Page 113

“In a second,” I say. “I’ll catch up.” I stay in the booth for a moment. The pub is thinning out, and the air is cooling with the frequent opening of the door. I send a quick reply to Max.

Katie

I will. Leaving soon.

I slip the phone back into my coat pocket and stand, grabbing my scarf from the bench.

Outside, the streets of Wimbledon Village glow gold beneath the lamplight. Adala waves at me from farther down the pavement, while Drew argues with Alex over which route to take back to the Tube station.

I smile despite myself and hurry to catch up. For the first time since arriving in London, I’m going home without feeling alone.

Twenty-Eight

The best part of the weekend is waking up without an alarm dragging me into consciousness before sunrise. Unfortunately, sleeping in doesn’t necessarily mean sleeping well.

As I roll over and check the time, the glowing numbers read six a.m. My body has apparently decided that what the Brits call a lie-in is a foreign concept.

I stay nestled in my cocoon of blankets for a few extra minutes, staring at the pale-gray light filtering through the curtains of my room.

Three weeks ago, I was just a girl in a hotel room waiting for a chance. Now, I have a team, a future, and a potential flat with a temperamental radiator.

Then there’s Max. I’m not entirely sure who he is to me anymore. The man I fell in love with? The one quietly trying to earn my trust back?

Whatever we are, things between us feel fragile right now.

I reach for my phone before climbing out of bed.

No new messages.

After a long shower, I throw on my favorite leggings, a soft white T-shirt, and a lilac nylon jacket. Zoe might have overhauled my wardrobe, but today, I reach for the clothes that feel like me.

The elevator doors slide open to a lobby that smells faintly of burned coffee and rain-soaked carpet. Outside, London is doing that thing where it can’t decide between fog and a drizzle, creating a silver mist.

“Morning, Miss Keller.”

I glance toward the front desk. The older male concierge, Joe, offers me a small smile.

“Morning.” I wave.

“Off to training on the weekend? You athletes never rest, do you?”

“Not today. Just heading across the street for caffeine and a breakfast sandwich. Can I get you anything?”

“No thanks,” he says, raising a travel mug with a dignified nod. “I’m more of an English Breakfast tea gent.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m pushing back through the glass doors, clutching a warm paper bag and a latte. Joe waves me over before I can even make it to the elevators.

“Miss Keller, you have a delivery from a young man. Just missed him, actually.” He reaches beneath the counter and produces a cream-colored envelope. My name is written across the front in a familiar loopy cursive that makes my stomach do a sudden drop.

“Thanks.”

I carry it toward one of the empty armchairs near the window and sit down, ignoring my breakfast for a moment and turn the envelope over in my hands. For a second, I consider stuffing it into my bag unopened.

Instead, I slide a finger beneath the seal. Inside is a single theatre ticket and a folded note.

Katie,

You were right. I’m sorry.