Chapter Two
Blane stared at the plate in front of him.
The food here was good—there just wasn’t enough of it.
The omelet was hot, loaded with cheese, and disappearing way too fast. He’d finish it, then head out and see what else he could find.
Although, as he took another bite, he considered ordering a second breakfast and having it added to his bill. It was that good.
The woman serving his table came by. He couldn’t quite bring himself to call her a waitress.
She was more efficient than any waitress he’d ever known and dressed as though she were headed for a board meeting.
He’d thought she was timid at first, but that wasn’t it.
She just read her customers well. With him, she communicated through raised eyebrows and slight movements of her head.
She lifted the coffee pot a fraction.
He nodded.
Two tables over, she chatted and laughed with a pair of women who hadn’t stopped talking since they sat down.
Silverware clicked against china beneath the low hum of conversation. He took another bite and glanced toward the door, wondering—not hoping, only wondering—whether the Englishwoman might appear before he was done. Probably not. It had been after midnight by the time she got back.
He frowned when his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was late Friday night back home in Montana, and no one in London was supposed to know he was here.
Cash: Checked in with the team last night. They have no idea you’re there. They asked about you, though. Worried something’s up. You should tell them you’re around.
Blane: Why?
Cash: Jesus, Blane. Because it might be fun for you to hang out with them. Fun for them to have you around as one of the guys for once instead of in charge of the whole damn thing.
He stared at the screen. That hadn’t occurred to him.
Blane: They’ll have more fun without me.
Cash: Probably. But you need to socialize more. I bet you haven’t had one single unnecessary interaction since you stepped off the jet, have you?
Blane: For all you know, I met a woman. Could be having the time of my life.
As soon as he hit send, he regretted it. He never made jokes like that. Never mentioned the possibility of a woman in his life because he didn’t consider it a possibility.
And Cash picked up on shit like that. He always did.
Cash: Have you?
Blane: You know me better than that.
Cash: I know better than to assume anything where you’re concerned. Never underestimate you, bud. If you say there’s a woman…
Blane: Didn’t say that, did I?
Cash: No, but you even mentioning it kind of implies—
Blane: Implication requires subtlety. Am I capable of subtlety?
Cash: Good point. But my radar’s up now. So, tell me straight—is there a woman?
Blane looked up.
He’d chosen this table because it gave him a clear view of the door while keeping him mostly hidden behind a large fern.
His coffee cup stopped halfway to his mouth.
She was standing at the hostess station, smiling at the woman running the breakfast room—waitress, CEO, schoolmarm, whatever she was—who’d hurried over to greet her.
There was something about the Englishwoman. That was the trouble. There was something, and he couldn’t find it.
He looked. Shoulder-length hair. Not blonde, not brunette.
Light brown. Not tall, not too short—though from up at six-four, ninety-nine percent of the world ran short.
Nothing you’d put in a description. Nothing a man would turn his head for on the street.
She was ordinary—all of her. And yet he couldn’t stop looking.
That was the part he didn’t like. Reading people was the job. He was good at it. He’d never once looked at someone and come up empty on why. But he was coming up empty now.
His phone buzzed against his palm.
Cash: That does it. You didn’t answer within 2.7 seconds. There’s a woman.
He lowered his coffee without taking a sip. He watched her cross the room to a table of her own, where she wouldn’t spot him through the fern.
Cash: Talk to me!
He glared down at the screen, his thumb hovering over it. Why did it feel physically impossible to type three true words? There’s no woman. That was all he needed to say.
And there was no woman.
There was an English stranger whose name he didn’t know, who happened to be staying at the same hotel and attending the same concert. A woman he’d noticed a few times. A woman he’d followed halfway to the bathrooms before realizing what the hell he was doing. That didn’t make her anything.
His phone buzzed again. He shoved it into his pocket with a scowl, picked up his fork, and returned his attention to his breakfast.
Or tried to.
The trouble was, there was a section on the wall opposite decorated with mirror tiles. They were framed behind a wicker lattice—and more ferns. He looked at the one beside him, wondering if it was real. Whatever the plants might be, the view of the Englishwoman the mirrors gave him was real enough.
