Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Soren
I landed at Heathrow at six a.m. local time. Slept a grand total of twenty-two minutes—upright, miserable, and in a chair engineered by someone who’s never had a spine or a soul. My back hates me. My brain hates me. And I’m one bad coffee away from declaring international war.
This is all Winnifred’s fault.
Don’t believe me? Let’s rewind. I could’ve booked a private charter. Slept like a king in a seat that reclines into a goddamn bed. Had dinner served on actual plates. Instead, I remembered her voice, “The carbon footprint, Soren. Do you hate polar bears?”
I couldn’t do it, so I asked my assistant to find me a commercial flight as if I was trying to impress the moral compass I’m currently dodging.
What did Gretchen find? A middle seat in fucking coach. It was all the way in the back where knees go to die.
If that wasn’t enough, on one side, there was a man who treated his true-crime podcast like it was a one-man show for the entire cabin.
No headphones. Full volume. Enthusiastic commentary.
Apparently, Barbara Nolan was dismembered and dumped in a ravine—but not before her spleen was mailed to Minnesota.
And the worst part? I never got to hear the ending.
I don’t know if they found the guy who did it.
Which, honestly, feels like a metaphor for my life right now.
On the other side, a couple locked in a marital death match over a single first-class upgrade. I offered to pay for a second ticket just to shut them up.
Did they stop?
Of course not.
They pivoted. Seamlessly. Argued about whether they’d left the oven on.
Whether the dog has abandonment trauma. Whether cilantro tastes like soap or sin.
Whether guacamole requires it or whether that’s just a crime against avocados.
I was trapped between the podcast and the guac war, wishing for one of those oxygen masks to drop so I could disappear inside it.
It was like being stuck inside a real-time group chat with my extended family, except with worse snacks and no bourbon. So yeah, all of this? Win’s fault.
Well. Maybe mine.
Because I didn’t have to fly to London early, I had time.
I could’ve waited. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Something in me needed to move the fuck out of there.
East felt right. Symbolic. Like if I kept going far enough, I’d outrun the memory of that kiss trailing after me like a song I can’t get out of my head.
The way she looked at me afterward. The way she ran.
Like I set fire to something, she was only just starting to trust.
The car hums softly as we cut through the foggy morning streets of London. Everything’s gray and old and elegant like the city is judging me for showing up disheveled and emotionally compromised.
The car pulls up to the Merkel Hotel. Grand, imposing, way too proper for the state I’m in.
The doorman tips his hat as if this is the 1800s and I’m not wearing the same jeans I’ve slept in, sweated through, and possibly cried silently into somewhere over the Atlantic because the flight was overstimulating.
A British man in a black waistcoat greets me with a professional smile that feels suspiciously like judgment. “Mr. Thorn, your suite is ready. The Great Expectations, just as requested.”
I didn’t request it. But of course, Helena or my assistant or the universe did.
“Brilliant,” I mutter, dragging my suitcase like it wronged me.
In the elevator, I lean back against the mirrored wall and stare at my reflection.
I look like someone who made bad choices and is considering making worse ones.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I ignore it.
It’s either my mother, my cousin, or a new group chat dedicated to lavender baby blankets and the brunch we skipped.
As the elevator glides upward, I glance around at the soft gold lighting, the velvet panels, and the carved trim that probably has a name like Gilded Regency Luxe.
Win would’ve had thoughts. About the aesthetic.
About the mood-board potential. She would’ve whispered something about the lighting being perfect for boudoir photography just to make me lose my shit in public.
I smile despite myself. Or because of her.
And suddenly, I’m missing her like a limb. Like something vital was pulled out of me and replaced with this hollow buzz of almosts and what-ifs.
She’d hate the stuffy formality of this hotel.
But she’d also secretly love it. She’d run her fingers along the furniture, tell me the crown molding was criminally good, and then threaten to redesign the whole place in sage velvet and sexy lighting for mood.
She’d probably call it “corporate seduction chic.” And I’d agree to anything if she said it with that smile.
I close my eyes for a second, just long enough to imagine her next to me. Commenting on the hallway carpet. Quoting something ridiculous. Smudging her lipstick on my shirt because she can’t keep her balance while ogling at things.
By the time the elevator sighs open, I’m wrecked. Not just jet-lagged or cranky or wired from mediocre coffee and in-flight existential dread.
I’m hard for a woman I haven’t seen in more than twenty-four hours.
Because apparently my body didn’t get the memo that this trip was about avoidance. That I’m here to work. To clear my head. To not think about Winnifred’s mouth. Or the sound she made when I deepened the kiss. Or how she looked at me like maybe—just maybe—I was something worth staying for.
Spoiler: avoiding her didn’t work. Running away didn’t fix a damn thing.
Now I’m starting to admit the part of this fake relationship that’s messing with my head isn’t the fake part. It’s how much I wish it wasn’t.
The suite door clicks open like it’s sighing at my tragic lack of self-awareness. I step inside and take in the Merkel Hotel’s very specific idea of luxury: all minimalist elegance and dim lighting, a place where even the complimentary water bottle wears a cashmere sweater.
