“So Ethan put you on guard duty today, didn’t he?” I asked Jonathan between bites of some really good chicken salad. I’d have to remember the dried cherries and the dill the next time I made it. My appetite was improving slightly, but I didn’t know if it was because of my pregnancy or that I was coming to terms with my father’s death. Either way, I could now look at food without the urge to turn my head away so I wouldn’t puke.

“I know nothing about that, my dear, I wanted to take my soon-to-be-daughter to lunch is all,” he said with a shrug, brown eyes gleaming, “and Ethan told me that Len would be away today.”

“Ha! Thought so,” I laughed. “I know his tactics by now, Jonathan. Ethan doesn’t let his guard down easily, or without very good reasons.” I sipped my juice. “I know he’s very protective and he does it because he loves me.”

“You understand him so well. In fact, I’d say that you have transformed my son into a person I had hoped he might become someday, but feared I would never know.” Jonathan smiled at me with a great deal of kindness and absolutely no judgment.

“The war?” I asked. “I know something very bad happened to him in the army, but I don’t know what. He can’t share with me . . . yet.”

Jonathan patted my hand gently. “Well, that makes two of us then. I don’t know what they did to my son either. I just know he came home with a haunted look in his eye and a very hard edge to him that wasn’t present before. But I do know that he is more like the Ethan I knew when he was younger now that he’s found you. You’ve brought it out in him, Brynne. I can see how he looks at you and how you comfort each other.” He took a drink of his beer. “In short, you’ve made an old man very happy and greatly relieved.”

“I feel the same way about him in a lot of ways. Ethan really saved me from myself.”

Jonathan listened carefully and pointed at my belly. “You’ll find that you never stop worrying about your children no matter how old they get.”

“I’ve heard that said a lot.” I sighed heavily. “I worry now . . . about him or her.” I touched my stomach. “If something happens to me . . . well, then—I can already sort of see how it works.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you, my dear. Ethan won’t allow it and neither will I. The next few weeks will find you extremely busy and your schedule filled with plans and events, but soon things will settle and the two of you will be figuring out married life and I’ll be awaiting the arrival of my fourth grandchild.”

He smiled at me and I wholeheartedly returned it with one of my own. I was really beginning to care about Ethan’s dad. He would be a loving grandpa for our baby and it made me feel good inside knowing he was rooting for our little family. It was a small thing to some, but for me, it was huge. Jonathan was giving to me something my own mother couldn’t, or wouldn’t give—the simple blessing for the success and happiness of starting our family.

We were heading out of the restaurant when I spotted Karl rushing in, looking somewhat harried for the easygoing guy I remembered from high school.

“Brynne! God, I’m so sorry I’m late. I got your text, and then it was one delay after another.” He held up his hands. “I got held up with work business.” Stepping closer to embrace me, he kissed me on the cheek affectionately.

“Karl, this is my . . . father-in-law, Jonathan Blackstone. Jonathan, Karl Westman, an old friend from my hometown. We used to compete in track and field together back in the day.”

They shook hands and we all three chatted for a moment. Karl seemed frustrated he’d missed our lunch and “reconnect,” as he’d put it. I wasn’t so sure Ethan could handle a connection of any sort between Karl and me. Honestly, I could do without it too. I had nothing against an old friendship, but in this case there was a great deal of added emotions and that made it more than slightly uncomfortable for me.

“Jess will slay me for coming all the way to London and then not making the time to catch up with you even a little,” he said to me before turning to Jonathan, “and I regret I missed the opportunity to get valuable in-the-know tourist tips from you, Mr. Blackstone.”

“If you’re interested in Hendrix history and locales, I can share what I know. I drove hundreds of tourists around for more than twenty-five years in this city. I think I’ve seen them all.” Jonathan gave Karl his card. “Email me and I’ll send you what I have. You’ll want the Samarkand at number twenty-two Lansdowne Crescent, in Chelsea, I imagine.”

“Absolutely right.” Karl took Jonathan’s card and put it in his pocket. “Thank you for any suggestions you can give me. I don’t have a great deal of time and I want to make the most of it.” He turned to me again. “So . . . any chance we can arrange something else? I imagine you have somewhere to be right now, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I have a photo shoot in a little over an hour and I need time to prepare.” I thought for a moment. “Well, you’ll be attending the Games, right? Ethan will have tickets for just about any event you could possibly want. Why don’t we plan to meet up for one of the athletics events like hurdles or the hundred meters? I’m actually starting to get excited to see some competitions now.”

“Perfect,” he said. “We’ll be in touch, then.”

Karl hugged me again and we parted ways.

Jonathan was quiet in the car while driving me to my studio shoot. He seemed to be thinking and I wondered . . . How did he feel about the nude modeling? What had Ethan told him about it? Had he ever seen any of my pictures? I guess I wouldn’t know if I didn’t ask him, and that was something I didn’t get into with people. My modeling was personal and not open to negotiation.

In no time, it seemed, Jonathan pulled up to the address in Notting Hill and waited for me to enter the elegant white house that was hosting my photo shoot today. I waved to him as I went in, and then I was off to work, my focus shifting smoothly to what I’d been hired to do.

The inane questions people ask during conversations are so ridiculous at times I wonder how I manage not to leap on the table and shout, “How can you be so f**king stupid and manage to still be breathing?!” Alas . . . I’ve learned to keep my flap shut even when it has pained me greatly to do so.