Page 15 of Kiss Me Like You Mean It

‘Of course,’ I murmur, and my own voice sounds distant. ‘Give Jack and Cynthie my love.’

‘I will. Give mine to Gran and tell her I’ll call next week.’

I am struck by the sudden urge to cry. It feels like something’s been ruined between us, and I don’t know in this moment how to make it right. I’m so frozen with embarrassment.

The bits of last night that I do remember were good – happy, fun, maybe even a little flirty – and this morning we even woke up in bed together. But in the cold hard light of day, Nico couldn’t make it any clearer: he sees me as nothing more than his best friend’s kid sister. Not even a friend, but a responsibility. Anything more I might have imagined is precisely that: a fantasy, pure fiction.

‘Bye, Lee,’ he says, heading for the door. ‘It really was good to see you.’ He turns and looks over his shoulder, flashing me that quick, easy Nico grin, but I know his face better than I know my own – it’s a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

‘Bye,’ I manage, but he’s already gone, the door closing heavily behind him with a click.

I stand, frozen for a long moment, staring down at the photograph that I’m still holding in my hand. How humiliating to look at it and still feel a little thrill. Now, I’m forced to confront the mortifying fact that a small, stubborn part of me always dreamed that Nico would finally see me the way that I see him. Clearly that’s never going to happen.

This ridiculous crush has gone on long enough. It’s lucky I didn’t make an even bigger fool of myself last night. Taking a deep breath, I tear the picture in half, throwing the pieces in the bin.

An hour later, I’m busy finishing up my packing when my phone rings. My traitorous heart leaps when – for a brief, shining moment – I think it’s Nico, wanting to clear the air between us, but instead it’s an unknown number.

‘Is this Ophelia Turner-Jones?’ an unfamiliar male voice asks.

‘It is.’ Something in his deep, official tone already has my stomach twisting.

‘This is Dr Clarke at the Princess Grace Hospital in London,’ he continues. ‘I have you listed as the emergency contact for Mrs Bridget Turner, is that correct?’

‘She’s my grandmother,’ I force the words out, my mouth dry.

‘I’m afraid I have some bad news…’

PART TWO

One Year Later

Chapter Six

Lee

‘I’m back!’ I call, closing the front door behind me. There’s no reply and I realise Gran must be out again. I set my bag down and wander along the hall, through to the light and airy kitchen, where I spy her note, pinned to the door by a magnet that says FRIES BEFORE GUYS:

Darling!

Out for lunch with Peter then a night on the town. Expect a great debauching so see you… tomorrow? If you haven’t heard from me in a week, send out a search party with electrolytes.

Xo Gran

With a sigh, I check her pill organiser to make sure that she’s at least taken all her tablets today – which she has – and head for the stairs, sliding my shoes off on the way.

The townhouse where Gran and I have lived for the last five years is in a quiet, leafy part of London, and her rooms are on the ground floor, overlooking the pocket-sized garden (‘Just enough space for us to sit and have a gin and tonic,’ Gran had said approvingly when we viewed the place. ‘I couldn’t bear becoming one of those garden obsessives. It seems to me you hit a certain age and suddenly your brain is full of nothing but dahlias.’ I actually thought that sounded quite nice, but I wasn’t about to argue with her when this was the seventeenth property we had looked at.)

While my octogenarian grandmother would have absolutely no problem navigating the stairs, she conceded the top half of the house to me in an effort to give me ‘the sort of privacy that a young, single woman needs’.

I accepted with enthusiasm, which briefly bolstered Gran’s faith in me, but she was sorely disappointed when she realised that my dreams for my own ‘private space’ consisted of an extremely tidy home office and – in an act of total decadence – a small home library complete with floor-to-ceiling shelves (though tragically no ladder to roll around on).

‘Lee,’ she huffed on seeing it all completed. ‘I swear, being young and gorgeous is utterly wasted on you. A library? And an office? This could be one of those kinky Christian Grey type dungeons full of interesting… paddles and whatnot.’

‘Paddles?’

‘A sex swing!’ she exclaimed. ‘That’s what you need. Not more calculators.’

Now, I let my toes sink into the plush carpet as I pad from room to room, organising my notes from the meeting I’ve been trapped in all day, laying out the findings of my latest investigation. It’s the part of the job I like the least. The part with all the people.