Winnifred would hate the sconces. She’d walk in, arch a brow, and declare the lighting an affront to human warmth.
Then she’d mentally gut the place—add warm tones, layered textures, something that didn’t scream “corporate spa for the emotionally vacant.” Less funeral chic, more playful elegance.
She’d pretend to scoff at the aesthetic, but I know she’d already be redesigning it in her head, like an HGTV host with a grudge and impeccable taste.
God, I fucking miss her.
I drop my suitcase by the armchair and sit at the edge of the bed like a man who doesn’t know what the hell comes next. The duvet is crisp. The room is silent. I’m alone, which is what I asked for. But my chest’s wound tight like I packed it wrong, and now I can’t get it to open.
What do you even do after the best kiss of your life?
You know—the kiss that wasn’t supposed to happen. The one written in sarcasm and social obligation. A fake-out, a performance. Smile for the crowd. Say the right line. Tilt your head just so. Add heat, but not heart.
Except her mouth softened under mine like it forgot we were pretending. Like it remembered something we hadn’t admitted out loud.
My hand found the small of her back without thought like my body knew what to do before I did. Not a stage cue. Not a move. Just . . . instinct. Maybe even ownership. Not of her—but of the moment.
She breathed me in—slow, sure, wrecking. Not scripted. Not performed. Just her, wanting me. I kissed her as if I’d been waiting for that exact moment longer than I should admit. As if claiming her was instinct, not impulse.
And for a second, I let myself believe we weren’t pretending at all.
Then?
I left the country.
Because pretending it didn’t mean anything? That was starting to feel impossible.
So I did the next best thing.
I left the fucking country.
Because nothing says emotional stability like booking an international flight instead of having a conversation. A move that probably gets me a gold star for maturity. This makes me no different from the LARPer. I don’t even have a good excuse.
I told myself this meeting in London was urgent. That coming early was a smart business decision. But the truth is, I believed work would keep my mind busy from Win, my family, or the whispering post-party hordes who now think I knocked up Winnifred Wolfcraft during a quickie that never happened.
I open my phone and refresh the Thorn Family Group Chat.
Still chaos.
Grandma Rita has crocheted three possible baby blanket prototypes. Helena changed the group name to “Baby Thorn Watch 2025.” My mother, God bless her passive-aggression, has sent seventeen prayer hand emojis followed by an all-caps, “I RAISED YOU BETTER.”
And Winnifred?
Radio silence.
Which, honestly, is fair. I didn’t just leave—I disappeared. No goodbye. No explanation. I ghosted the woman I’ve been fake-dating in front of two generations of relatives and a drone that’s got better angles than half the local news.
She’s in Colorado. I’m across the Atlantic. And not because I had to be—because I couldn’t handle staying.
Because staying meant facing her.
It meant risking that she’d ask what the kiss meant.
Or worse—what I meant by kissing her like that.
And I have no good answer. Just a mouth that betrayed me and a heart that won’t shut up about her.
And I still don’t have an answer about what to do next. Move out of my townhouse and live in a remote cabin? That’s probably a bad idea when the commute would be a bitch.
Fuck, what did I do?
I thought I was immune to her—this bossy, neurotic, maddeningly brilliant woman who fake-swooned for my grandmother, became best friends with my fake dog, and lies so effortlessly I’m starting to forget where the script ends, and the truth begins.
But now?
Fuck.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, trying to breathe through this fog of jet lag and regret.
What if I hadn’t kissed her?
What if I’d pulled away?
Would that have made everything easier?
Or would it just mean I’d still be lying—to her, to my family, to myself?
Because the truth is, I wanted that kiss long before we were pretending.
And now that I’ve had it . . .
I can’t stop replaying it.
How she trembled slightly. How she melted into me. How her hand lingered on my shirt like she forgot the script, too.
I should’ve stayed. Faced the consequences, or more like her inquisition while she scrapbooked the fuck out of every moment we spent at that party. Helped her walk it back.
She deserves better than that.
Better than me.
I reach for my phone, thumbing through my contacts like it might magically tell me what to say. But I can’t call. I can’t face her voice yet. Not when I still don’t trust mine.
I scroll up in our messages, stopping at the last photo she sent—her, mid-laugh, holding a to-go cup that probably contains something pumpkin-spiced and too sweet, standing in front of a lopsided roadside display of hay bales and gourds someone in town declared “autumnal ambiance.” Her cheeks are a little pink from the morning chill, her nose scrunched like the joke just landed, her eyes bright and wide and so damn open it knocks the wind out of me.
Fuck, I’m a mess.
This trip just feels like I brought my feelings with me: I just tucked them under the seat in front of me like emotional carry-on baggage.
If she had just broken up with someone and was spiraling, what would I do? I would be giving her chocolate from her favorite artisanal store as I do every time she’s having a bad week, I would just let her banter against the world, and . . .why didn’t I just listen to her?
All I can do is ask Gretchen to send flowers, a pumpkin-spiced latte from the local coffee shop close to the house, and chocolates. Later, I’ll text her; maybe we can go back to the way things were before I opened my big mouth and changed our dynamic.
Can that even happen?