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But it’s his father whose name makes my eyes widen even more.

Lord Ravensmere.

Oh god, he’s a Lord? I blink. What even is a Lord? Like a Duke? Is Theo the son of a Duke?

I shouted at him in the crowded lobby this morning. Is that some kind of treasonable offense?

Either way, I feel more mortified than I think I ever have in my life. Not because his father is a Lord, but because I didn’t even give him the benefit of the doubt.

I need to talk to him. To explain. Even though I have no idea what to say.

It takes me less than a minute to slip on some shoes and head down to the lobby. When I reach the concierge, I give him a smile because I’m sure by this point the man must think I’m insane.

“Hi,” I say to him. “Do you know if Mr. Hunt has left for the night?”

He smiles back at me. “I’m not sure. Let me find out.” He turns away and puts his head around a half-open door. There’s a murmured conversation with whoever is behind it before he turns back to me.

“Yes, Mr. Hunt has left,” he says. “Would you like to leave a message? He’ll pick it up in the morning.”

I nod, and he passes me a notepad embossed with The Hunt Hotel logo. And it’s strange, because last night he was writing me a note on the same thick paper.

I still don’t know why he didn’t come up. And I still feel a ghost of that rejection. But I push it down as I write across the paper in neat cursive.

Theo,

Thank you for the tree. I appreciate it. And I’m so sorry for making a scene this morning. Please accept my apologies for it.

Georgia

I slide it into the envelope and pass it to him. I can’t remember the last time I wrote somebody a note. It’s kind of old fashioned, this writing to each other back and forth.

And yet, I like it. The way I liked him.

Or like him. How confusing this all is. I think it’s going to take a while for my emotions to catch up.

“Have a good night, Miss Ingram,” he murmurs, sliding the envelope into his drawer.

“Thank you.” I turn away, feeling a mixture of warmth and confusion wash over me. Because I know my note is as brief as his first one was. Maybe thanks – and apologies – always sound better in person.

I’m sipping a coffee in the fern-filled restaurant the next morning, a half-eaten pastry on the monogrammed fine china plate in front of me. My phone beeps with a message from my boss Sam back in New York.

Angela saw your Instagram pics. I love the hotel you’re staying at. Have you thought about doing a feature on it? Just an idea. – Sam

It makes me smile that his wife was the one to see them. Because Sam hates social media. But it’s actually a good idea. I make a note to call him once the U.S. has woken up, to bounce some ideas off him. It would be great to have my next feature already sketched out before January and potential layoffs.

The waiter is refilling my coffee cup when I feel my skin prickle. I look up to see Theo standing in the doorway, wearing yet another suit. This one is navy, but he’s not wearing a tie. Instead the collar of his crisp white shirt is unbuttoned revealing the dip of his neck, and a shadow of chest hair.

“Would you like to order a cooked breakfast, madam?” the waiter asks. “I can bring you over a menu?”

“No thank you, the pastry is fine,” I say, too busy watching Theo walk easily across the restaurant. He’s heading toward me. My stomach tightens.

“Georgia.” His eyes rake over me, like he’s trying to decide if I’m going to bite.

“Theo.” I let out a soft breath.

“May I join you?” he asks, looking at the empty seat opposite me at the table for two.

I nod, and the waiter fills his coffee cup. “May I get you a menu, sir?”