Page 55 of One Last Gift

He’d only taken two steps up, struggling slightly with the heavy suitcase, when a woman with short hair and broad shoulders, wearing a navy-blue blazer over a matching blue dress, came out of the entrance at the top of the stairs. “You leave that there!” she demanded, and Sam jolted enough that he let go of the suitcase. She ran down the steps on tiny little heels, moving with a grace that surprised Sam. Up close, he could see that she was wearing a pearl necklace. “I’ll get that—our guests don’t carry luggage.”

“Oh no,” Sam said hurriedly, alarmed at the prospect of this woman hurting her back trying to lift his brick of a case. “It’s really heavy, I’m very happy to—” But she’d already nudged him aside and picked it up, lifting it with apparent ease. She marched up the steps in front of him and Sam stared after her, feeling ever so slightly emasculated. Then he jerked into action and quickly followed her into the reception area.

She put the case down, then boomed, “Brian!” Sam saw a thin man with a slightly balding head, wearing a white shirt with a purple tie, scurrying over. “Will you take this to Mr. Malone’s room, please?” Sam had no idea how she’d known it was him, or how Brian knew which room he was in, but Brian nodded and smiled in a way that made Sam immediately like him, and wheeled Sam’s suitcase away.

“I’m Emma,” the woman said, moving through the reception to behind a smart wooden desk. “I’m the front-of-house manager, and you can always just grab me if you have a problem, OK?” Sam nodded. She produced a key, then led him out of the reception area and through the manor.

“Here,” Emma said, after they’d climbed two sets of stairs. “This is you.” She opened the door and let him step inside in front of her. The room was bright and open: cream wallpaper with green trees on it and a comfortable-looking bed with a gray headboard. It was massive—much bigger than a usual hotel room—with its own sofa, as well as a wooden table and two chairs.

Emma indicated a few features of the room, then gestured to the windows. “You have a view of our gardens, which are set over thirty-five acres.” Thirty-five?! Sam thought to himself. Jesus. “They were designed by the visionary gardener William Robinson in 1885, and our head gardener carefully maintains them today—if you see him out and about with his collie dog, do feel free to ask him any questions about the grounds.” Visionary, Sam thought, smiling a little. It was a good word. “Do you have any questions at all?” Emma pulled her blazer around her with both hands.

Sam noticed his suitcase was already there, at the foot of the bed, and wished he could sink down next to it. “If I want food…?” He was hungry, the type of hunger that was part tiredness, and he hadn’t eaten anything on the plane.

“We’ve reserved a spot for you in our Michelin-starred restaurant downstairs, should you wish, but there’s also the option of room service, which is twenty-four hours.”

Sam nodded his thanks, thinking he was going to have to be careful about how much he spent this weekend—the two-night stay alone was enough to make him wince, and whereas in previous months he would have happily ordered whatever bottle of wine at a fancy restaurant along with the most expensive main course, he was hardly in a position to do that now.

Emma smiled at him, reiterating that he should shout if he needed anything, then left him alone. Sam glanced around the room, still a little dumbfounded at the fact that he was actually here, doing this. The bed, with its many pillows and soft-looking duvet, was calling to him, inviting him to flop down there fully clothed and not move, but he made himself turn and leave the room. He’d hunt for food first, get that out of the way quickly, then he could crash and think about how the hell he was going to explain everything to Cassie tomorrow.

He headed for the dining room, pausing at the entrance as he waited for someone to come and seat him. Like his room, this was bright and airy—there were glass walls all around it, offering a view of the gardens, and there was a light with several lamp heads hanging from the middle of the ceiling, which looked a bit like a fancy spider.

It took only seconds for someone to come over, holding a menu, and Sam was nodding in assent when asked if he’d like to eat, when he heard a laugh. His heart lurched. He recognized that laugh.

His gaze followed the direction of the sound and he saw her. Cassie. Sitting there, across the other side of the room, Hazel opposite her. It was dusk now, and the evening glow caught Cassie’s blond hair, making it sparkle. She was genuinely smiling, in a way that she never smiled at him—not anymore.

She was still a little thin, he thought, her cheeks slightly hollow. But she looked better. Healthier. Happier. He couldn’t look away. He wanted to watch her, drink in the sight of her. He felt his palms go clammy, his pulse start up at the base of his neck. What was that about?

“Sir?” the waiter prodded, looking over his shoulder to where Sam was still standing. He couldn’t do it, he realized. He couldn’t go over there, couldn’t muster up a cocky grin, couldn’t think of what the hell to say to her. So, feeling like a total prick, he cleared his throat. “I’ll, err, just get room service.”

With that he bolted, leaving the waiter looking slightly bemused, and fled for the safety of his room.

He let out a slow breath as he closed the door behind him. Get a fucking grip, Sam.

He was being ridiculous, overreacting. It must be the shock of seeing her. He told his heart to calm down, actually slammed a fist there to emphasize the point. It was just Cassie, for Christ’s sake.

Beautiful, strong, smart Cassie.

No, stop that. It was only seeing her for the first time, knowing that he’d been talking to her. He’d always thought she was hot, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that he’d had a physical reaction to the sight of her. He was just jet-lagged and confused. He’d be over it tomorrow.

God, tomorrow. He thought again of her expression, twisted in hatred the last time they’d seen each other. He wasn’t sure he could bear it if he got that reaction again.

Shake it off, he told himself, and he gave his shoulders a literal shake as he crossed to the bed, sank down on it. It was just as soft and inviting as he’d thought, the mattress folding around him. He’d come this far; he had to go through with it now.

So he got out his phone, checked the fake email account.

That would be great! she’d replied, to his suggestion that they meet. I definitely owe you a drink. Are you based in London?

He hadn’t responded yet. Had wanted to get here first, prove to himself he was actually going to go through with it—that he wasn’t the coward she’d once accused him of being.

As chance would have it, I’m around Gravetye tomorrow. I know you have your event in the morning, but would it be ok if I pop by afterward? We could grab a drink at the hotel.

He waited for a response, fingertips tapping his phone, heart beating too fast. He felt a bit like a teenage girl, sitting by a phone, waiting for that call. He got up, looked at the room-service menu, found himself unable to concentrate on it, and sat back down again. After what seemed like an age, the phone lit up in response.

You’ll be here tomorrow?

He hesitated, fingers poised. He nearly told her then and there. It would be quicker, more painless if she took it the wrong way, to do it over email.

But no, he needed to do it in person, and let the chips fall where they may. So he settled with Yeah. I’ll see you then.