Minus the one thing.

I haven’t figured out how to tell Jennings my name is Violet yet.

Tiny detail, really.

I gnaw on my lip and wonder if he has to know. Of course he has to know, I chide myself. If this is going to continue—if we’re going to continue—I have to tell him everything. As much as I feel like what’s happened between us is real, only one of us has the facts.

I’ll tell him after. The end of the trip is so close now it doesn’t make sense to mention it today. Or tonight.

Tomorrow. I’ll tell him tomorrow.

He’ll probably think it’s funny.

It’s sorta funny. Right?

Fuck.

“Daisy!” Someone is calling my sister’s name as I walk across the lobby. I can’t place the voice and as I turn to follow it, I find a man in maybe his late thirties or early forties approaching me with a wide smile. He’s very good-looking. I’ve never seen him before, but since he’s calling me Daisy I’ll assume Daisy has—and prepare myself to fake it until I can figure out if they know each other. I say a silent prayer that they don’t ‘know’ each other.

He’s wearing a polo with a logo of the walking tour we’re taking today and holding a small white envelope that he extends in my direction.

“Hey.” I smile at the guy. It appears his name is Gary, based on a name badge pinned to his shirt. I take the envelope from his hand. Daisy’s name is handwritten on the front in large letters that appear to be the penmanship of a girl under ten. The pink glitter ink helps me narrow it down.

“Um, thank you,” I offer. Please, please fill me in on what this is about, I think to myself as Jennings arrives in the lobby and stops beside us. I glance at the envelope and back to Gary again. “This is so nice.” At least I think it is. Maybe this guy is a psycho who writes Daisy letters in childish handwriting. Why did she not clue me in on a potential Gary issue in Philadelphia? They’ve clearly worked together on this tour before; he definitely seems to know her. She never was one for formulating a solid plan though. ‘Daisy’s my pantser,’ Mom always says. ‘Violet’s my planner.’

“From my daughter,” Gary says, and I do my best not to audibly sigh in relief. “Thank you so much for helping her set up her blog. She said she’s up to three hundred followers. She’s pretty excited.” He laughs and shakes his head.

“Oh, that was so nice of—” I’m about to say ‘her.’ As in, That was so nice of Daisy to help this kid. Except I’m Daisy right now, so I’d be complimenting myself. “So nice of her to write a thank you note.” I ad-lib that reply like a pro. That was close. Time to wrap this up before it goes bad.

“She loved your photography tips too.”

“Photography tips,” Jennings mutters to himself under his breath.

“She said the way you explained moving around the shot for variety and working from the back of a scene forward changed how she sets up a shot. Whatever that means.” Gary laughs.

I laugh too, a fake ha-ha kind of laugh. “Yeah, those are my best tips.”

“She’s such a fan of your blog.”

“You have a blog?” Jennings looks interested in that tidbit of information.

“Um, thank you!” I beam a smile at Gary and take a half step away in the direction of the group waiting in the lobby. “She’s a sweetheart.” I have no idea if this is true, but everyone thinks their kid is great, so I’m sure I can’t go wrong with a compliment, factual or not.

“We should stay on schedule,” I add, pointing a thumb towards the door. “Thank you for the thank you.” I wave the card in the air and take another half step. “Give her my regards.” My regards? She’s a child. “I mean, tell her I said hi!” I quickly amend.

“Of course. Kaia adores you. She wanted to tag along again today but she had a traveling soccer game.”

I say a silent prayer of thanks, because you know who’s great at telling twins apart? Children. They’re like little bullshit detectors.

“Soccer is important,” I agree. I have no idea what I’m talking about. “So, ready to get this tour started?” I don’t wait for a response, just spin on my heel and start walking towards the group waiting by the lobby doors.

I make it two steps before Jennings has questions.

“What’s your blog about?”

“It’s a travel blog.”

“A travel blog,” he repeats. “But I thought design was your passion.”

