By the time I reach Heathrow, pick up my rental car and drive to Bury St. Edmunds, it’s almost eleven o’clock at night.
I’ve been to the UK a couple of times before—once on vacation and once for work—and I love how different it is here from back home. I stare out the window at grand Georgian manor houses with ivy growing up the front and quirky medieval buildings with crooked walls and exposed beams, and eventually I turn into a street lined with two-story Victorian row houses.
Wren lives in the only house with a white facade in a sea of gray brick. It has a small bay window and a dark green door with a hanging basket out the front filled with flowers. It’s sweet, but not really what I would have imagined for her. I don’t know how she ended up living here, or if she loves it as much as I want her to love where she comes home to at night, but I’m looking forward to finding out. I’m looking forward to getting to know her—properly—on every level. I want to stay up talking through the night with her again, hold her hand as the sun sets and the stars shine brightly, and still be with her when the world turns and the sun comes up again. And as I sit down on her doorstep and wait for her to come home from her friends’ wedding, I no longer feel scared.
Because I know that this is right.Weare right. And she’s too smart to think any differently.
I hope she lets me hold her. I hope she lets me make up for hurting her. I hope—
And then I see her, walking along the pavement in sky-high heels with her head down and her arms crossed over her chest and her hips swaying, and my heart swells, even as the rest of me goes still.
I shakily force myself to my feet, not wanting to startle her.She’s at her gate before she looks toward the door, and my stomach lurches at the look of devastation on her face a split second before she almost jumps out of her skin in fright.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt, stretching my hand out toward her. I’m apologizing for scaring her, not for everything else I’ve done. That’s going to take a hell of a lot more doing.
She stares at me, several emotions crossing her face, one after the other—vulnerability, disbelief, hurt—and then her expression settles into something I recognize: love.
I walk forward and wrap her in my arms, tucking her supple, warm body against mine, and I hold her. She clutches me back just as fiercely. She’s stronger than she looks.
And I realize: I haven’t broken her. I haven’t broken us. This is Wren. Wren doesn’t give up. She doesn’t quit.
And neither will I. Not on her. Never again.
Epilogue
The look on his face...I want to kiss him, but I can’t tear my eyes away. He’s so beautiful, and his pupils are dilated, here in the shadows under these trees. The black almost swallows up the amber fleck in his eye.
This is so intense. It reminds me of the first time we made love, right here, under these very trees, by this same river. New leaves, new water, no threat of guilt or regret.
Not everything is the same.
He clutches me to him and I sense that he’s close. So I nod to let him know that I’m with him and he locks my eyes so intently, seeing me, all of me, as we fall together.
Afterward, he collapsesonto his back, holding me on top of him as his fingertips run lazily over the thin fabric of my dress.
It’s the middle of June and we’ve been “helping” Jonas to harvest the first of the winter wheat this afternoon. I wore this dress especially—as soon as I knew we were coming to this field. It’s the red-and-black-ditsy-print one—the same as the blue,white, and yellow one from the September before last, but different.
He obviously had the same intentions because he brought the same picnic blanket.
He laughs lightly, so I lift my head to look at him.
“I should have told Jonas the drive belt had snapped again. That would have bought us more time. No, stay,” he murmurs as I start to get up.
He pulls me back down, catching my mouth in a kiss. His hands come up to clasp my face as he deepens the contact, slow and sure.
“Don’t you start again,” I warn against his lips with a smile, and it takes a real effort to draw myself away. “He’ll be here in a minute, checking up on us, wondering why we’ve stopped.”
“I think he’ll probably guess that we don’t want his company right now.” He presses a tender kiss to my shoulder.
“I’m not risking it.”
“We’ll hear the tractor,” he protests as I reluctantly get to my feet.
“Still.” I begin to fasten the tiny buttons up the front of my dress.
He undid them this time, down to the bottom of my rib cage. Damn near devoured me.
A shiver goes through my body and I smile at the memory, even though it’s fresh.
