Page 19

Stella

London is wet. Dreary. Hideously cold. Just plain nasty. And I’m thrilled to be here.

This is far from my first visit, but my face was still glued to the window as the plane descended, admiring the gray-green scenery. Even in the back seat of the sedan Thomas hustled me into, I was paying more attention to the (less-than-thrilling) views of the congested M4 than anything he was saying.

But now that we’re easing our way into Kensington, the reality of our situation starts pressing down on me.

“Is my stuff already here?” I ask Thomas.

The look he gives me says he’s already talked about this, but he graciously repeats himself. “Yes, everything your assistant sent over arrived yesterday. The staff hasn’t unpacked anything, but if you want them to, just tell me and I’ll pass along the message.”

I’m curious as to what kind of staff he has. Maids, chefs, maybe even a full-on butler? He seems the type to ring a little bell and call for a man named Alfred.

I don’t get a chance to ask, because the sedan comes to a smooth stop in front of a row of attached houses. Each one has a slightly different exterior, but they’re all architecturally stunning—and expensive. I’m betting every house on this street costs at least a cool ￡10 million. Even the tiny front gardens and winter-barren landscaping can’t hide the wealth that lives here.

“Home sweet home,” Thomas says as the driver opens my door, a cold blast of air stinging my cheeks.

Home. I don’t know if I really have one anymore, but this is at least where I’ll be living. When Thomas asked if I was ready to go home, the idea excited me, warmth blooming in my chest at the thought of having a safe place to land after surviving so much chaos. But now that I’m here, it feels like just another house, four new walls that won’t bring me the comfort that my apartment with étienne did.

Looking back, I can certainly complain about the ugly parts of our relationship, but there were beautiful times too, especially there. All the nights we stayed up too late watching his favorite shitty horror movies, cuddled up on the couch he hated but that he insisted we buy because I liked it. All the bakes I made, which he’d take into his office the next day, returning with praise for me from his employees. Or the time when our faucet broke and sprayed water all over the kitchen and he put on an édith Piaf album and slow-danced with the mop as I laughed from my dry spot up on the counter.

It wasn’t all bad, and that apartment got to see the best of it. It’s what, in my lowest moments, I want to return to.

But I’ll never have that back, no matter how much I yearn for the solace of that place and the memories made there. So fuck it. I might as well start over and make the best of what’s been offered to me.

And I’ve been offered something very nice.

Thomas escorts me through the wrought iron gate that separates the sidewalk from the front garden and up the narrow path to the white stone building. There’s a bay window to the right of the front door, and I catch a glimpse inside before he turns the knob of the gleaming black door. It looks a lot like the lobby of a hip luxury hotel with low-slung velvet couches and oil paintings in heavy bronze frames. It’s far more contemporary than I was expecting from Prince Charming’s classic—okay, let’s be honest: old-fashioned—vibe.

When the door swings open, I’m met with a wider foyer than I expected, and I consider ducking back outside to make sure we haven’t suddenly been transported somewhere else.

“This is way bigger than I thought it would be,” I say as I glance around, taking in the herringbone-carpeted staircase and the black-and-white gallery wall leading to the second floor. “It looked so narrow from outside.”

Thomas rubs the back of his neck, a sheepish smile on his face. “That’s because it’s actually three buildings put together. We kept the facades of the individual houses but knocked down the interior walls.”

I was wrong. This isn’t a ￡10 million house, it’s ￡30 million at the very least.

I glance around appreciatively, leaning past him to take in the room that branches off to the left. “Didn’t realize racing paid so well.”

“Sometimes it does.”

It’s another vague answer, like when he told me his family was in hotels and was reluctant to elaborate. I shoot him a wry look. “But it didn’t pay for this, did it?”

“Not completely,” he admits. Eager to change the subject, he extends an arm, motioning past the staircase to the house beyond. “Shall I give you the full tour?”

I drop my purse on the sideboard and kick off my shoes. “Lead the way.”

We start at the back, where there’s a beautiful sunroom off the kitchen. “Doesn’t actually get much sun,” he says dryly.

I take my time in the kitchen, peeking in the aggressively large stainless-steel fridge and running my fingers over the stove’s eight burners. There’s a wall-mounted double oven and top-of-the-line equipment that I’d bet good money he’s never touched a day in his life. In fact, some of it is so new that there’s still plastic wrapped around the cords.

Maybe it’s because he doesn’t spend much time here, considering he’s busy traveling around the world, but wouldn’t his chefs have removed that by now? Unless…unless it’s not his chefs’ equipment.

