“Surreal. King Global’s London office is different from here. Less glass and steel, more townhouse of a monarch. Everyone’s posh and suspiciously attractive. The coffee’s bad, but the cufflinks are immaculate.”
She kept her tone light. Like she’d just gone on a cute getaway with her boyfriend and not…tried on a possible future life like a blazer five sizes too big.
“Did you like it?”
“I liked the city,” Bea replied. “The history. The museums. Everything smells like old books and revolution. I did one of those walking tours and accidentally learned about a guy who tried to overthrow the crown with a catapult.”
“I’m surprised Gage let you out unsupervised.”
“Not exactly, I had security with me.” Bea grimaced. “But he had lots of meetings in the afternoons so I wandered around, playing tourist. Took notes on which pastries were superior.”
“What did you two do together?”
“Hit the tourist traps. Saw a show at the Globe. Walked along the Thames. He bought me sticky toffee pudding from this little hole-in-the-wall in Soho.”
“Sounds like it meant something,” Lillian said softly.
“What do you mean?”
“You look different. Not in a bad way. Just…more.” She tilted her head. “Full?”
“Full,” Bea repeated. “Like a ravioli?”
She did feel full. Of thoughts and impressions. Of worries and fears. Of tiny moments that had made her pulse skip for reasons she hadn’t unpacked. Of the fact that nobody there—not once—had asked if she was just visiting.
She wanted to say all of that. But she couldn’t. Not yet. Not while everything was still unofficial.
So instead, she popped a piece of flatbread into her mouth and said cheerfully, “Anyway, I brought you chocolate from Fortnum and Mason. It tastes like gentrification, but in a good way.”
Lillian smiled.
The invitation paper was somewhere between eggshell and ecru, and Naomi had very strong feelings about both.
Now they were roaring down the highway, winter sunlight caught in the halo of her curls, swatch book tossed in the back seat. Inside it were samples of cream tones so indistinguishable Bea was convinced it was a long con orchestrated by legacy stationery houses.
Bea sat beside her, fingers trailing the leather door trim, watching the surf blur past.
“I mean,” Naomi said, one hand on the wheel, “who knew there were forty-two shades of white and none of them are just calledwhite? I’m gettingmarried, not launching a diplomatic letterhead.”
Bea grinned. “Diplomatic letterhead might be appropriate. You’re marrying a Prescott.”
Naomi rolled her eyes. “Charles’ mother suggested we addgold-leaf monogramsto the envelopes. I said sure if they can be scratch-and-sniff.”
Bea laughed. Naomi made everything look easy.
“You’re doing so well getting through it all. Study, rehearsals, planning. And you’ve only got seven months until the wedding.”
“That engagement period is pretty average here,” she said. “Once you near your mid-twenties, you know your relationship is a pre-screen for marriage.”
Bea chose a song on the app. “Some people wait longer.”
Naomi snorted. “Sure. Like Georgie, who’s going to stall Hunter forever because she’s still hoping to meet someone whomakes hernervous.” She glanced over. “Why, are you planning to keep Gage in the holding pen for a while?”
Bea didn’t answer. She didn’t quite know how, not without revealing too much.
Naomi reached forward to turn the volume down a notch. “Anyway. Don’t let the timeline scare you. You either know or you don’t.”
“How did you know? That Charles was it?”
