When Sparks Fly

Prologue

RACHEL

Me: Please please tell me you’re coming back across the pond soon. I need you, I want you, I miss you.

Edmund: Of course I am, darling. You know how much I miss you.

I stare at the message my boyfriend just sent, claiming that he misses me. I want to believe it. I do. But there’s that tiny part of me buried deep inside that’s currently uneasy. Something feels . . . off between us. And it’s felt that way ever since he returned to London over a week ago.

Call it a woman’s intuition.

Edmund Davies. A gorgeous Brit with a glorious accent—I swear that’s how he hooked me in the first place: I was entranced with the melodic way he spoke.

His family is in the finance business, banking and investments and the like.

I’m not quite sure how they made all their money, but Eddie comes from far more wealth than I do, and my family is pretty wealthy.

Eddie swept me off my feet, and I fell madly in love with him.

He promised to take care of me always. Those very words dropped from his precious lips in his sexy accent, not even a month ago.

We’ve been seeing each other for almost three months.

The beginning of our relationship was nothing but passion and clandestine meetings and peak romance.

He showered me with gifts and experiences.

Private jet to Paris for dinner? Yes, please.

Oh, fancy staying overnight at the Ritz and I take you shopping the next morning, wherever you want? Say no more.

He spoiled me—and I’ll admit it, I’m already spoiled, but he took it to another level.

One I never thought possible. He brought me to intimate, exclusive parties and introduced me to his friends.

His family. His parents. His mother is one of the most elegant people I’ve ever seen in my life, dripping with diamonds and wearing a vintage Chanel suit in the palest pink.

She looked like an Easter egg. The most divine Easter egg you’ve ever witnessed.

Since the moment I met him, I’ve devoted my life to this man. I’ve even started practicing my signature in case he asks me to marry him.

Rachel Davies.

Rachel Henderson Davies.

Mr. and Mrs. Edmund Davies.

It all has a lovely ring to it, don’t you think?

A month ago, I was positive I would marry him.

Even two weeks ago, I was brimming with confidence that I would indeed be wearing a massive diamond on my finger by the year’s end and there would be an announcement in all the society pages.

Maybe even sooner than year’s end. Did our relationship feel too fast?

No. Was it all one-sided? He seemed just as devoted to me as I was to him.

Our souls, our passions, they matched. We were a force to be reckoned with.

Now, though?

I’m not so sure. I might’ve been wearing the proverbial rose-colored glasses in regard to this whirlwind relationship.

“Rach! Can I borrow your sunscreen?”

I glance up at the sound of Lucinda Galloway’s shout. She’s the newest it girl on social media, and I’ve known her for years. Our parents are friends, and our families are members of the country club we’re currently at.

Summertime in the Hamptons used to be my favorite time of year, but not this summer.

It’s Memorial Day weekend, we’ve only just arrived at our family house, and I’m already bored.

Restless. Unsure. That’s my biggest issue.

The uncertainty keeping me up at night and agitated throughout the day is making me feel . . . manic.

Perhaps even a little crazed.

Edmund is in London on business, as he called it. And I’m sure he is. He’s from London—that’s where his offices are located—and he informed me last week that he just “had to go” and “would miss me terribly.” Did we have sex prior to his rather abrupt departure?

No.

Have we had sex much in the last month or so before he left the country?

Also no. Which is concerning. We’re young and in love; we’re supposed to be fucking like bunny rabbits. Unable to keep our hands off each other while lost in a haze of lust.

If I think about it, that haze of lust wore off over a month ago—maybe longer.

Our relationship became more about appearances.

How we looked together while we were out in public.

What people were writing about us in the society columns.

That sort of thing mattered to Edmund, and it mattered to me too.

He worried we were too young to be so serious: He’s almost twenty-five and I’m twenty-two.

When we first started dating, he even told me straight to my face I didn’t have the sort of cachet that my bestie does, considering she’s a Lancaster and they’re one of the richest families in the world.

At the time I wasn’t offended. I’ve heard it before.

Scarlett garners a lot of attention with that last name of hers, and I was okay with it.

I was the loud and boisterous best friend.

Only when I first met Edmund and he struck me dumb with his elegant ways did I realize I could become someone else.

Someone quieter. More refined. Someone better.

