Page 54 of One Last Gift

And if she didn’t know him as well as she’d thought she did, if she wasn’t able to tap into what he’d been thinking, then how the hell was she supposed to figure out the next clue?

Chapter Twenty-Five

“So what are you going to do now?” Sophia asked Sam, looking at him over the rim of her wineglass. He was sitting in a bar in Brooklyn—a trendy, newly opened one—with her, Toby, and Zoe, and had filled them in on the fact that he no longer had the job with the youth center.

“No idea,” Sam said truthfully. He shrugged, like it was no big deal, not letting on how much losing the youth center job was making him feel…adrift, again.

“We’re going back to the Hamptons in a couple of weeks,” Toby said. “You should come.” Sophia nodded vigorously, dark hair shining in the low lighting. “We’ll take the yacht out for another spin—it’s unbelievable in the summer. We’ll figure something out, don’t worry.”

“Yeah, maybe.” The problem was, though, that his time in the United States was fast running out—he’d gotten an ESTA in order to get in, which was quicker and easier than a visa, but meant that he was only on a ninety-day stay, and those ninety days were approaching an end. So now he had to figure out what next—home, or somewhere else? He’d been looking into some other destinations, unable to deny the allure of traveling somewhere else, of ignoring the problems he’d left back home and putting off figuring out what to do about it all. He had no job, no flat back in London. He had no idea what to do career-wise either, wasn’t sure if being a solicitor was still on the table, if his reputation would now be ruined.

He brought up the message Jessica had sent him earlier that day. Saw your photos of the climbing today on Instagram. I’m proud of you. Tom would be proud too. Let’s talk in person, when you’re back.

They’d spoken on the phone, briefly, a couple of months ago, and it had been awkward and painful, and she’d hung up before they’d really said anything. So the message today had come slightly out of the blue. And the tone of it…Well, he wasn’t quite sure how to read into it.

“Another round?” Toby asked. Nods all around, and Toby slid to his feet. “Mind giving me a hand, Zo?” Zoe sighed a little, her face unimpressed as usual, but got up and followed Toby to the bar.

“Just a sparkling water for me, thanks,” Sam said absentmindedly. It wasn’t that he’d stopped drinking completely, but he was trying to cut back, rather than relying on it as a crutch as he’d done after Tom had died. He opened up his emails, saw one from Cassie. His heart thumped a little in anticipation, the way it always did with messages from her.

Hi. So I know you said you had some experience with local pubs as businesses, and I wondered if you’d mind talking something through with me?

He stared at the message, felt his heart speed up. He didn’t know what she wanted to talk about—she’d kept it vague, perhaps deliberately. It could be something to do with Linda’s pub, or something to do with her job, maybe. But whatever it was, she was presuming he had a level of knowledge he didn’t. He didn’t have the first clue about running anything in the hospitality industry. He shouldn’t have said that.

He felt Sophia shift next to him, angle her chair so she was closer. Felt her leg press against his, the smell of her musky perfume wash over him. They hadn’t slept with each other since that one time in the Hamptons, but she was making her intentions very clear now. And maybe it would be easy, to go there again, to distract himself from the fact that he was, once again, purposeless.

“So, you still staying with Toby?”

Sam cleared his throat. “Yeah. He’s been great, letting me crash with him.” And he had—been great. Sam didn’t know what he’d have done if he hadn’t been offered that lifeline.

“It’s not far from here, is it?” She reached out, trailed a hand down his arm, bright red nails scraping lightly against his skin.

So easy, maybe, but not what he needed. He knew, deep down, that it wouldn’t make him feel better, not in the long run. So it wasn’t fair—to her, or to himself.

He pulled back. “I’m sorry, Sophia, I can’t do this.”

She stuck out her bottom lip in a pout, but Sam was saved from having to elaborate by Toby and Zoe returning with the drinks.

Sam looked down at his phone, at the email again. He couldn’t keep doing this. Couldn’t keep lying to her anymore. He took a steadying breath.

How about I talk it through with you in person?

He felt something settle as he pressed send.

It was time, it seemed, to go back to London. Time to see Cassie, to tell her the truth, and hope that she didn’t slam the door in his face this time.

—

Sam looked out the window at the approaching manor house, listening to the crunch of the taxi tires on gravel. It was a stunning building; he could appreciate that. Elizabethan in style, it was gray brick with a hint of peach in places, tall and slightly imposing, with chimneys that looked a little like turrets. The mullioned windows almost seemed to be watching him approach, he thought, like they were the house’s eyes, assessing the newest arrival. Assessing him, and his intentions. Whatever the hell they were.

“Here we are then,” said the taxi driver. He stopped the engine, coming around to open Sam’s door. “Nice place, this, isn’t it?” he said conversationally, hooking slightly puffy fingers into his belt loop and turning a circle to take in the whole house.

Sam grunted his assent as he got out of the car. It was warm—not as hot as New York, but sunny and bright, English summer at its best. There was bright green foliage running alongside each side of the stone steps that went up to the entrance of the manor, bushes and trees running out farther to the right, so that they were well and truly surrounded by countryside. Sam was a little surprised that he’d gotten a booking so last-minute, especially given the fact that Cassie’s event—an engagement brunch, apparently—was running tomorrow morning.

Was it stalkerish that he knew that, had followed her here? He reckoned it was probably safer not to answer that question.

He’d come straight from the airport—it had taken about an hour and a half from Heathrow. It was weird—he hadn’t actually been into London, just skirted around the edges on the M25, but he’d felt the presence of the city, looming and almost suffocating, like it was reminding him of what he’d left behind, reminding him that it was still ready to claim him. He ran a hand through his hair, then took the suitcase the driver offered.

“You have a nice stay then,” the driver said, hitching up his trousers before he got back into the car and drove away. Sam raised his hand in thanks, then started up the steps. No point questioning the decision—it was made now.