One Weekend in London

5. Sadie

Things just keepon rolling downhill.

My hotel room door slams shut behind me, sealing me safely inside as I dig through my small purse like a woman possessed, searching for what I noticed is missing when retrieving my plastic keycard seconds ago.

“No, no, no,” I mumble, hanging on to denial as tightly as I can. “I couldn’t have lost my phone.”

Close to nose-diving into a well of panic, I cross the fancy five-star suite I’ve called home for the past few days with haste. The pronounced scent of luxury lingers in the air, paid for by an unknowing Maxwell, and dump the contents of my clutch onto the bed.

Well, it appears I was wrong a second ago.

My phone can be gone.

And unfortunately, it totally is.

“Oh, this is so not good.” My words echo through the otherwise empty room, taunting me. “Now what? Think, Sadie, think.”

Closing my eyes, I mentally retrace my steps. I had it after leaving the theater, I know, because I used it to pay for my taxi ride to The Opulence, the highfalutin’ bar my driver—who I suspect was cruelly setting me up to be turned away— said I just had to visit.

That only leaves one explanation.

I must have lost it while inside, right after getting more stirred up than a hornet in a honey jar and dropping my bag, sending its various contents tumbling across the dark floor. I thought I’d picked everything up and put it back in its rightful place; obviously, I was wrong.

Talk about a cherry on top of a crap sundae.

In the grand scheme of things, it’s such a silly thing to get so upset over, considering it’s replaceable. But after the night I’ve had, losing it is just one more punch to the solar plexus, leaving me winded and nauseated.

Not to mention on the verge of screaming in frustration.

Dropping down onto the soft mattress in defeat, I resist the urge to bang my head against the polished wood top of the nightstand to my left. Doing so won’t solve a single thing. It’ll only leave me with an even bigger migraine and one heck of an ugly bruise.

As Weston would say, damn it to hell and back.

Everything is falling apart and spinning out of control. At this point, I believe I’m cursed. It’s the only answer for why life keeps kicking my rear, especially when I’m already down.

But I downright refuse to dwell.

As every self-respecting Winslow was raised to do, I only allow myself a moment to wallow, to feel the full weight of my own cosmic joke of a life, before adding a heaping dose of starch to my spine and sucking in a fortifying breath.

I can still fix this.

All I have to do is head back to the bar and sweet-talk whoever’s now manning the door that leads into the lounge from the hotel lobby, ensuring all guests are following the snooty dress code, and get myself back inside.

I’ve done it once; I can do it again.

But there’s one not-so-tiny problem.

Returning to The Opulence means potentially running into Rhys again. The very man possessing a knee-weakening accent, who stepped in like a modern-day knight outfitted in custom armor when that creep at the bar got handsy.

And whose bourbon-kissed eyes seemed to read my every thought with ease, piercing the paper-thin mask of bravery and resilience I’ve been fighting to keep in place, nearly unveiling the heartbreak I’m so desperately trying to put behind me.

After just one meeting, he’s under my skin.

My thoughts utterly consumed by him.

Swallowing hard, I slip off my heels and push off the bed, then start pacing the length of the room, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet with each step. I should be relieved he came to my rescue tonight, protecting me more than Maxwell ever did.

Grateful, even.

I mean, it’s not like I’m some blushing virgin, all doe-eyed and in danger of having my silk panties charmed slap off by a devastatingly handsome face and a smile that’s so toe-curling it could make the devil himself blush.

But there’s something about Rhys’s intensity, the sheer magnetic pull of his presence, that has me twisted in what I suspect are an intricate web of permanent knots, my belly filled with a kaleidoscope of butterflies.

The inexplicable draw I feel to him is dangerous. Reckless, even. The way he makes me want to toss caution out the nearest window and give in to anything he asks for is the exact opposite of everything I need in my life right now.

Control. I need control.

So why can’t I stop picturing how his full, impossibly kissable lips tilted at the corners when he grinned down at me? The way his intoxicating eyes drank me in like I was a tall glass of ice-cold sweet tea on a sweltering August afternoon?

It’s almost as if…

My wild thoughts scatter when a loud ringing echoes through the silent room. Nearly jumping out of my skin, I whip around to see my open MacBook lit up, the FaceTime icon bouncing merrily on the screen.

Crossing the room in quick-footed strides, I plop down at the antique Edwardian desk and click the Accept button without even bothering to read the name or number flashing across the screen.

At this point, I’ll take any distraction from the Rhys-shaped rabbit hole my brain keeps trying to tumble down, taking what remains of my sanity with it.

The screen fills with three familiar faces—Lillian, Tasha, and Papaw—and my shoulders unclench a fraction. I swear I’ve never been so grateful to see their pixelated selves in my whole life.

“There she is!” Tasha’s smile is beautiful and bright, matching her giant heart. “How’s my favorite international absconder doing?”

I can’t help but grin back as I fiddle with my hands and shift in my seat, unable to sit still. Tasha just has this way about her. She may still be young, just a teen, but she puts people at ease without trying, her presence never failing to temporarily push away their burdens.

It’s one of the many traits she and Lillian share.

