There’s a silence for a moment. “You said you wanted to stay in New York.”

She speaks again, though this time, she sounds marginally more uncertain. “You’ll also have to make arrangements. Not immediately, but soon, to retrieve your belongings and such that are here. They’ll be taking over yours for the wee one.”

So I’m losing my home too?

“But Ben?”

“He’s the dependable choice.”

I almost choke.

That’s it. I have to tell her. “He’s not…he’s not what you think, Gran.” Anger and disappointment swell within me. And it all comes pouring out. “We were together—Ben and me. It started off as a casual thing, and when it became more, we kept it quiet, because we both worked at the inn and knew you wouldn’t approve. But then, as you know, he showed up with Margo. Pregnant.”

My confession hangs between us, raw and exposed as I wait, laid bare before the one person who has been my closest to constant.

Then I hear a hitch in her voice, the smallest quiver as she processes my words. “That’s why you left.”

I make a noncommittal sound.

“I wish you would have told me.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” I swallow hard. “Things over here are good.” No, they aren’t. “I have a meeting with an important company tomorrow, possible investors in the business. It will go well.” Please, please, let it go well.

“You know you always have a home with me. No matter where I end up.”

I nod, even though she can’t see. Words clog in my throat, refusing to emerge.

She’ll have to take me in all over again. And Sutton Bridge? What kind of life could I possibly build there? What tours could I offer? There’s hardly anything—just a swing bridge, two lighthouses, and the village church of St Matthew’s. Oh, and let’s not forget The Wash. Even Aunt Elizabeth’s husband used to call it the sticks before he passed. I’ll probably end up waitressing in the one restaurant.

“There’s a fortnight before I sign the paperwork,” she states abruptly. The words are a rope dangling before me that I’m too stubborn to seize. Wrapped in a mix of guilt and reluctance, I remain quiet, and the silence feels like a betrayal.

When we finally hang up with quietly murmured goodbyes, I’m drained. Thoughts of tomorrow’s tour, the looming meeting with potential investors, and the uncertain fate of the inn weigh heavily on me. The pressure of my situation has doubled, and the stakes are now sky high.

For the first time in days, the storm raging outside feels like a blessing. I welcome the excuse to bury myself under the covers, hidden away from the world that demands too much, too fast.