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CHAPTER ONE
Margaret—Meet-Cute, Bye
I struggled with the age-old question: Do I indulge in what I love or toe the family line and engage with what’s expected of me?
After flying for over a decade and Daddy’s expected retirement from the family business naming me his successor, I still didn’t have an answer.
That question wouldn’t be answered anytime soon, so I reviewed the theater ticket I’d been lucky enough to purchase while I waited on the shepherd’s pie I’d just ordered. This was my treat after a long flight over the Atlantic and simmering anxieties back home in Texas. Okay, maybe avoidance of going home too, but since I didn’t need to be back at work until next week, taking a little holiday sounded like a great idea. All of my family problems could wait until I returned. They’d still be there no matter how many shows I caught in the West End.
I still had a couple of hours before the show started, so I’d stopped in this gastropub near the theater, giving me somewhere to kill the time but also allow the opportunity for me to update the family tree I’d been working on. Somehow—maybe it was simply my birth order as eldest—I inherited the historian moniker for the Hawthorne family from my late grandmother. She’d laid out the basics of the tree, but all handwritten. I’d digitized it and began adding missing pieces. Honestly, I loved our rich history so much, it wasn’t a burden in the least.
After placing my order, I sat my extra-large purse on the chair next to me, relieved to be rid of the heavy bag carrying my laptop, Kindle, and a couple of hardcover backup books just in case my electronics failed me somehow. I pulled out my tablet to pick up where I left off on the tree.
A shadow moved close to me, catching my attention. “Excuse me, sorry—is anyone sitting here?” The Englishman with the velvety voice asking the question moved toward the chair holding my purse like my property wasn’t even there.
I glared at the man. “Um, yes, excuse me. My bag is sitting there actually.” I didn’t care how smooth his brown skin was or sparkly his green eyes appeared. He didn’t actually give the impression of being sorry at all. Matter of fact, he seemed rather rude. I bet he thought those penetrating eyes gave him a free pass.
He tilted his head and knitted his brows. “I beg your pardon.”
Since he didn’t phrase it as a question, I took it as an apology but dragged the chair closer to me, his hand still attached to the chair’s back. That was probably generous because he trained those piercing eyes on me, perhaps to intimidate. Something I was intimately familiar with from a lot of men. Not every man, but too many.
Resisting intimidation was my superpower.
It had to be in both my career choice and my opinionated family.
I set my tablet down and turned my chin up, giving him my full attention—and the intensity of my glare—until he released the back of the chair. He gave me a small grin. One side of his mouth quirked up, but the other side remained turned down. “My mistake.” Then he walked off, presumably to rob another person’s chair.
“Indeed it was,” I mumbled under my breath then went back to my task, adding more details on my two-times great-grandfather, Samuel Hawthorne, who founded our branch of the family, and his Tuskegee Airmen sons, James and Harrison. Together, they established the aviation compound my kinfolk and I called home in Autumn, Texas, a suburb of Houston.
I crossed my legs and shifted in my seat as I scanned the records on the screen, settling on one name in particular. Great-Uncle Harrison was proving to be elusive. I rubbed my temples. A frustrated sigh rushed out.
My research placed him as a founder of the Hawthorne Family Flying Eagles company, but I couldn’t find whether he’d ever been married or had children. There was an Alabama death certificate that put him in his fifties and documentation of his service in the war but little else. My great-uncle was a bit of a mystery. I often wondered why there was a statue at our compound of Great-Granddaddy James but not his brother. Granddaddy Isaac was of no help, which frustrated me to no end, but I’d become accustomed to his indifference. Although sharp as a tack, his memory became very fuzzy when it came to his uncle for some reason.
I sighed and shook my head.
I’d love to find out why.
Frustrated, I tore my gaze away from the tablet and stared straight ahead without truly focusing on the other patrons. Until I noticed a familiar face—the posh man who tried unsuccessfully to steal my chair. My attention lingered, roaming over his facial features. A shadow of stubble. Full lips. And that smooth golden-brown skin. Now that he wasn’t trying to steal my chair, I could appreciate his looks from a distance. He’d settled across from another man, equal in skin color and features from their profiles. If I had to guess, probably his brother. He must have lifted a chair from some other unsuspecting soul.
Rudeness aside, he wasn’t bad to look at, as Mama would say. My gaze lingered on his lips, full even in profile.
A steaming plate of delectable fluffy goodness, browned to perfection, appeared on the table in front of me out of nowhere, hitting my nose with savory meat and potatoes. I’d been so wrapped up in checking out Mr. Posh, I’d somehow missed the waitress coming and going. That was unlike me, to get so distracted by checking out a man.
One more glance couldn’t hurt.
As if pulled by invisible strings, my gaze sought those green eyes once more. And found them staring directly at me.
