Peak District, One Year Earlier
It’s funny how life turns out, Charlie thought.
She was not at all interested in cycling, for instance, and yet here she was at the crack of dawn (eight thirty a.m.) in a bike café in the Peak District, queueing behind two elderly men in skintight Lycra holding forth about wind speeds.
She glanced back at her table, where Oliver and Fearne sat, both sweaty and energized from riding, and her heart warmed.
She would follow those two anywhere, even if it meant a disgustingly early start and coffee that smelled faintly of bike oil.
Oliver looked particularly gorgeous—his cycling gear clung to the tight muscles of his shoulders and upper arms, and his hair was all mussed from his helmet, giving him a surferish bed-headed look.
He caught her eye and gave her one of his trademark tiny smiles.
Oliver could smile without really moving his face at all.
He just projected a smile, capturing the essence in his eyes and the very slightest rise to the corners of his mouth.
It was easy to read his general expressionlessness as placidity—she had when Fearne had first introduced them—but he was actually very funny and warm.
Just understated. Subtle. Charlie, who had never been described as understated, had found his calmness almost intoxicating: spending time with Oliver was like taking a warm bath or going to a yoga class.
They’d been dating for three months now, and Charlie felt her brain chemistry was forever changed as a result.
It was still chaos in there, but spending so much time with Oliver had made her realize how overstimulated she often was, and how much it benefited her to occasionally sit with someone in companionable silence.
“Make it a hazelnut latte!” Fearne yelled at Charlie across the café. “No, sorry, back to gingerbread! A gingerbread mocha!”
Charlie grinned. Fearne was perhaps the reason why Charlie had never experienced much companionable silence before.
She was the closest thing Charlie had to a sister—something Charlie would never have said in front of Brianna, who would definitely have taken offense.
But her relationship with Bri was so complicated.
And Fearne had come first: Brianna was a friend from secondary school, but Fearne had befriended Charlie when she was an odd, lonely six-year-old on the playground bench, the one everyone whispered about, even the parents.
She’s adopted, you know. Did you see her crying at parents’ evening? Miss Braddery says she’s got “issues.”
Fearne was effervescent, exuberant, high on life. She swept Charlie up and loved her unconditionally, something Charlie had never experienced before and found frankly life-changing. Fearne’s mind seemed to match Charlie’s, too—they both thought at 1.5 speed, with too many programs running at once.
As the two men in front of her in the queue spoke—just a touch too loudly—about carbon-fiber wheels, Charlie pulled out her phone and scrolled idly through her favorite bookmarked websites. The Isle of Ormer community page, the Isle of Ormer estate agency site, her Ormer Google Alerts…
“What can I get you?” the barista asked.
Charlie had become engrossed reading about plans to set up a Christmas tractor run on the island. God, how adorable.
“Two flat whites, please, and one—” She looked over her shoulder again.
“White chocolate hazelnut latte with cream on top!”
“—of those,” she said. Fearne had been loud enough for the barista to catch every word.
As she returned to the table, Charlie almost collided with a young woman in padded leggings clutching a large takeaway cup.
“Oh my goodness,” she said, stepping in front of Charlie to speak to Oliver. “You’re Oliver Brennon, right?”
Charlie watched Oliver’s face cloud with embarrassment, just as Fearne’s lit up with total delight.
“He is,” Fearne said, rocking her chair onto its back two legs and clapping her hands gleefully. “Are you a fan?”
“I’ve seen you race—you’re amazing,” the girl said to Oliver.
Oh my fucking God, Charlie mouthed at Fearne behind the girl’s back, then she had to go back to biting her bottom lip to keep from laughing.
As far as she was aware, this had never happened to Oliver before.
He was a semipro downhill mountain biker, as Fearne was—that’s how they’d become friends, and it was Fearne who’d introduced Oliver and Charlie—but it was not a profession that made one famous. Except in a bike café, maybe.
“Will you be competing at Downhill Dash next weekend?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there,” Oliver said, rubbing his jawline awkwardly. His eyes flicked to Charlie and warmed with amusement as he clocked her jumping on the spot slightly, back to mouthing oh my fucking God again.
“I’ll be cheering you on!” the girl said, heading off to the door with a smile.
“Maybe she’ll bring pom-poms!” Charlie said as she slid into her chair.
Oliver put his face in his hands as Fearne laughed uproariously.
