“Sorry.” I pulled my foot away, breaking the almost-contact between us. “My mind’s been elsewhere today.”
“Mine too. This castle does strange things to a person.”
“What kind of strange?” I asked.
Oliver’s eyes dropped to my mouth long enough for me to notice. “The kind that makes you question things you thought you knew about yourself.”
My heart hammered. This conversation had veered into dangerous territory, and I wasn’t sure how to steer it to safety. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
Something crossed Oliver’s face. His shoulders tensed, and when he spoke again, it was at a near-whisper. “I’ve been thinking about what happens after.”
“After?”
“Soon, I’ll be cleared to return to London. To MI6 and pretending we’re nothing more than colleagues.”
I’d been avoiding this thought—the ticking clock over everything we were feeling in this strange, suspendedmoment. Our time at Greymarch was always temporary, a parenthesis in our real lives, a chance to recover and regroup. Then what? Return to Vauxhall Cross and act as though none of this had happened? Return to cool distance and rigid restraint while my body burned with awareness every time he walked into a room?
“Is that what you want?” I asked. “To go back to pretending?”
Oliver turned to face me. “No. It’s not.” His tone lost its usual lightness. “I’ve spent months acting as though I’m not attracted to you, Phee. All those reasons to keep my distance? They made sense in London.” He shook his head. “Not anymore.”
His confession mirrored what stirred inside me—the same exhaustion with lying to myself, the same hunger for honesty.
“We’ll have to face it eventually,” I said. “The real world doesn’t disappear just because we’re hiding in a castle.”
“I know.” His hand slid across the cushion between us, and this time, it didn’t stop short. He weaved our fingers together. The connection felt tentative and certain all at once. “But we have a week. Maybe we figure out what this is before we have to decide what to do about it.”
His thumb traced a slow circle on my palm. The touch was gentle, almost innocent, and yet it sent fire unfurling through me. But as I looked at Oliver—even as my body responded to his nearness, his want—I saw another face superimposed over his. Dark hair instead of sandy brown. A man who would never suggest figuring things out. A man who would take.
I was thinking about Kiernan while Oliver held my hand. And the worst part was, I didn’t want to stop.
“I think I’ll rest before dinner,” I said, pulling away too quickly. I stood from the window seat. “Will you be all right?”
Disappointment flickered across his face—or maybe understanding. “Always am.” He sighed. “See you at dinner.”
I fled before I could do anything foolish. Before I could tell him the truth—that my fantasies had started tangling together in ways I couldn’t untangle. Two men who couldn’t be more different, and yet who’d both taken up residence in my thoughts.
I remainedin my room until an hour later, when there was a knock at the suite door. Millie stood in the corridor, with her coat already buttoned.
“Lord Greymarch asked me to let you know he’s cooking dinner tonight. He’s given me the evening off and wondered if you might like to help him in the kitchen.”
“The kitchen?”
“He’s already started the preparations.” There was a twinkle in her eye. “I tried to argue, but he insisted. He said it had been too long since he cooked for anyone.”
After she left, I stood frozen on the threshold. Kiernan had avoided me all day. He’d avoided Oliver too. Now, he wanted us to help him cook dinner?
Oliver came out of his room. Clearly, he’d overheard the invitation.
“This should be interesting,” he said, stepping closer to me. “I can’t cook to save my life, but I’m excellent at eating.”
When we arrived,Kiernan stood at the counter, with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, chopping vegetables.
“I hope you don’t mind the change of venue,” he said without raising his head. “Millie deserved a night off, and I realized I’ve been a poor host.”
“I thought you were busy with estate matters,” I snapped, unable to hide my irritation.
His knife stilled. “Yes. I was. Apologies.”