I don’t have to look closely to see the stand mixer is the same brand I use for small-batch testing and cooking at home. Same with the handheld appliances lined up perfectly on the marble countertops. They’re even the same color that I prefer—a shade of café au lait that’s available only by custom order. But those aren’t mine sitting there. No, mine are beat to hell from use. These are fresh out of the box.

There’s no way he bought them just for me. To have gone through all the trouble of not just purchasing them, but in the exact specifications I love. Absolutely not.

But…did he?

We’re moving on with our tour before I can work up the nerve to ask. There’s an impressive gym in the basement, with mirrors lining the walls and every weight and cardio machine a gym rat could want. There’s even a Pilates reformer machine in the corner. The thought of him sliding around on it has me covering up a laugh with a cough.

Our next stop when we go back upstairs is a space I wasn’t expecting, but I give an impressed click of my tongue when he swings the door open.

“And this is my trophy room,” he announces with a grand gesture.

I stare at the rows and rows of sparkling trophies, plaques, medals, and even helmets that I’m guessing were specially made for past races. If this is anything to go on, man’s been winning a lot in his life.

“Damn,” I murmur, impressed. “I need to get one of these for myself.”

“We can share,” he says easily. “I’ll make room for you.”

I snort, backing out of the room again, but there’s a flutter in my chest at the idea of him wanting to display my accomplishments next to his. The simple idea of him making room for me in his life.

Remember, this is temporary. It’s not even real.

The voice in the back of my head is right. I shouldn’t get caught up in his sweet words, as heartwarming as they are.

“Okay, time to show me to my room,” I urge, gently shooing him back toward the foyer and the staircase.

I do my best not to stare at his ass as he leads us upstairs, but I’m only human, and damn he has a nice one. To distract myself, I peruse the photos hanging on the wall as we pass them. It’s mostly an array of him and his family over the years, with a couple of friends thrown in. I stop when I spot a vaguely familiar face, still recognizable even though she’s a few years younger in this snap than the one I’ve already seen.

I tap Thomas’s back, then point to a photo of the smiling blonde when he stops and glances at me. “Is this Miss She’s Not My Type?”

His eyes follow my finger, lips pursing slightly. “That’s the one.”

“She’s beautiful.” I don’t say it because I feel threatened or inferior to her, but because it’s the truth and I’m not about to deny it. She’s a stunner with big green eyes, a wide toothy smile, and the kind of wavy hair that takes a hell of a lot of hot tools to achieve, even though it looks effortless. Truthfully, she and Thomas would make a gorgeous couple, but knowing that she’s not his type and that he’s never been interested changes the dynamic. “Is she actually in love with you? Because I don’t want to go out of our way to hurt her.”

He stares down at me from his vantage point on a higher step, considering my question. I appreciate that he’s thoughtful about it. Men who only care for and respect the women they’re attracted to are the kind I prefer to stay far away from, and his answer will decide whether I need to pull up that list of divorce lawyers my mother sent over.

“She may think she’s in love with me,” he finally says, and there’s an honest note in his voice that almost reads as sorrowful, “but she only loves the idea of me. What I represent. Not me as an actual person.”

There’s something crushing to that response that resonates in my chest. It’s a combination of my own hurts, my ability to relate, and his pain from being viewed that way. It makes me want to grab his hand and hold tight.

But that’s against my own rules, so I keep my fingers curled at my sides, ignoring the urge.

When I don’t say anything else, Thomas turns and keeps going. The second floor is a soothing space, all soft neutrals and plush cream-colored carpet. He mentioned having several bedrooms, and I’m assuming there are a few in each wing of the house, with the room straight across from the landing acting as an office-slash-library.

“I had your things placed in the east wing’s primary suite. I hope that’s okay.”

I glance down the hallway, then back to him. “Where’s your bedroom?”

“The west wing. I figured you’d want plenty of privacy in case you…” He trails off before clearing his throat, a hint of pink tingeing his cheeks. “In case you have visitors.”

Right, it’s my own get-away-with-cheating rule by another name. I don’t have any plans to utilize it, but I’m not the only one with the option, and I don’t want to hear his potential visitors either. This benefits us both.

“That’s fine,” I say, pushing away the strangely stomach-turning idea of him with someone else. “You probably won’t want to hear all of my work calls anyway. I’ve been told I get a little passionate when it comes to new macaron flavors for the menu.”

Thomas huffs a laugh. “I think I’d actually like to hear that.”

He can say that now, but he’ll regret it when I’m ranting on the phone at ten p.m., thanks to the time difference between here and America’s East Coast. I’m about to tell him as much when I spot a shadow over his shoulder and almost bolt down the stairs before I realize it’s Maeve coming out of the office.

