Chapter 11
ELEVEN
GREGG
Gregg’s Townhouse
Egerton Crescent, London, United Kingdom
I sit at one end of the sectional, one leg crossed neatly over the other, fingers laced in my lap.
Cameron is opposite me, angled slightly toward me, an elbow hooked over the armrest. A single cushion is between us, holding a delicate sliver of space that isn’t quite distance and isn’t quite closeness… just enough room to breathe.
After breakfast, we’d wandered upstairs to the living room, and conversation had unfolded slowly and easily.
Words seemed to move between us without effort, revealing a little more of who we were with each exchange.
I feel the quiet safety of the moment settle around me and, for once, allow myself to open up more than I usually do.
It only felt right, Cameron had been honest with me downstairs.
The least I could do was meet him there.
“I grew up mostly in Ashcombe Vale,” I say, sounding more casual than I feel. “It’s this little hamlet between Bath and Reading.”
“It sounds very picturesque,” Cameron muses. “And very different than the suburbs.”
I let out a soft laugh. “It is. Picturesque in the way people romanticize. Horse paddocks, crumbling stone walls… the kind of place where family histories outweigh population.”
“Well, we didn’t have centuries of anything back home,” he says. “Just rows of stucco homes, sunbaked sidewalks, the smell of chlorine and burgers in the summer, and a strip mall on every corner.”
“That’s exactly how I picture American suburbia.” I laugh.
“It definitely is,” he agrees. “No grand estates in sight.”
I roll my eyes with a groan. “Funny you say that. My parents would insist that Ashcombe Manor is an estate. But I disagree.”
“Ashcombe… Manor?” Cameron repeats, drawing out the name with mock grandeur as he slides closer, curling his legs beneath himself and resting his head on my chest. “Sounds like an estate to me. And like the set of a BBC drama.”
“It is the set of a BBC drama,” I agree dryly. “Ivy-covered walls, manicured gardens, cold yet beautiful, like it’s trying hard to impress.”
“Did you live there your whole childhood?” he asks.
“Until I left for school about an hour and a half away. Wycliffe, in Gloucestershire.”
“Boarding school?” Cameron perks up.
“Mhm,” I nod. “Thirteen to eighteen, from the first Monday of September to the last Friday of July. We’d spend my breaks up in Scotland.”
“Lochaven?”
“Yeah.” A grin tugs at my mouth. “Excellent memory.”
“I’ve never been to Scotland, now that I think about it.”
“I think you would absolutely love it.”
A quiet pause lands between us.
“What about your parents?” Cameron asks, his voice soft but curious. “What are they like?”
I let out a slow breath. “Well, Mum… she’s all society and tradition. Monogrammed stationery, unspoken rules and expectations.” I give a small, humorless huff. “She could, and still can, be icy. Looking back, I think I realize now she was more of a hostess than a mother.”
“What do you mean?”
“She excelled at appearances,” I say carefully. “Graceful, composed, emotionally restrained. Dinner was always at seven sharp, several courses, all very proper. But it never really felt about connection.”
Cameron tilts his head, offering a small, sympathetic smile that hits me in a place I don’t usually let anyone touch. His body is relaxed against mine, but his eyes are sharp and attentive.
I rub the back of my neck. “Still, in her own way, she was a good mother, I suppose. She fought for my piano lessons when my father thought they were a waste of time.”
“And your dad?”
My mouth tightens, something between a sigh and a grimace. “He’s a different kind of storm. Business, legacy, image. He has a blueprint for what I should become, and there’s no margin for error.”
We lay in silence for a few minutes, sunlight pooling over Cameron’s hair where it rests against my chest. I looked down at him quietly, my hand absently brushing his shoulder.
“What about yours?” I inquire softly.
“My Mom’s a retired lawyer,” he begins. “Tough, brilliant, but she always made time for me. We still play golf together when I’m home. She’s warm, funny, fiercely protective. Especially after things with my dad.”
My brows pull together. “What happened?”
“Well, I came out pretty early, eleven or twelve. I just knew, I guess.” He swallows. “He didn’t take it well. It caused a lot of tension. But honestly? He was already pretty emotionally checked out. Always working. There was always a distance.”
“Believe me,” I murmur, my voice low, “I know how hard that must have been.”
Cameron nods, his hand still resting on my shirt, fingers curled in the fabric without him seeming to notice. “They divorced when I was fifteen, and I haven’t spoken to him since I graduated from college.”
I take a deep breath.
“They don’t know about me,” I state quietly, surprising myself with how small my voice sounds.
