Her gut instinct practicallydemandsshe find it. As primal a need as eating, and it’s only intensifying. Was the dream sent to her by Quill, or by some higher power connecting them? If he orchestrated this, then she could be heading into a trap. But her need to find the cottage doesn’t feel ominous. It feels ... right. Her skin itches thinking about it.
She flips her pillow, uncomfortable but content to watch James sleep. His rigid jaw and nose. His fluttering lashes. That one piece of hair that falls away from the rest.
Nelle pushes it back. At least one of them will be well rested in the morning.
A car honks in the street, and James is back in New York. He stirs awake, thinking about his novel, the characters he created, the life he left behind. He sits up and the moment shatters. He’s in Edinburgh. Nelle is asleep on top of the blankets, her brows drawn together, a deep crease between them.
He kisses her forehead and her freckled cheek, writes a note to let her know he will be back in fifteen, grabs his coat, and ducks out into the drizzly morning. He finds a coffee shop down the street filled with people going to their early jobs and jogs.
He returns to the hotel room bearing two hot lattes and a blueberry muffin.
Surprisingly, it only takes him touching Nelle’s shoulder to wake her. Normally, that is only the first step in a ten-minute routine to drag her from sleep. She blinks at him, like she does every morning, as if unsure whether he’s part of her dream or reality.
“Coffee is served, Your Highness.” He bows his head.
“YourHighness?” she mutters, always a bit cross when she wakes. “What is that about?”
James kisses her forehead, wrinkled with sleepy annoyance.
“Because,” he says, “you’re my princess.”
“That’d make you my ...” She tilts her head, hair mussed. “Servant.”
He climbs off the bed before he ends up kissing her all morning, picking up the blue backpack. They have other things to do today.
Nelle sits up. “And where are you going, servant?”
“If Your Highness permits it, I’m taking a shower. Once I’m clean, we can shop for clothes and check on our lead.”
“Hmm, maybe library first, shop second?”
James catches a glimpse of her as he steps toward the bathroom. Cross-legged on the bed in her little shorts, thighs tanned from the beach in Nice, hands wrapped around a hot coffee.
He stops and gives a short bow. “As you wish.”
James logs onto the library computer. A red dot alerts him of a notification.
“He responded.”
Nelle nervously picks her nails, leaning over James’s shoulder. “I could shit myself right now.”
“Whatever the response is, it’s okay,” he says. “We’ll find the cottage.”
“No matter how long it takes.” She pulls her chair in closer.
James bites his tongue. Theydohave a time limit, ticking down with every dollar they spend. His savings are half of what they were, and most of what remains he has put aside for plane tickets back to the States.
He clicks on the private message, ears thrumming as he reads.
TerryNolan1981: Hi, I did know Wallace Quill when we were children. I’m very sorry to hear that he’s passed away. I’m sure his obituary will be in good hands with you. He was a friend to me when we wereboys. I can try to answer whatever questions you have, though I’m not sure how much help I’ll be. I live in Edinburgh, so if you’re ever in town, we can meet up for lunch and a chat. Thanks for getting in contact. —Terry.
James drafts a message asking how soon they can meet, emphasizing that they are available today. Nelle reviews the response and presses “Send.”
While they wait, James taps the mouse in time with a beat in his mind. Nelle paces, weaving her long blond strands into a braid. James refreshes the page.
“I can’t stand waiting,” she says. “I need to distract myself.”
“We’re sitting inside a haven of distraction,” James says. “Go ahead, wander around. I’ll wait here.”
