Chapter 16
I’m soaked through, from my head to my boots. My hands ache from clutching the reins. Guilt over subjecting sweet Rosie to
this weather is taking me down. I’d be crying if I wasn’t so cold and it didn’t take so much effort.
I guide Rosie to a denser section of the woods where we can get at least a bit of shelter from the storm. I dismount, then
keep walking, waiting for something to look familiar, waiting for a miracle. My miracle comes in the form of a stone cottage,
about the size of my two-story home in Wisconsin.
Thankfully, it includes a smaller structure (likely once a carriage house) that’s been converted into a stable. I apologize
profusely to Rosie as I lead her into a stall, take off her bridle, and get her settled with water and hay.
Figuring the odds of a serial killer living on royal property, particularly one so bougie, are low, I approach the front door and knock.
There aren’t any lights on, so I try the handle.
Bingo. I’m dripping rain all over the foyer of this house, but I don’t care.
I’m out of the elements and no longer feel like I’m going to die in some truly embarrassing way, which gives me perspective.
I can stay here tonight, wherever “here” is, and hopefully find my way back to my own cottage in the morning.
I hate myself for leaving my phone behind.
Rubbing my arms, teeth chattering, I explore what seems to be a hunting lodge that’s still in regular use by the royal family.
The horse supplies in the makeshift stable make sense now. The aged hardwood floor is covered in dark rugs. The furniture
is sturdy leather with heavy oak tables and chairs here and there. The walls feature old-fashioned guns and taxidermic deer
heads and stuffed birds. I make my way around, flicking on lights to help me get my bearings.
There’s firewood on the back porch. I gather some dry pieces and bring them into the living room. My summers in Illinois have
taught me the art of making a fire, and I fully intend to start one soon. But first, I peek into three different bedrooms
in search of clothing. The first is a master bedroom. Not gonna touch anything there. I wander into another room that gives
off Finn vibes, and not just because there’s a trunk with his initials at the foot of the bed. In the dresser, I find a pair
of sweatpants and a flannel shirt, but I’m not sure changing into them will be enough to warm me up. Still shivering and damp,
what I really want is a hot shower.
I head into the en-suite, then hesitate. Am I really going to use a member of the royal family’s shower without permission? After breaking into their house? Which I accessed after taking their horse?!
I’m so getting deported.
Oh well, at least my hair will look nice in my mug shot. This bathroom is stocked with top-tier hair products. I suppose those
copper locks don’t shine and fall the way they do by accident.
I step out of my wet clothes, hang them on the towel rack, and turn on the shower. It takes a while for the water to heat
up, but it eventually does, eliciting a moan of relief from deep within me. I step into a shower that’s big enough for two
(not that it matters), the water shocking and stinging my frozen skin. To distract myself from the pain and calm myself from
the fear of not knowing where the hell I am, I start singing. Being the world’s most average singer has never stopped me from
belting show tunes in the shower.
Warm and clean, I turn off the water and pat myself dry, all while continuing to sing my way through “One Day More” from Les Mis. I help myself to fancy face moisturizer and body lotion, in addition to the clothes I found. There’s no way I’m putting
my wet underwear and bra back on, but that hardly matters when here alone. Commando it is.
I blow-dry my hair until I get bored and then scrunch it with my hands to coax out my natural blond waves.
Ready to build that fire, I walk out of the bathroom, back into the bedroom, and immediately scream because I am not, in fact, alone.
“Has anyone ever told you that you should be on Broadway?” Finn asks from the bed where he’s stretched out, hands behind his
head, as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. “I thought your karaoke performance was impressive, but Les Mis? Brava.”
I grab the decorative pillow from a nearby chair and throw it at him. He catches it.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, still trying to slow down my racing heart that was momentarily convinced I was about to
be murdered in the woods.
“In my hunting lodge?” He sits up. “I could ask you the same question, Goldilocks. By the way, how are you enjoying my hair products
and clothing? Thank you for leaving me some things to wear so I could change out of my wet clothes too. Such a thoughtful
little intruder.”
Hah. So I was right about this room. “I have zero complaints,” I say. I’m so relieved to see him, I have to fight the urge to
leap onto the bed to hug him. Remembering that I’m furious with him helps smother the baser instinct. I level him with an
icy stare. “Where’s Beatrice? Is she here too? I’d love to meet her.”
Finn sighs and rises from the bed. “Hannah, I owe you an apology. Multiple apologies. My family wasn’t supposed to be back here for another month, and when I got the text that they were on their way, and I was to meet them at the private airport .
. .” He tentatively takes my hands in his. “The timing couldn’t have been worse.”
I yank my hands away. “Why did you tell me things were over between you and Beatrice?”
“Because they were,” he insists. “I mean, they are.”
“Interesting. Because you two were practically canoodling in back of the Rolls,” I point out, wincing all over again at the
humiliation I experienced when he looked at me as though he didn’t even know me.
Technically, he and Beatrice weren’t canoodling, they were just sitting next to each other, but Finn doesn’t correct me. Instead,
he sits on the edge of the bed and runs his fingers through his hair. There’s a part of me that wants to run my fingers through
his hair too. I’m clearly a glutton for punishment.
“Bringing Beatrice was a ‘fun little surprise,’ courtesy of my parents. I swear to you, I don’t want her here. I don’t want
her at all.”
“What do you want?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“You,” he says.
