busy sidewalks of her chosen London borough.
Her flat, which she opted to buy outright, had what they called “European charm.” Known to the wise as a pseudonym for very tiny. It was a simple two-bedroom apartment on the first floor of an ancient building — ancient on American terms, anyway. The sheer depth of London’s history fascinated her. The U.S. was a wee babe in comparison.
Nicholas hooked his thumb out to catch a passing cab, and Quinn brushed a bit of lint from her shoulder. “I usually get a five-minute grace period. It’s a fluke I’m ready on time.”
He smiled beneath a neatly trimmed mustache in a muted shade of red. “You’re right, of course. Forgive me. I’m excited about tonight, that’s all.”
Maybe the dress had more of an impact than she realized. She noted the smart blue bow tie he wore. What was his excuse for getting dolled up?
“It’s only dinner.” She cast a nervous glance at the bow tie. “Unless we’re going parasailing afterward, and you’ve neglected to tell me?”
He chuckled and patted her hand. “Nothing so dramatic, my dear.” A cab pulled up to the curb, and they slipped inside.
They were shortly deposited at the front entrance of the Milestone much to Quinn’s surprise and dismay. This wasn’t cheap fare. She eyed Nicholas and tried to keep her concern from showing.
She didn’t want to embarrass him, but he couldn’t earn much running the quaint paper supply store within walking distance of Quinn’s flat. The Milestone was definitely a few notches above his pay grade. Proud gentleman he was, going Dutch wasn’t an option. She readied herself for an awkward meal and took solace where she could.
At least she had an explanation for the bow tie.
Neither Nicholas nor Quinn hailed a cab this time. They had plenty to discuss. A long, chilly walk home would provide ample time to clear the air.
Quinn wanted to jump straight into an explanation, but Nicholas wasn’t the only victim. To put a woman on the spot in public was a risk few men braved a mere seven months into a relationship.
They made it an entire block in stone-cold silence before he spoke. Perhaps he realized she wasn’t going to break the skin on the impending discussion. “Are you afraid to marry again?” He continued his steady pace. The tight line of his mouth remained unchanged.
Honesty would serve her best even though a lie would be easier. Oh, the trials of the decent. “No. I look forward to trying it again someday.”
“Is it bad timing?”
She sensed a thread of hope in his question and didn’t dare glance his way. It would only break her heart. “Timing is something.” She laughed with little humor. “I’m going home soon, back to California. Back to my real life.”
He said nothing.
Quinn pressed on. She needed him to understand but didn’t want to crush him in the process. “You’re great, a really wonderful man, but I’m not sure if what we have is enough to build a union on. Marriage is no small thing.”
Nicholas stopped walking and turned so they stood eye to eye. He searched her face. “Then what is enough? It’s been an easy, natural evolution from friends to lovers. I love you. Do you love me?”
“I do, of course I do.” It was true. She loved him in her way. She struggled for a kind way to express her reserve. “I mean, it’s . . . I do, but it’s a quiet sort of love. It’s too easy if that makes sense.”
He scoffed. “I’m afraid it doesn’t. What’s wrong with quiet love? It’s sound and stable, the kind of love able to weather the worst of storms.”
“But what of passion?” She suddenly sounded a lot like her fictional eighteenth-century heroine, Eileen. Yes, what of passion, Sir Nicholas? Pray tell.
He let out an exasperated sigh and stalked off. “I’m not a man of passion. I do, however, admire it in others. I assumed yours was locked away in your stories.”
She shared in his frustration and struggled to keep pace. He
Her flat, which she opted to buy outright, had what they called “European charm.” Known to the wise as a pseudonym for very tiny. It was a simple two-bedroom apartment on the first floor of an ancient building — ancient on American terms, anyway. The sheer depth of London’s history fascinated her. The U.S. was a wee babe in comparison.
Nicholas hooked his thumb out to catch a passing cab, and Quinn brushed a bit of lint from her shoulder. “I usually get a five-minute grace period. It’s a fluke I’m ready on time.”
He smiled beneath a neatly trimmed mustache in a muted shade of red. “You’re right, of course. Forgive me. I’m excited about tonight, that’s all.”
Maybe the dress had more of an impact than she realized. She noted the smart blue bow tie he wore. What was his excuse for getting dolled up?
“It’s only dinner.” She cast a nervous glance at the bow tie. “Unless we’re going parasailing afterward, and you’ve neglected to tell me?”
He chuckled and patted her hand. “Nothing so dramatic, my dear.” A cab pulled up to the curb, and they slipped inside.
They were shortly deposited at the front entrance of the Milestone much to Quinn’s surprise and dismay. This wasn’t cheap fare. She eyed Nicholas and tried to keep her concern from showing.
She didn’t want to embarrass him, but he couldn’t earn much running the quaint paper supply store within walking distance of Quinn’s flat. The Milestone was definitely a few notches above his pay grade. Proud gentleman he was, going Dutch wasn’t an option. She readied herself for an awkward meal and took solace where she could.
At least she had an explanation for the bow tie.
Neither Nicholas nor Quinn hailed a cab this time. They had plenty to discuss. A long, chilly walk home would provide ample time to clear the air.
Quinn wanted to jump straight into an explanation, but Nicholas wasn’t the only victim. To put a woman on the spot in public was a risk few men braved a mere seven months into a relationship.
They made it an entire block in stone-cold silence before he spoke. Perhaps he realized she wasn’t going to break the skin on the impending discussion. “Are you afraid to marry again?” He continued his steady pace. The tight line of his mouth remained unchanged.
Honesty would serve her best even though a lie would be easier. Oh, the trials of the decent. “No. I look forward to trying it again someday.”
“Is it bad timing?”
She sensed a thread of hope in his question and didn’t dare glance his way. It would only break her heart. “Timing is something.” She laughed with little humor. “I’m going home soon, back to California. Back to my real life.”
He said nothing.
Quinn pressed on. She needed him to understand but didn’t want to crush him in the process. “You’re great, a really wonderful man, but I’m not sure if what we have is enough to build a union on. Marriage is no small thing.”
Nicholas stopped walking and turned so they stood eye to eye. He searched her face. “Then what is enough? It’s been an easy, natural evolution from friends to lovers. I love you. Do you love me?”
“I do, of course I do.” It was true. She loved him in her way. She struggled for a kind way to express her reserve. “I mean, it’s . . . I do, but it’s a quiet sort of love. It’s too easy if that makes sense.”
He scoffed. “I’m afraid it doesn’t. What’s wrong with quiet love? It’s sound and stable, the kind of love able to weather the worst of storms.”
“But what of passion?” She suddenly sounded a lot like her fictional eighteenth-century heroine, Eileen. Yes, what of passion, Sir Nicholas? Pray tell.
He let out an exasperated sigh and stalked off. “I’m not a man of passion. I do, however, admire it in others. I assumed yours was locked away in your stories.”
She shared in his frustration and struggled to keep pace. He
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