Page 3 of The Best Thing He Never Wanted

No reason at all; the thought was preposterous.

She stepped onto the escalator and let it carry her up after him, and did not, at any point, examine why the preposterous thought had settled somewhere under her ribs and made itself quietly, warmly, infuriatingly at home.

By the time she reached the top, he was gone — out through the barriers and into the dark, a big still shape one moment and no shape at all the next. She walked back to the hotel alone.

She was fine the whole way. Perfectly fine. She knew every turn, as it happened.

And if the pavement felt a little less lonely than she’d feared — if some foolish, tired, sixty-in-two-years part of her walked the whole way half-expecting to look up and find a cowboy hat waiting at the next corner, just in case — well. That was nobody’s business but her own.

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.