That’s all I needed to hear. I reach out to feel the silky, slightly damp waves of his hair, combing my fingers through, giving
the slightest of tugs when I reach the ends. He lets out a small hum at my touch and my belly turns to liquid.
“Is there any way,” he asks, his voice low, “that I can kiss you again and this time, I promise not to run away, abandoning you in a dark alley?”
“The words every girl dreams of hearing.” My breath catches in my throat because he’s standing now, coming closer.
But I can’t let him have the upper hand. Not just yet.
Beside the canopy bed are two engraved wooden steps, beautiful and functional, since the bed is too high for me to get into gracefully. I take his fingers, linking them through mine, and step
up until we are nearly eye to eye.
“Well, now, that’s an even better view of you,” he says, nuzzling my jaw with his chin. His hands grip my waist, and I inhale
the scent of him while I run my fingers through his hair again. Just when I think this moment can’t feel any more intimate,
his lips find mine. I part them for him, welcoming his heat, his tongue, his affection. My breasts press against his chest,
sending a charge through me. I want more of him, more of this. Kissing Finn feels like being worshipped. I want to know how
everything else with him will feel.
His hands run down to cup my bottom and I wrap my legs around him. Carefully, so carefully he doesn’t even break our kiss,
he lays me onto the bed. When I’m on the softest mattress I’ve ever experienced, only then does he pull away. With one finger,
he delicately brushes away a lock of hair from my face.
“My beautiful, perfect Hannah.”
The best word out of all of them is “my.”
“I was so worried, so . . .” His eyes cast down, the fringe of his auburn eyelashes in full view.
I take his hand and hold it. “About what?”
“You disappeared,” he says as though it’s obvious. Oh yeah. That. “Knowing what it looked like to see me drive up with Beatrice, no word of warning, I got away as soon as I could. You weren’t
at your cottage. I looked all over the grounds and when I realized Rosie was gone too, all I could think was . . .”
“I’m sorry,” I say, warmed by the intensity of his concern. “What I did was really stupid. I’m sorry I made you worry.”
“I’m sorry I upset you,” he says. “I’m just glad you’re okay. And so are these wide doe eyes. This pouty mouth. These flushing
cheeks.” He places tender kisses on every part he names.
“Is that all?” I tease. “What do you think of my ears?” When he rolls off me, I regret my glibness and try to pull him toward
me. “Where are you going?”
“I want to say something to you. Something important.”
He’s lying on his back now. I scooch closer until the sides of our bodies are aligned and we’re both staring at the vaulted
ceiling and the dark beams running across it. When his hand finds mine, our fingers lace together as though this is what they’ve
always done. What they’ll always do.
“You remember Tina? My prison warden you met in the stables?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve known Tina since I was a boy. When my sister Poppy was a toddler and I was about five, and James and Amelia were busy
with their overly scheduled lives, Tina would take the two of us into the garden to catch ladybugs. We’d have this little
crate that Poppy and I would decorate with leaves and sticks and grass, all manner of things we thought the ladybugs would
like, and then we’d put the little red bugs in there and let them make friends with one another. We’d always set them free
afterwards. Poppy worried the ladybugs wouldn’t be happy cooped up. Tina seemed to understand that Poppy and I weren’t happy
cooped up either. Looking after us, she didn’t care if I got mud on my trousers or if Poppy’s plaits came loose. But when
Mum and Dad returned home from whatever philanthropic venture they were tending to, we’d be back in shipshape, reading quietly
in the study.”
“She must be protective of you,” I say, trying to reconcile the severe woman I met while in a semi-compromising position with
the one Finn’s describing.
He nods, his thumb tracing my hand, my wrist. “Because of her, I’ve always had a keen sense for people who have my best interests
at heart. It’s difficult to trust people—and, yes, I know that’s not an affliction borne solely by those in the public eye.”
My mind automatically goes to Gigi and Dean, and my body tenses in response. He holds my hand more tightly, caressing it with his thumb. “It’s not,” I say. “But you definitely see it in a more concentrated form than most people.”
He rolls onto his side and surveys me. “When we first met, I admit the first thing that appealed to me was your smart mouth
and the scent of the chase. But after seeing you crying in the alleyway after losing your job, after messaging with you and
spending time with you here . . .
“You have the loveliest heart, Hannah. The sweetest soul.” He shakes his head with a smile. “I know I sound like I’m reciting
the cheesiest boy band lyrics of all time, but I mean it. I see your goodness just as clearly as I see your beauty, feel your
humor, see your strength—god, how many people could go to a different continent at eighteen, have their summer plans flipped,
and then thrive with the changes?”
I’ve never been referred to as “strong” before. I’m trying on the word, getting comfortable with it. And I’m seeing myself
through his eyes. Being with Finn isn’t just making me fall for him, it’s making me like myself more.
“Thank you,” I say, scratching the stubble on his jaw.
He lets out an exaggerated sigh and rolls his eyes. “Now would be the time when you shower me with compliments. God, Hannah.”
I grin and pull him on top of me, nibbling at his ear and neck to make him squirm. He tickles my ribs in response and we both laugh. Eventually, we find ourselves holding each other as our breaths slow.
“You’re very swoonable,” I say, kissing along his jaw.
I can feel the muscles of his smile against my mouth. “ ‘Swoonable.’ Is that even a word?”
“If Shakespeare’s allowed to invent seventeen hundred words, I’m allowed to invent at least one.”
“Well, then, I think you’re very swoonable too,” he says, and then all our words, real and created, get lost in a kiss.