He hadn’t expected to catch more than another glance at her on his way out. Now he had the chance to study her without her—or anyone else—realizing.
And under objective assessment, there wasn’t a damn thing remarkable about her.
He’d put her around his own age, mid-to-late fifties.
In decent shape, though he’d guess that was genes more than discipline.
Dressed casually but well in blue jeans and a purple top with some kind of flower pattern.
That could describe any of his friends’ women back in Montana.
But she didn’t look like them.
Her purse was leather, good quality, but not new.
Her watch had a leather strap too; it was expensive-looking, but not flashy.
Quality. That was the word that came to mind.
She wore a necklace with a small diamond pendant and gold hoop earrings.
Her lipstick was a color that barely read as color.
He was no expert, but he’d guess that was the only makeup she had on.
Quality. The word kept coming back. She was a quality woman.
But it was something about her, the woman, not the window dressing.
She sat still, didn’t fidget, even though she still wasn’t entirely comfortable alone.
She was aware of her surroundings, not fearful, just interested.
She smiled as she watched a little kid run to get a pastry from the buffet, then lost the smile when her gaze landed on a couple arguing at a corner table.
He frowned. He was cataloging her—the purse, the watch, the small tells—the way he cataloged everyone. Except no one was paying him to. No one’s safety hung on it. He was doing it because he wanted to. What he couldn’t figure out was why.
He tensed—sensing movement beside him two seconds too late.
He’d missed the waitress coming—missed her completely. He scowled, irritated that he’d let the Englishwoman pull his attention clean off everything else.
The waitress stopped, one step short of the table, in the face of that scowl. “Would you like anything else?”
He looked down at his empty plate, then glanced back at the mirrors. The Englishwoman had set a paperback on the table beside her coffee. She wasn’t reading it. Only trying to look like she was.
He made himself smile—the irritation was at himself, not the waitress. “I’ll take another omelet, if I can.”
She was good. She didn’t show a flicker of surprise, just returned the smile, murmured “Of course,” and turned away.
The waitress was back faster than he’d expected—though not fast enough to sneak up on him again. He’d allow a lapse once. Not twice.
The second omelet was better than the first—in a way. It was the same omelet, but he ate it slower, and he enjoyed it more. The food was good. That was reason enough to order it.
He wasn’t in the habit of lying to himself, though. He’d bought himself another twenty minutes at this table. That was all it was. Twenty more minutes of a woman he’d never see again after this weekend, reading a book she wasn’t reading, in a mirror she didn’t know was there.
He could give himself twenty minutes. Even if he didn’t know why he wanted to.
~ ~ ~
Bea looked out the window onto the alley below.
She should probably find a better word for it; with its bright window boxes and smartly dressed doormen stationed by the hotel entrance, it was far too upmarket to be called an alley.
Her point was that the only view from her room looked down into a narrow space between two buildings.
She should be grateful. Unless she wanted to pay a fortune, she was lucky to have a view of anything other than a brick wall.
She turned away from the window. The view shouldn’t even be a consideration.
She should be out there, making the most of her weekend in London.
Who knew when she’d come to visit again?
But without Meg, the thought of browsing the shops on Bond Street, or even wandering among the stalls at Covent Garden, had lost its appeal.
And besides, she didn’t want to wear herself out before returning to the O2 tonight.
She’d need all her energy if she was going to get up and dance in the little space behind her seat.
And she’d half convinced herself that she was going to.
She sank into the armchair in the corner.
It was a very comfortable armchair. She could order a sandwich from room service and spend a couple of hours right here, reading.
Her lips twitched as she eyed the book on her bedside table.
The book she’d taken down to breakfast with her — and hadn’t yet read beyond the first few lines.
In her defense, she had read those lines at least a dozen times by now.
She could probably recite them by heart if needed.
And honestly, how was a woman supposed to concentrate on Geneva Storm’s The Stories We Carry when she was acutely aware of a very large, very stern-looking American sitting a few tables away?