“It is. I just do the travel blog for fun.”

“Right,” he says slowly, as if that doesn’t make sense.

Rightfully so, because who does a thing they’re not really that interested in for fun?

“Well, I’d love to see it,” he says.

“Sure.”

Hell, no. Like I need him asking me more questions I can’t answer? I don’t think so.

“I’ll show you later,” I lie. By then we’ve reached the group, so I do what any good liar does—I change the subject.

“Is everyone ready?” I turn my attention to the group and do a quick head count. “Looks like we’re all here!” I chirp in false excitement. I’m not normally this chirpy. I need to tone it down because Jennings is looking at me strangely.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Jennings

We exit the hotel, Daisy trailing the group to keep an eye out and make sure no one lags behind. I stuff my headset into my pocket and walk beside her, neither of us speaking. Daisy seems jittery and I’m not sure why.

We have to talk. Tonight. Tomorrow I fly to Connecticut to bring Nan to my aunt and then I’m on a flight back to London.

There’s no way in hell I’m leaving without knowing when I’m going to see her again.

Or bringing her with me.

“So you enjoy photography?” I ask to break the silence. She shrugs and mumbles something about it helping her blog. How did I not know this about her? There are so many things I don’t know about her.

Yet.

But I will.

Maybe it’s cocky, but I know enough.

I know enough to know what we could be together.

We have a connection and sometimes the intangible force between two people is stronger than reason. Stronger than time and logic. Stronger than knowing things like what flavor crisps they like best. Or their favorite show. Or if they’ve got especially strong opinions on which way the loo roll hangs.

Wait—I do know one of those things. Barbecue crisps, she said. I know amusement rides make her dizzy. I know she’s got no game for picking up men. I know she wants a dog someday but that it must come from a rescue. I know she’s got a quirk about germs in hotel rooms.

I know she’s smart. Has a great sense of humor. I know I’m happier when I’m around her. I know she’s a game-changer.

Yet…

Sometimes I don’t know her at all. Sometimes she’s guarded. Puts a wall up. Gets nervous when I ask too many questions.

Sometimes she’s like an entirely different person.

I know there’s still something she’s lying about.

What is it?

Perhaps she’s just cagey after her last relationship. Perhaps she’s anxious about where this is going.

Except it’s something more than that. Something else. Something I’m not getting.

Maybe she’s in massive amounts of debt or gets sacked a lot. She’s a mediocre tour guide, if I’m honest. She didn’t play any of the scheduled company videos she was meant to during the bus rides. There were a few basic answers she didn’t have for guests. She was more nervous than confident most of the trip—anytime she was in charge, really.

But she said she was new at this, didn’t she? Design is what she normally does. Or wants to do.

Perhaps she changes her mind often?

She’s twenty-six. Perhaps she’s not ready for the things I’m ready for.

I don’t give a toss about any of that other shite. There’s no amount of debt she could have that I couldn’t pay off without a second thought. She can take all the time in the world to decide what she wants to do with her career. She can design or she can blog or she can open up a goddamned bakery shop for all I care.

I can be there for her while she figures those things out.

If she wants me to be.

I sure as fuck wasn’t ready to commit to a relationship when I was her age. Hell, I wasn’t ready last week.

She could move in with me. Of course she could—my house is bloody big enough for twelve. The second I have the thought, the idea of spending another night in it alone, without Daisy, is intolerable.

The fact that I’ve not renovated it yet feels like kismet. She’s passionate about design—she’d want to oversee it herself, wouldn’t she? It’s fate. And as far as I’m concerned Daisy can do whatever she wants to the place.

I’ll hire her to renovate it. Give her a reason to come to London. It’ll take her an age to do it. A year at least. Massive pile.

I won’t even care if her style is dreadful, or if she insists on installing an American refrigerator big enough to walk in. Or turns bedrooms into walk-in closets and mounts a telly on the wall in every room.