Thomas is less lucky, letting out a small, horrified sound as his assistant appears at his side.

“Jesus Christ ,” he breathes out, taking a half step away from her. “How did you get here before us? Weren’t you on a later flight?”

“Witches can teleport,” she answers, so serious that I almost believe her. “And be glad I got here first, because I intercepted Edith on your doorstep earlier.”

The mention of his older sister has the sweet blush on Thomas’s cheeks fading. “What did she want?”

“You and Stella are expected at the Cotswolds house tomorrow afternoon. You’ll be staying a few days with the family.”

“It’s a Tuesday,” he protests. “Doesn’t everyone have jobs to get to?”

“Well, you don’t have anything in your diary until Friday, and the entire world obviously revolves around your schedule, so no.” Maeve’s attention shifts to me. She’s far less snarky when she speaks again. “If there’s work you need to do while you’re away, I can have the house staff set up an office.”

I shake my head. “That won’t be necessary. I’m off for the rest of the week.”

And now I’m glad I am, because meeting Thomas’s family this soon was not what I was expecting. It sounds like I’m about to be thrown straight into the vipers’ nest.

Maeve nods, then looks back to Thomas. “Be warned, your mum’s new hobby is bartending. She’s apparently getting really into it. Loves a porn star martini these days.”

He grimaces, full-on pained this time, the parliament smile not enough to express his disdain. “I hope I never have to hear her say those words.”

“I’ll keep you in my thoughts.” Maeve claps her hands. “Right, I’m off. Just wanted to make sure you were warned, Thomas, and that you have everything you need, Stella. Did you see all those fancy gadgets he made me order for you? Literally had me call up your people to find out all your favorite—”

“She’s fine, Maeve, thank you,” Thomas interrupts brusquely, shooing Maeve toward the staircase. “And if there’s anything she needs, I’ll get it for her.”

I blink before my gaze swings up to him, though he’s pointedly not looking at me. A flush once again dots his cheekbones.

Huh. So I was right. It was all for me.

His assistant flashes me a bright smile as she’s herded down the steps. “You have my number, Stella. I’ll be here in a snap of my fingers if you need me.”

Witch powers or not, I do believe she’s capable of it. “Thank you, Maeve. Appreciate it.”

It isn’t until she disappears downstairs and the front door slams shut that Thomas blows out a heavy breath. Running a hand through his hair, he turns his attention back to me.

“I’m sorry,” he says regretfully. “I wanted to give you some time to settle in before I brought you to them.”

I wanted that too, but it is what it is. And I guess it’s better we know early on if this is going to work before we sink more time and effort into this marriage project.

“Probably smart to get it out of the way. We’ve definitely got to get our stories straight, though.” I’m about to suggest we order some food and interrogate each other for a few hours, but I’m forced to cover a yawn instead. My ass has been thoroughly kicked after being in three time zones over five days. I don’t know how this man does it week after week.

A concerned crease appears between his eyebrows. “You should get some rest. We’ve got about a two-hour drive to the house tomorrow. We can talk then.”

We really shouldn’t waste time, but I’m so worn out that I wouldn’t retain anything he told me anyway. “Yeah, okay.” I hook my thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the east wing. “Guess we’ll go to our separate corners now. If you hear me up wandering in the middle of the night because my body can’t figure out what time zone it’s in, mind your business.”

He laughs, full chested and unguarded, and the sound chases away my exhaustion for a blissful moment. “I promise to ignore you.”

“Smart man. Good night, Thomas.”

I’m left staring back at a slightly crooked grin, a tenderness in his eyes that touches me a little too much. “Sweet dreams, Stella.”

“Okay, you win. A full English breakfast is…” I heave a dramatic sigh. “Not that bad.”

Thomas points his fork at me triumphantly, a mushroom threatening to fly off it. “I told you! How dare you say that beans don’t belong on the plate. Blasphemy.”

I shake my head and take another bite of sausage to disguise my smile. “Look, where I come from, beans like this are not a breakfast food,” I point out after chewing. “You’ve got to understand why I had my doubts.”

I didn’t expect to be proved wrong so quickly, though. After sleeping like the dead, I woke this morning to the smell of bacon frying and let my nose lead me down to the kitchen. To my surprise, it wasn’t a hired chef at the stove, but my fake husband himself, wearing a truly hideous Union Jack apron that I’ve already sworn to replace before I have to do any recipe testing here.

Truth be told, I didn’t think cooking would be on his list of talents, but I don’t mind the discovery one bit. Mainly because, for once, I don’t have to lift a finger. With étienne, I did all the cooking, with him claiming it was because he didn’t know how—and refusing to learn.

