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“Your father is a baron?” I ask him, frowning. “I thought he was a Lord.”

“Have you been Googling me?” he asks.

“Kind of.” I tip my head. “I wanted to see if your mother was really your mother.” I wrinkle my nose. “Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry. I would have done the same. And my father is a baron, but his title is Lord Ravensmere.”

“Does that mean you’ll be a baron one day?” I ask.

“No. My older brother will.”

Oh. I wrack my brain, trying to remember where a baron sits in the British aristocracy. But my only experience of the whole messed up class system is from watching The Crown and Bridgerton on Netflix.

“I can’t believe you still have dukes and lords and barons,” I say, shaking my head. “We fought wars in the US to stop that.”

He laughs softly, stroking my hair. “We fought a few ourselves. And really, the aristocracy isn’t that different to billionaires in the US. They’re just a few generations removed. My ancestors were the tech bros of their day.”

“Eek, I’m glad you didn’t turn into a tech bro.” I’ve met a few of them, and thankfully they’re nothing like Theo. “Is that why you don’t want to spend time with your family?” I ask. “Because your brother is the one who inherits and you don’t?”

He starts to laugh. “No, that’s not it at all.” He strokes my hair. “I would hate to be him. I just don’t like going there. Or who I am when I do.”

I try to hide the way my body warms at that. “So I’m just a convenient excuse,” I tease. “Less generational trauma, more sex.” I trace over his pecs, then down to his stomach. “Every son of a baron should try it.”

He laughs again, sliding his thumb across my lip. “It beats therapy.”

“Avoidance usually does.” And I should know. I’m two thousand miles away from home because I want to avoid my ex at this time of the year, after all. “You know, there is an alternative.”

“To avoidance? Don’t tell me that. My family has been perfecting it for the last four hundred years.”

“I’m serious.” I prop my head on my hand, giving him a pointed look. “I could go with you.” I can’t believe I just said that. I hold my breath, waiting for him to tell me I’m an idiot.

“You’d come with me to the party?” His brows raise.

“Yeah. If you want.”

“I’m wondering why you’d want to do that,” he murmurs. “Because it sounds like hell on earth to me.” His hand moves lower, cupping my behind. I feel him stir beneath me.

Again.

Not that I’m complaining.

I grin at him. “If I go I’ll be able to boast about going to a Baron’s party for the rest of my life.” I lift a brow as he reaches my thigh, hitching it around him, leaving me in no doubt that he wants me. Again.

My stomach muscles tighten. Because I want him, too.

He drops his face against my hair, breathing me in. “You’ll hate it,” he says.

“We can hate it together.” I lift my head and our mouths are so close I can feel the warmth of his breath against my lips. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Worst comes to worst I can write about it in my memoirs.” I slide my hand down between us, circling him with my palm.

He closes his eyes for a moment. “You don’t play fair.”

I slide my hand up and down. “I’m not playing,” I whisper, just as he catches my mouth with his.

And all talk of parties and Barons and generational trauma are forgotten.

My boss calls the next afternoon when I’m in my hotel room.

“I have an interesting request I want to send your way,” he tells me. He sounds tired, though that’s not a shock. It’s morning in New York and he’s more of an evening person. “I got an email from a friend who edits the North Atlantic Quarterly.”