“Oh, you know.” I force myself to sit straighter and flick my hair back over my shoulder, feigning nonchalance despite my anxiety nearly overwhelming me. “Just living the dream. Sipping tea with the King and mingling with the other royals.”

Lillian giggles, shaking her head.

But it’s Papaw’s reaction that truly captures my attention. Arms crossed over his faded overall-covered chest, he huffs and rolls his eyes, reminding me of Weston when he’s seconds from throwing a full-blown tantrum.

“Hi, Papaw.” His faded blue gaze narrows, his mouth unmoving. “I see you’re still grumpier than a bear with a sore paw over my little vacation.”

When he doesn’t reply, I sigh, my belly feeling as though it’s gnawing itself in half, something it always does when he’s upset with me.

“I’m sorry I left so quickly.” The apology, one I’ve already spoken, spills out of me quietly, my fingers now fidgeting with the hem of my dress. “It wasn’t part of my plan. Like, at all. But the gossip and noise... it all just became too much.” I fall silent, slightly hesitating before adding, “Please don’t be mad. I can handle a lot of things, but you being disappointed in me—”

His eyes widen.

“I ain’t mad at you, much less disappointed, Sadie Lou.” The tear-inducing tizzy I was working myself into abates, relief working to take its place when he finally speaks. “It’s the rest of these folks ’round here that’ve got me all worked up and hotter than a billy goat in a pepper patch.”

With a grunt, he unfolds his arms and removes his worn straw hat, one he’s owned since I was a little girl, before slapping it down on his thigh.

“Garrison is your home, dagnabit. Me and your mamaw, may God rest her angelic soul, made sure of that. And the last thing you should have to do is flee on account of some no-good Beaumont, who wasn’t ever worthy of you in the first place, doin’ you wrong and breakin’ your beautiful heart.”

My chin wobbles. “It wasn’t just him. It was—”

“I already know,” he interrupts, showcasing his ability to read me like a book. “And as far as the Garrison gossip mill goes, folks need to learn to mind their own biscuits ’fore they get burnt.”

Laughter bubbles up from my throat, warming me from the inside out. Leave it to Papaw to put things in perspective with his colorful Southern wisdom.

Her face alight with humor and understanding, Lillian adjusts the messy bun her hair’s pulled in and clears her throat, spearing a soft but concerned look my way. Following in Eli’s footsteps, she’s always fussing and worrying over me.

She’s going to be such a good mama.

“Sadie, honey...” Her voice is quiet, barely louder than a whisper. “I know you’re hurt, and understandably so. But you can’t let what Maxwell and Vanessa did define you. You have to keep moving forward. Keep living your life. If not for yourself, then as selfish as it sounds, for all of us who love you and want to see you truly and genuinely happy.”

Tears prick the backs of my eyelids, but I blink them away, refusing to let them fall. Lillian’s right. I know she is. It’s just hard to imagine fully getting past all this and one day opening myself up again, risking that kind of soul-crushing pain.

But the alternative—shutting myself away, letting betrayal and hurt win—is even worse. I want to let all the bad go and move on, finding happiness. And maybe someday, a true happily ever after.

One that doesn’t include backstabbing scumbags.

Of the male and female variety.

I pull in a deep, shuddering—cleansing—breath. “You’re right. About everything.” Rhys’s face flashes in the forefront of my mind, and a secretive, almost devious smile spreads across my face. “Hey, maybe I should start moving forward by finding a hot Brit to have a drink with.” I pause for dramatic effect. “Preferably one named Rhys.”

Tasha’s eyes widen, and she leans forward, practically vibrating with excitement.

I feel my cheeks heat, but I can’t stop the grin tugging at my lips. Trust her to tap into her teenage drama queen skills and zero in on the juiciest tidbit of information like a heat-seeking missile.

Just as Papaw’s did a minute ago, her eyes narrow. Silently assessing. Knowing a barrage of questions is about to be fired my way, my finger finds my computer’s trackpad, and I hover the mouse’s cursor over the disconnect icon.

“Now wait a minute, I know that look!” she hollers, jumping up. “You’re not telling us something, and I demand to know all the juicy deets, or else—”

Papaw and Lillian are both about to speak, interrupting whatever Tasha is set to finish saying, but I don’t give any of them the chance.

“Love you guys. I’ll check in tomorrow. But not from my phone because, well, I sort of lost it at a high-class, fancy bar after this insanely hot and obviously filthy rich hotel owner swooped in, saving me from this pervert I was two seconds from castrating.”

If Papaw hadn’t had high blood pressure before, he surely would now. Following Tasha’s lead, he stands from his chair with a start, sending it skidding backward, his cheeks and ears tinged fire engine red.

“What in tarnation? Sadie Lou, I swear—”

I’m about to blow them a kiss and end the call, leaving them on one heck of a cliffhanger when Lillian’s voice cuts through the chaos, her tone urgent and tinged with reluctance.

“Sadie, wait! There’s something you need to know.” Call it instinct, a sixth sense, whatever, but I know whatever she needs to tell me will knock me for a loop. “It’s about Vanessa.”

Sympathy contorts her features.

“She’s pregnant… with Maxwell’s baby.”