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She shrugged. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to cancel, then, ’cause I don’t have anything else.”

“You don’t even have any trousers?”

“Of course I do. They just…” She hesitated. “They don’t speak ‘professional,’ do they?”

“Where we’re going, you don’t need to look professional.” He reached up, taking her suitcase from her. “At least for today’s activities.”

Their fingers brushed against each other, and their eyes met, but Winnie looked swiftly away, ignoring the way her heart leapt. This was a business trip, after all. A business trip with a business associate. Nothing more.

Matthew placed her small suitcase in the trunk of his car, then closed the door with a loud creak. “We’re going for function over fashion,” he continued, eying her heels. “What shoe size are you?”

She eyed him. “Eight.”

“US eight,” he mumbled, pulling out his phone and typing onto the screen. “All right, you’re a UK seven.” He swiped up, then typed out more. “I might have a solution for you. Just change into something that’s more practical, and I’ll meet you back here in five.”

He disappeared inside Foxwood without another word, and Winnie stared after him in surprise. If she’d had a leg to stand on, she would’ve protested. She did everything in a skirt and heels, and she’d never had any problem with it up to this point.

But Matthew was doing her a favor by taking her around. Heck, he was the only reason she was still in England at this point. So the least she could do was take his advice when it came to what she ought to wear.

In less than five minutes, Winnie had changed into her jeans—she’d forgotten how much warmer they were than skirts—pulled on a cozy sweater beneath her raincoat, smoothed back her hair in its bun, and returned outside to meet with Matthew again. She had slipped on her high-heeled boots, despite his protests, and smiled when she saw him once again waiting for her against his car.

“See?” she began. “These will do…just…fine…”

Her words faded as she noticed what was in Matthew’s hands. Before her were the loudest, gaudiest, most rubber boots she’d ever seen in her life.

“What are those?” she asked.

“Wellies,” he said, raising them higher, as if she couldn’t see the hot pink of the boots well enough already.

Vivid orange and yellow flowers speckled in a continuous pattern across the pink footwear, and Winnie winced as if the brightness of it was blinding her.

“Your old schoolboy boots, I assume?” she asked.

He smirked at her joke. “Here.” He shoved them toward her as she reached the car. “They’re Char’s. She told me these should fit you just fine.”

Winnie still stared, unwilling—unable—to accept them.

He wiggled them at her again. “Come on, they’ll keep you warm and dry all day long.”

With the skies fully overcast that morning, Winnie didn’t mind the sound of keeping dry. But she’d given up so much of her pride over the last forty-eight hours, she had to keep at least a sprinkling of it.

“Um, thank her for me, will you?” Winnie asked. “But I think I’ll take my chances in these.”

He stared down at the high-heeled boots now covering her feet. “You’ll sink into the mud and grass faster than you can say ‘ridiculous,’” he stated.

“They’ll be fine.”

He shrugged. “Mark my words. You’ll want the wellies before long.”

He obviously didn’t know the extent of Winnie’s pride.

Opening the trunk of his Mini Cooper again, he tossed the boots inside, and only then did Winnie register what he was doing.

“Wait, why are we taking your car when we have my much nicer rental?” She motioned to the glistening green of the Aston Martin.

It’s not that she really wanted to take the sports car, but it seemed much safer than his beater.

“Because I’m the one leading the tour,” he responded. “If I was on your insurance for the emerald steed, perhaps I’d consider taking it, but alas.”