“You’re famous,” Fearne said. “Oh my God—Charlie Jones, girlfriend of a celebrity!”
“Please. Is Taylor Swift a celebrity’s girlfriend?” Charlie said.
But she was slightly thrilled by it all, actually.
She knew Oliver was a total catch—of course—but sometimes she found herself comparing him to her ex more than she should have.
She’d loved Berty so much, that was the trouble.
They’d gotten together as teenagers, when she’d hardly believed that anyone, let alone the aloof, handsome Berty, wanted to take her out to a movie.
Even after almost two decades together, Berty had never stopped being her dream guy—she’d always felt so blessed to have found him.
And then he’d left her. Walked out of their flat with a random assortment of their shared possessions shoved in the suitcase they’d taken to Barbados the summer before.
But now she was with lovely, gorgeous Oliver, so none of that mattered anyway.
And if she didn’t quite idolize him as she had Berty, that was probably a good thing—perhaps it wasn’t healthy to love a person so much.
It certainly hadn’t felt healthy when Berty had left.
Nobody should cry as much as she had cried; nobody should feel so agonizingly undone.
Oliver was sexy and enigmatic, but less assertive and dominant than Berty had been. Berty-lite. Just what she needed.
Still, meeting one of Oliver’s fans did give him an air of mystique that he might have otherwise been lacking, a little.
The barista brought their coffees to the table, smiling at Fearne’s effusive thanks—nobody did gratitude more earnestly than Fearne.
The three of them sipped their drinks. Oliver still looked amusingly uncomfortable.
He was such a nice guy; Charlie felt bad for even thinking of him as in any way less than Berty.
She gave him an extra warm smile over her coffee cup; his eyes crinkled back at her.
“We should get these for the shop,” Fearne said, pointing at the set of vintage cycling jerseys hanging beside the TV currently playing old highlights from the Tour de France.
“This is why I’m on decor,” Charlie said, examining the garishly colored T-shirts. “And also why there is a Pinterest board. Neon does not say Vintage, Please, Fearne.”
“Does it not?” Fearne pouted, unoffended.
She was not always the perfect business partner—absent much of the time for training and racing, uninterested in details, questionable taste—but the two of them had dreamed of opening a vintage clothing shop together since they were at school, and Charlie felt lucky every time she unlocked the door of Vintage, Please.
She felt lucky all the time, really. Except occasionally at three a.m. when the insomnia was bad and the worst thoughts crept in, and she’d find herself thinking, You’re still not good enough, are you, Charlie? Will you ever be?
“Oh, you’re obsessing over your island again!” Fearne said—she’d just shamelessly unlocked Charlie’s phone, seemingly in order to check the weather forecast. “A tractor run. Adorbs. Shall we go see it this Christmas?”
“No!” Charlie said, a little too loudly.
“No,” she repeated, in a more measured sort of way.
She focused on Oliver—Fearne was not difficult to distract, thankfully, and this ought to do it.
“You look so uncomfortable with your life of fame,” she said to him, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek.
He reached for her, pulling her onto his lap and burying his face in her neck.
“You delight in my embarrassment,” he said, voice muffled.
Fearne grinned, instantly sidetracked. “Don’t worry, Oliver, one bouncy blonde does not a fan club make.”
“It’s a good thing!” Charlie said, giggling as she extricated herself and returned to her seat. “It means your profile is rising.”
“I don’t want my profile to rise,” Oliver said, hands still linked with hers. He twisted several of her rings between his fingers, sobering a little. “I just want to ride bikes. Really fast. And win races.”
“What for?” Charlie asked.
Fearne and Oliver seemed surprised by the question. She gave a small shrug. She’d always assumed Oliver’s competitiveness was at least in part a desire for fame and glory—why else did winning matter?
“Because it’s fun,” Fearne said, just as Oliver said, “Because it makes me feel alive.”
There was another silence. Charlie could have guessed Fearne’s response to her question—Fearne’s brain was an easy read for Charlie, like curling up with a comfort book. Oliver’s was a surprise, though. He clocked their expressions and gave a rueful laugh.
“Sorry,” he said. “Was that melodramatic?”
“A bit,” said Fearne.
“Were you waiting for ‘The Wind Beneath My Wings’ to kick in?” he said, returning to his usual poker face.
“Kind of,” Charlie said, relaxing slightly as they settled back into their normal rhythm. “If you’re going to say things like ‘It makes me feel alive,’ then you need to work on your delivery.”