He sighed wearily.“And say what?”
“Ah, I don’t know.Something honest, maybe.That’s usually a decent place to start.”
He didn’t answer, just nodded faintly and stepped back toward the landing.
Walking back to his car he felt strange.The city was moving all around him—people hurrying home, buses hissing to the curb, taxis darting past—but Rhys felt lost.
He’d thought New Year’s Eve had been hard.This was worse.
*
Michigan snow wasdifferent from England’s.It was heavier, wetter, and lasted far longer.But this Kalamazoo neighborhood lined with Victorians felt like a different world.It was cozy, quaint, and full of young couples and growing families, and they’d welcomed Cat with open arms.
Now Cat stood at the front window of her grandmother’s house, watching the light fade over the trees, amazed that she’d already been home three weeks.It had taken her a week to unpack, and another two to get used to the quiet after the hustle and bustle of London, but at least the house was familiar as she’d decided not to sell her grandmother’s house yet.Why let go the one thing that felt like home?
During the day, she worked at Winthrop Academy, an old brick school perched at the edge of town.The headmaster had been thrilled to find a long-term substitute who could teach both Latin and European history, and Cat had been equally thrilled to be useful again.It wasn’t glamorous—long days, drafty classrooms, teenagers with more confidence than sense—but she liked it.She liked the hum of the corridors, the smell of chalk and floor polish, the steady rhythm of lessons and lunch bells.Best of all, she liked feeling needed.
In the evenings, she came home, lit a fire, and marked papers at the kitchen table with a mug of tea at her elbow.Sometimes she listened to the radio, sometimes she didn’t.The quiet suited her.She told herself she was fine—and in most ways, she was.She had work, a roof, and was making friends with some of the younger single teachers.But every now and then, usually when the snow fell thick and silent outside the window, she thought of Derbyshire.Of the cottage at Langley Park, the sound of the fire, and the low rumble of Rhys’s voice.
She’d promised herself she wouldn’t dwell on the holidays or him, but still there were moments when the memory of his smile or the heat in his eyes slipped through and she missed everything she’d left.
*
“I hate January,”Jillian grumbled at the kitchen table in their Chelsea home.
She had a bowl of porridge in front of her, an open textbook at her elbow, her long hair was still damp from her morning shower.
Rhys leaned against the counter with his coffee.“Do you have a test today?”he asked.
“Just a quiz.”
“Are you worried about it?”
“No.”She looked up at him, her mouth quirking.“Are you worried about it?”
He smothered a laugh.“No.You’re a good student.I just want to be sure I’m helping you when you need it.”
“Thanks, Dad, but if I need help, I’ll tell you.”
“I need to go but Charlotte is here to get you and Livy to school”
She arched a brow.“And?”
“Your birthday is coming up.You only turn thirteen once.What do you fancy this year—a party?Something different?We could go to Paris for the weekend.Or anywhere, really.”
He finally had her attention.Smiling, Jillian pushed the bowl away.“Paris?”
“Why not?”he said, trying for lightness.“Hot chocolate, the Eiffel Tower, far too many pastries.You name it.”
Her smile slowly faded.“You don’t have to do that, Dad.”
“I want to.It’d be fun.”
She studied him for a long moment.“You’ve not been happy since Christmas.”
He blinked, caught off guard.“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been quiet,” she said simply.“And when you smile it doesn’t seem… like you.”