Cameron lifts his head from my chest, propping himself up just enough to look at me.
“At least, I’ve never told them,” I clarify. “There’s always been this unspoken rule in my world. Keep it tidy, discreet, and acceptable. My dad once told me I was born to lead the next generation of Harwells, and I was to marry properly and stand by the right people.”
I let out a laugh, but it snags in my throat, brittle around the edges.
“I’m going to Ashcombe on Saturday,” I continue. “It’s my mum’s birthday. Robert and Evangeline Thorne will be there, the Earl and Countess of Westerleigh. God help me.”
That makes Cameron huff a quiet laugh, and the tension in my chest eases just a little.
“I’ll take Julian with me, like I always do.
He’s the only one who knows how to keep me from going mad during those things.
But he’s also a shield, I suppose. The Thorne’s daughter, Celeste, will be there too.
And nothing would please our parents more than the idea of the two of us ending up together. ”
Silence lands between us as I switch to tracing lazy circles on Cameron’s back with my fingertips. It doesn’t feel awkward or heavy. Cameron doesn’t give me pity or concern. He just stays present and steady.
“Anyway,” I murmur, exhaling. “I didn’t mean to unload all that on you. I just…” The words thin out. “I guess with you, it’s easy to be honest.”
Cameron’s lips curl softly, and he tucks his head back against my chest, right where it fit.
“Don’t apologize,” he says, voice warm and certain. “I get it. You’ve spent a long time becoming the man you’re expected to be, and now you’re trying to figure out the man you want to be.”
I squeeze his shoulder, the breath leaving me in a long, unguarded sigh, like he’s taken something heavy out of my hands without me noticing. When he lifts his face to mine and kisses me, it’s gentle and grounding, and I lean into it.
“I’ll be patient with that,” he whispers, “if you can be patient with me on letting someone in again.”
We linger together on the sofa, close but not tangled, the hush between us somehow more intimate than any embrace. Outside, London keeps moving like it always does, but with Cameron in my arms, everything feels suspended, like time has chosen to sit down with us.
He tilts his head up again, his voice quiet, almost shy.
“Would you mind playing something for me?”
I look down at him, and I can feel my smile pull across my face. It feels like offering something precious.
“Of course.”
We cross the room together, and I sit at the piano, patting the space beside me until he slides into it. Our shoulders brush barely, but enough to light a spark right beneath my ribs. My fingers hover over the keys, but I don’t play. Not yet.
Instead, I look at him.
I trace the slope of his cheekbone, the soft curl of his mouth, the gravity he carries without even trying to. He feels like a quiet and inevitable pull.
His eyes meet mine, and I press the first note.
My fingers touch the keys, coaxing out a low, warm chord that lingers in the air like the first breath before a kiss.
It isn’t a song anyone would recognize, because it hasn’t existed until this moment.
I let it form in real time, drawing it from somewhere deep in my chest. A gentle progression unfolds beneath my hands, my left grounding the piece in rich, steady chords that feel safe and anchored.
My right hand drifts above in softer, lilting phrases.
There is a lightness in them, a melody that dances and hesitates, as if unsure whether to stay where it is or leap forward into something entirely new.
I can feel Cameron watching me. The pads of my fingers press carefully into each note, and when a clear, bright tone rings out, I smile, because I can sense him leaning into it.
The higher notes shimmer with hopefulness, a quiet forward-looking breath that mirrors the way he seems drawn in, remembering to breathe again.
I shift into a softer chord, letting it bloom before resolving it.
When I glance sideways at him, our eyes meet, the connection immediate.
It’s unexpected, like two notes that shouldn’t make a harmony but somehow do.
The final chord I play doesn’t choose triumph or sadness.
It stays open and unfinished, like the piece wasn’t ending at all but pausing, waiting for whatever came next.
The last notes fade into stillness, and Cameron exhales, like he’d been holding his breath.
“That was beautiful.” He sighs, awe softening his voice. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything like that. Did you just… come up with it on the spot?”
“I did,” I admit, unable to stop the small, proud smile that tugs at my lips. My fingers rest lightly on the keys, ready to wake the music again at a moment’s notice.
Cameron studies me. “Does it have a name?”
I turn to fully face him, noting the warm afternoon light catching the edges of his face. My eyes hold his, steady and deliberately, and then I reach for his hand.
“Yes,” I say, my voice intimate. “I think it does.”
I squeeze his fingers gently, my sincerity leaving no space for doubt.
“It’s called Cameron.”