Thomas put his hands on my silk robe–covered shoulders and sat me down at the island, then placed a coffee, an orange juice, and a glass of water in front of me before flourishing the steaming plate of food. Upon seeing it, I blanched at half its contents. And yet Thomas cajoled me into taking a few bites, promising I’d change my mind. I had to confess he was right.

“Ah, my American wife,” he says fondly before popping the mushroom in his mouth. “You have so much to learn about my beautiful culture.”

I roll my eyes, but his terrible jokes and the simple act of cooking me breakfast—and a good one at that—have my heart tumbling. Or maybe it’s just palpitations from the third cup of coffee he’s already poured me, never letting my mug go empty.

I’ve nearly cleared my plate when his phone chimes on the counter. “We should head out soon,” he says after glancing at the screen. “Do you need any help packing?”

“No, I’ve got it.” I pause, reconsidering. “Actually, is there, like…any sort of dress code I need to be following?”

It’s such a ridiculous question to ask. It’s not like this is the first significant other’s family I’ve met, but I don’t know how these upper-class English families function. I’m half expecting to stumble upon a scene from Downton Abbey or Bridgerton .

Thomas considers, tongue running across his lower lip. “Well, it’s winter, so you don’t have to worry about packing your tennis whites,” he says, “though you may want to bring your riding gear. You do own breeches, yes? Oh, and I’d suggest an evening gown or two for Mother’s white-tie dinners. They’re always spectacles.”

My stomach drops straight to the floor. “Are you—”

“Stella, I’m kidding,” he interrupts, a laugh in his voice as he grabs my hand. “I swear, it’s nothing like that. Wear whatever you’d usually wear. You always look amazing anyway.”

I’m scowling, but the compliment warms me. “Respectfully, fuck you, your highness.”

“As long as it’s respectful.” He shoots me a grin before drawing his hand back and standing. “Go get ready. Is there anything you need?”

He’s already asked me that question at least a dozen times in the half hour we’ve been having breakfast, and I once again shake my head. “I’m fine. I have everything I could possibly need and more.”

Seriously. Last night, when I went to shower before bed, I found what was essentially a fully stocked pharmacy under the sink, along with every hair tool and expensive skin care product I could have ever wanted. I didn’t even have to pull out my own silk pillowcases from my bag—there were some already on the bed. I even double-checked that they weren’t mine, peeking in one of my suitcases to see if someone had unpacked my things for me, but no. They’d been graciously supplied by my host.

“I just want to make sure you’re comfortable here,” he says. “This is your home too.”

He’s so earnest, I can’t doubt that he means it. He’s looking out for me in all the ways I haven’t had from a man in…too long.

I hop down from my barstool. “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”

“No rush. I know you have to go through your selection of evening gowns.”

His banter may be awful, but it still has me snickering as I leave the kitchen, grudgingly thankful for his rich-white-man humor. Never thought I’d see the day.

Closer to a half hour later, I’m in the passenger seat of a boxy SUV that would look more at home in the countryside than in the city. Considering that’s where we’re headed, I guess it’s the perfect choice.

The streets are narrow and the car is wide, but he navigates down to the high street with ease. I watch the shops and restaurants and people as we pass by, trying to commit as much of it to memory as possible. Like Thomas keeps saying to me, this is my home now, so I’ll do my best to learn it and make it feel that way.

It isn’t until we’ve been on the motorway for a few minutes with nothing much to look at that the silence starts to feel awkward. Thomas must sense it too because he says, “You can put on some music, if you’d like.”

We said we’d use this journey to talk, but we need an icebreaker first. I hit the button for the radio, letting the station it was already on pour through the speakers. To my delight, it’s tuned to a top pop hits channel, and just as the host stops speaking, one of my favorite songs comes on. This has to be an omen, a sign of good things to come. Or at least I’m taking it as one, because the idea of meeting his family has me nervous as shit and I’m desperate for something to take the edge off.

I’m two notes into humming along when Thomas groans.

“I cannot stand Ed Sheeran,” he complains, taking one hand off the wheel to grab his phone from the center console. He tosses it gently in my lap. “Put on one of my playlists. Passcode is seven-zero-four-five.”

The Ed Sheeran slander is a topic we’ll have to address at a different time, because I’m too thrown by him offering up his passcode so easily to dwell on my offense. That’s a sign of trust if I’ve ever seen one. That, or the man has nothing to hide.

I type in the code and the screen unlocks. “Those numbers have any particular meaning?” I ask as I tap on his music app.

Thomas hesitates, hands drifting around the steering wheel, like he’s not sure he wants to admit it to me. “My racing number is seventy,” he finally confesses. “And…Zaid Yousef’s is forty-five.”

