Page 3 of Blood of the Thistle

She slid her café latte closer to the plate, snapped a photograph on her phone, and sent it to the family group chat, unable to resist taunting her sister: What’s the point of French Toast if you’re not going to stuff it with lemon cheesecake?

The sun hadn’t risen yet back home, so she was surprised to have an almost instant response from Mallory: Atta girl!

Her sister’s words from before she left lingered still with Anna. She hadn’t been offended, but she imagined they kind of stayed with her because there had been enough truth in them to make ignoring them difficult.

She was careful—she had always been careful.

She’d never considered that a flaw. And yet, now she had to wonder if dependable and predictable had become interchangeable, something akin to boring.

Her given name was Anastasia, though she’d been Anna for as long as she could remember. Anna suited her—sadly enough, she often thought. Anna was practical and dependable. She had never quite lived up to Anastasia. The name belonged to someone fearless, a woman with impossible confidence, the sort of woman who boarded trains without knowing their destination and fell in love beneath foreign skies. Anna taught third grade, recycled religiously, and bought only sensible shoes. No one looked at Anna and expected adventure, and she was certain she had never disappointed anyone in that regard. At twenty-eight, she had long since accepted that she would never be the heroine of, well, anything.

Stop that! she told herself, knowing she didn’t want to spend the trip examining her psyche.

Before she dug into the decadent breakfast, Anna pulled her Instax camera from her bag and aimed that at her plate. She loved her instant camera, loved that photographs emerged as small white rectangles that slowly developed before her eyes instead of disappearing forever into the thousands of images stored on her phone. She had an entire scrapbook at home waiting for her Europe vacation photos.

She absently fanned the photograph the little camera had spit out, though she knew perfectly well it did nothing to speed up the development of the picture, then set it beside her plate and finally lifted her fork. The first bite short-circuited something in her, and for a moment she simply stopped, fork still raised, eyes closed. Tart lemon gave way to rich cheesecake, sweet meringue, and warm brioche. She let out the smallest, wholly involuntary whimper of delight before opening her eyes again.

“Are you kidding me?” she asked quietly, hardly able to believe how good it was—before she glanced around nervously, hoping no one noticed her talking to herself.

The bistro was busy but not super crowded, and Anna was relieved to find no one gawking at her.

Half an hour later, Anna paid the bill, packed up her crossbody bag—except for the instant image, which she didn’t think was ready to be tucked away yet—and left the little bistro.

Actually, she arrived at the door at the same time a man did. They did that awkward thing that people do, both hands lifted toward the door, silently encouraging, You first. She grinned awkwardly at the man, who didn’t seem to find it amusing, and then made to step forward just as he did.

With what looked like a snarl, he kept going when she stopped and then surprised her by holding the door for her.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, lowering her head, tucking her hair behind her ear as she stepped out onto the street.

Must be one of those uptight Brits her sister Mallory had warned her against, she thought cynically. The man was gorgeous but obviously not happy gorgeous.

She felt his presence behind her more than saw it, each footstep echoing hers across patches of cracked pavement. The sidewalk bulged with pedestrians, strollers, and two electric scooters, while some people paused to consult their phones, tapping the screens.

Anna drifted right, brushing close to a sleek glass façade pulsating with holographic ads. She stole a sideways glance at the man as he came almost level with her: dark hair thick and tousled, a jutting jaw, arms corded with muscle. His eyes—emerald green at first glance—now struck her as sharp and impatient rather than smoldering. She didn’t so much suspect that he was following her as she was interested in not getting in his way.

“Just headed in the same direction,” he said flatly, suggesting he’d caught her sneaking backward glances.

His voice was low and unaccented.

Anna’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re from America?”

Well, that made sense. He didn’t actually look British—not that she was sure what might signify, by appearance alone, that a person was British. But this guy looked American, like Hollywood American.

“Yeah,” he said, his lengthy stride bringing him even with her now.

Anna interpreted his tone as being, Well, obviously.

“I was only surprised,” she said, a bit defensively. What a jerk.

She considered pausing to dig into her wide purse, pretending to search for something, giving him time to pass her.

Just as she contemplated the ruse, he asked, “What did you have for breakfast in there that was worthy of photographic evidence?”

Anna had forgotten about the picture in her hand. “Oh,” she said, and laughed nervously, having the impression that he really didn’t care about the picture, but he might have just realized how rude he’d sounded and was trying to make up for it. “Lemon cheesecake brioche French toast,” she told him absently, and held the little rectangle up for him to see.

He slowed, just a bit, and frowned down at the picture.

“You had dessert for breakfast,” he remarked.