He drew a bottle of beer to his lips and took a long, deep drag, watching me the entire time. He leaned back, and I noticed how the deep brown button-down he wore really complemented the sultry eyes trained on me.
If he wasn’t dining with someone, I would’ve marched right over there and propositioned him. To meet up after the play, of course. A last-minute ticket had cost me a grip.
He lowered the beer and turned his attention back to his companion as though he hadn’t just stared me down and undressed me with his gaze, and the spell was broken.
I frowned and picked up my fork, disappointed. The play would be my only source of entertainment this evening after all.
CHAPTER TWO
Lewis—Putting London in the rearview
I dragged my gaze back to my brother, unable to read the expression on the face of the beautiful American woman. I thought maybe she checked me out, but then she just stared, not altering her manner.
Charlie smiled knowingly. “Lewis, did you know that woman?” My brother released his Cheshire cat grin. He probably figured the woman was a stranger to me but had also captured my regard. He’d watched me while I watched her.
Not that it seemed like she wanted my attention.
“Cheeky. You know I don’t.”
He raised his brows and glanced back over at the woman across the room. “She sure seems like your type. Rich brown skin, curly, natural hair, light brown eyes…”
“They’re more deep brown actually. Wait, how can you tell her eye color from here?” I gave him the most severe smirk I could manage, pulling one side of my mouth down low.
Charlie burst out with laughter. “So they’re deep brown, are they? Just your type.” Charlie sat back in his chair, grinning. “Ask her out.”
My body leaned as if to get up, unbidden, and I took hold of my involuntary movement. Tempting, but we had a play to get to soon. “What’s the point? Plus she’s American.” Even though I preferred casual, I didn’t make it a habit of hitting on American tourists. They romanticized Europe too much, and I hated to disappoint.
Charlie tilted his head, a sly smile creeping onto his lips. “All the better. You’re moving there temporarily. You can hook up.”
“You realize America is a big country, right?” My little brother had traveled as widely as I, so I knew he was just being cheeky.
Although speaking to my brother, I couldn’t help my gaze sliding back to the American for another eyeful. She’d shifted her concentration to the food in front of her, spooning a mouthful of what looked to be shepherd’s pie, then picking up a small tablet before her eyes flashed my way. I would have missed it had I not been looking so intently.
I removed the hand sanitizer I carried in my trouser pocket and rubbed some onto my hands before forking the steak-and-kidney pie the waitress just sat before me. Then I raised the nibble to my nose to ensure the aroma matched the appearance. It smelled delicious as the warm steam hit my nose.
“You don’t need to worry about picking up anyone the way you smell your food before you taste it every single time. It’s so annoying.” My brother dug into his own meal with relish.
“Leave me alone, Charlie.”
I wasn’t worried about picking up someone. I’d only just finished packing up my flat before heading out to this going-away party of Charlie’s. I’d call my parents from the airport tomorrow whilst I waited on my flight. They didn’t understand nor approve of my choices—it wasn’t every day you turned your back on family money.
Or deep connections.
But that had been the problem, hadn’t it? My mouth settled into a deep frown.
Charlie caught my gaze. “What’s that look for, brother? Having second thoughts?”
“Decidedly no. I’m looking forward to a new start and the exciting job awaiting me.”
“Exciting job away from Dad and Mum, me thinks.”
I couldn’t hold back a grin. He was right. “That too. I’ll look forward to making it on my own. America is a good place to start over where no one knows me. And more importantly, no one has expectations of our family connections.” The last name of Watson-Grosvenor would mean nothing in the States.
My brother’s gaze softened. “Everyone isn’t like Sheila, Lewis.”
The bitter laugh that escaped my throat was loud and unexpected. I glanced around, but thankfully our surroundings were loud enough not to draw attention. “As your older brother, I feel it’s my duty to inform you that everyone has an agenda. Best you find out now, from me, than discover it on your own.”
I’d had a series of one-night stands since I realized what Sheila was really after, and I didn’t expect that to change any time soon. Setting low expectations with a woman up front kept me focused on moving forward because I would not make that mistake again. I would not be used again.
Charlie sighed. “Poor Lewis.”
I leaned in and lowered my voice. “It’s best you find out now—everyone has an agenda.” I pointed my fork at him and raised my brows.
Sheila had used me. And used me well.
He only shook his head. “You’re way too young to be so jaded.”
I sharpened my tone, saying, “And you’re too old not to know better.”
Charlie had been out of university for over a year now, and Dad had gleefully absorbed him into the family business. Unlike me, my little brother relished it. He used our name and connections to do more than only pick up women.
“I’m going to miss you, Lewis.”
My posture relaxed a bit. “Me too, Charlie. Me too.”
End of Excerpt