My head snaps up, eyes wide in delight. “Oh my God,” I say, laughing as I take in the color creeping up his neck. “Are you a fanboy ?”

“Can you fault me?” he shoots back, but I have to respect that he’s not denying it. “Man’s a legend. He was winning titles before F1 was even a gleam in my eye. Besides, this has been my passcode since I was a teenager, and I’ve been too lazy to memorize something else.”

“You’re adorable,” I coo, and I get to watch the color spread to his cheeks before I look back down at his phone. But as I scroll through his playlists, my humor fades into disbelief. “Are you logged into your own account?”

I feel more than see the glance he shoots me. “Yeah, why?”

“Because your music taste is all Afrobeats and hip-hop.”

He shrugs when I lift my eyes again. “Yeah, I like it.”

Okay, who kidnapped my pure English rose and replaced him with…this?

“I had a lot of West African mates growing up,” he elaborates when all I can do is stare at him. “I inherited their taste in music.”

Somehow, this explains so much about him and yet I’m still so surprised. “Are you still friends with them?”

He nods. “Our group survived primary school and all my racing years. You’ll definitely get to meet Joshua and Amara at some point. Oh, and just a heads-up, Amara’s already in love with you.”

I guess it’s a good sign that he wants to introduce me to his friends, though I’m worried that if our lives get too intertwined, it will be difficult to extricate ourselves. We’re barely three weeks into this sham—hell, it’s not even December yet. What are things going to look like in three months, let alone a year from now?

Then again, I spent five years with étienne and all we really have left to split are our houses and one joint bank account. We barely had any mutual friends—his friends were his and mine were mine—and all his family was in France, with zero interest in coming to visit us in the States. As far as separations go, ours has been straightforward, minus the emotional entanglements on my end.

So maybe I shouldn’t ask, all for the sake of keeping my distance, but I do anyway. “Tell me more about your friends? Especially Amara. She sounds like my kind of woman.”

Two hours later, I know my husband a little better, relaxed in the knowledge that I probably won’t mess anything up with his family. Also, we’re firmly in the middle of fucking nowhere.

We’re on a road that looks like it was meant for horses and carriages and certainly not modern-day SUVs. There are sheep to my left and fields of some sort of grain to my right. And I, a city girl, am out of my element—especially when we turn down another narrow lane and trundle toward an honest-to-God manor.

Thomas turns into the circular drive, winds around a decorative fountain, and comes to a stop in front of the beautiful stone home. It’s not Downton Abbey levels of large, but it’s certainly bigger than any house I’ve ever owned, covered in twisting vines of dormant wisteria and dark green ivy. I almost expect two lines of staff to come bursting out the tall wooden doors, but it looks like we’re on our own when it comes to escorting ourselves in.

Even from the outside, there’s an antique opulence to the building. And when I follow Thomas into the front hall, taking in the tapestries on the walls and the hand-carved furniture, I can’t do much more than stare open-mouthed at it all.

I am a rich woman—there’s no other way around it. But this? This is wealth . Old, terrifying wealth.

“All right?” Thomas asks me, and I press my lips closed again, though I’m sure he’s already seen me slack-jawed.

“Yep,” I eke out. “Great. So great.”

He snickers and takes my weekender bag from my hand, giving me the opportunity to turn and take in the high ceilings and exposed wood beams. “It’s a lot, I know. Promise, this is the least-modern room in the house, though. And before you ask, yes , we have running water. There’s even a pool in the back garden. It’s heated if you want to take a dip while we’re here.”

I didn’t think to pack a swimsuit, but now I’m not convinced that Thomas was joking about breeches and evening gowns.

As I admire it all, he strides over to one of the arched doorways and calls out to see if anyone’s home. After a few seconds of waiting and no response, he sighs and sets our bags down.

“Looks like no one’s here yet.” He glances at the expensive watch on his wrist before looking back over at me, brows raised. “You want a tour in the meantime?”

I sure do, because when else am I going to wander a sixteenth-century English manor? “Absolutely. But first, can you guide me to one of those bathrooms with running water that you claim to have?”

Thomas laughs and points to the archway straight ahead. “Go down that hall and turn right. It will be the first door on your left.”

I thank him and hurry off, bladder full from all the beverages he served me at breakfast. Thankfully, his directions are easy to follow, and I emerge relieved a few minutes later, eager to start our tour before anyone else shows up. Our conversation flowed in the car, even if most of it was spent with him telling me about his friends and the history of this place, and I wouldn’t mind picking it back up.

“I hope you’re ready to give the tour of your life,” I say as I turn the corner back into the front hall.

And then I walk straight into Figgy.