Now I’m stuck here playing besties with women I’ve known for years, yet I don’t necessarily feel close to them. My actual best friend is gone. Touring around the world with her famous fiancé while he performs to sold-out venues every night. She’s living the dream.

Just two weeks ago, I thought I was too. But not anymore.

“Rachel!” Lucinda’s voice is shrill, her annoyance with me not responding obvious.

“Oh. Sorry.” Why am I apologizing again?

It’s a terrible habit my therapist tells me I need to break.

“Sure.” I grab the can of overpriced whipped sunscreen that everyone who is anyone is using this summer from my bright-yellow Goyard tote bag and hold it above my head like I’m going to toss it at her.

“Don’t throw it!” Lucinda throws her hands up in front of her face. “What if you hit my nose?”

She just got it done about a month ago by the plastic surgeon du jour back in the city. He’s booked out for at least nine months, but he somehow got her in without making her wait. Honestly, I didn’t see anything wrong with Lucinda’s original nose, but who am I to judge?

I hand the sunscreen to the woman sitting next to me, who gives it to Lucinda.

I don’t hear a thank-you, but what did I expect?

People hand things to Lucinda as if she’s earned them, and that’s the funny thing about influencer culture.

They make things trendy by sharing those things on their social media, and they end up getting a ton of product for free.

All while earning more than enough money to pay for every single item they receive.

“God, the sun is intense.” Lucinda sets the can of sunscreen on the table beside her, placing her sunglasses back over her eyes before sinking into the soft lounge chair once again. “Why are you still here anyway?”

“Are you talking to me?” I lift my Celine sunglasses to my forehead, frowning in her direction. “I’m here with my parents.”

“Why aren’t you with your darling Edmund?” Lucinda giggles. So does the woman sitting in between us. I don’t think I know her. And if I do, I don’t recognize her.

“He’s in London on business.” I drop my shades back over my eyes and face forward, tilting my head up toward the sun. “I should go visit him. Make it a surprise.”

The women giggle again, whispering to each other, and I try to ignore them, concentrating instead on the sun’s intense rays seeping into my skin, the gentle lapping of the water against the sides of the pool every time someone jumps into it.

Yes, yes. The idea of flying to London and surprising Edmund is sounding more promising by the second. I’m tired of wasting my time here, waiting for his return.

“You probably shouldn’t . . . surprise him,” Lucinda says, her high-pitched voice ringing loud enough that everyone around us can probably hear her. “He might be . . . otherwise occupied.”

I whip my head in their direction, tearing off my sunglasses so they can see my narrowed glare. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

“Oh, nothing.” Lucinda tilts her nose in the air, her lips quivering at the edges like she’s trying to contain herself from .

. . what? Laughing? How dare she mock me.

She doesn’t really know me, nor does she know Edmund or understand our relationship.

“You just might want to check the gossip sites for any news about your precious boyfriend.”

They dissolve in another fit of giggles, these two women who are most definitely not my friends.

I stand and slip my feet into my Louis Vuitton slides, grabbing my tote bag and slinging it over my shoulder as I start to leave the pool area, only pausing at the table next to Lucinda so I can snatch up my sunscreen and shove it into my bag.

Their laughter chases after me as I flee the pool, and the moment that I round the corner and no one can see me, I’m on my phone, frantically scrolling social media. Looking for something, a sign of what they might be referring to.

I find it almost immediately, all the air leaving my lungs.

It’s a photo of Edmund leaving a popular London restaurant.

It’s a candid shot, and he’s not even looking at the camera.

No, he’s only got eyes for the woman who’s plastered to his side.

A busty blonde who’s gazing up at him, her pink, overblown lips stretched into a dazzling smile.

My heart aching, I realize I recognize that smile. The adoring glow in her eyes as she stares at his handsome, aristocratic face. I used to look like that when I stared into Edmund’s eyes.

Hands shaking, I take a screenshot before I exit out of the app and open up my text messages, reading the last one he sent me.

Of course I am, darling. You know how much I miss you.

He’s such a liar.

Trying to contain my overflowing emotions, I add the screenshot before I tap out a quick message, hitting Send before I can overthink it.

You lying sack of shit. Never contact me again.

Staring at the words, I try to blink back the tears, but there’s no use. They start anyway, even as I hit Block This Number on my phone. He’s gone. Banished from my life. Forever. No more dreams of marriage and living out the rest of my life in the British countryside.

God, love sucks.