“Grace, if I know Ian, he’s not asking you for forever right now. Why are you overthinking this?”
Asha made it sound simple.
Well, why couldn’t it be?
Asha smiled, obviously seeing that she was getting through to her. “I tell you what. I’ll get takeaway and then we’ll combine our feminine wiles and figure out the best way for you to grovel your way back into his good graces. Which do you want, fish-and-chips or shawarma?”
“Shawarma, definitely. I’ve had enough fish-and-chips for one day.”
“I’ll be back, then.” Asha grabbed her coat and pocketbook and paused near the door. “It’ll work out, Grace. You’ll see.”
Grace picked up her mangled knitting, then tossed it aside. Yes, she’d take a chance. But after what happened today, would he?
The next day, Grace hesitated outside Ian’s flat, her hand poised inches from the door. Maybe she shouldn’t have come unannounced. He was usually home on Sunday evenings, but who was to say he hadn’t gone out?
Cowardly thoughts, all of them. She rapped on the door with more confidence than she felt, shifting the heavy, insulated containers to her other hip. She and Asha had decided dinner was safest. He would never turn down her cooking.
But no scrape of chains or rattle of dead bolts came on the other side. She’d never been to his new place—had she gotten the address wrong? She knocked harder the second time. Nothing.
She was a fool, not just for coming unannounced, but for thinking he was sitting around waiting for her. She turned back to the stairs, but before she could set foot on the first step, the door opened behind her. “Grace?”
She turned and paused midstep on the landing. Ian stood in the doorway, shirtless and breathing hard, his mobile phone strapped to one arm and earphones dangling from his hand.
She stared at him for several seconds before she could manage words. “Am I interrupting you? I knocked a few times.”
“I was on the erg. I didn’t hear you right away over the music. What’s up?”
Grace’s stomach did a backflip. He wasn’t acting as if he harbored any ill feelings toward her, but she wouldn’t have called his tone welcoming either. She held up the containers. “I brought dinner. Call it a peace offering.”
He frowned as if considering, then straightened and nudged the door all the way open. She stepped inside.
Their place in Islington had been the typical bachelor pad with its mismatched furniture and bare walls. The Gloucester Road flat, on the other hand, was elegant and sophisticated, decorated in a spare, clean-lined Scandinavian style—grays, whites, and black with pops of color here and there. Framed photography and modern art decorated the pristine ivory walls. Somehow, it surprised her. Not that his tastes had matured, but that a traditionalist like him would favor such a restrained, contemporary style.
“Nice flat,” she said. “Not what I expected.”
He was still looking at her with that same cautious expression—neither angry nor open. “You didn’t come to admire the flat. Why are you really here?”
He was going to make her say it, standing in the foyer while holding two hot bowls of food. She looked around for rescue and finally off-loaded them onto the small table that held a stack of mail. “I came to apologize. You did something nice for me, and I ruined it. I was insensitive and didn’t think about what I said before I said it.”
He wiped a hand over his face in what could have been weariness or exasperation. “Here’s the thing, Grace. I’m not angry with you. I told you that yesterday. But I don’t want to be anyone’s consolation prize. I don’t want you to be with me just because you can’t do the thing you love most. I deserve more than that. You deserve more than that.”
The words pierced as they struck. “Ian, I could have gone anywhere in the world to start over, but I came to London. Because of you.” Her heart thumped so hard she was pretty sure he could see it. “I’m still figuring out what my life should look like now, but you’re not my consolation prize.”
His eyes darkened, and he took a step toward her. He’d only kissed her once, but the anticipation was enough to send her pulse into overdrive. She closed her eyes as his head dipped toward hers, aching for the proof that reality was as good as her memories.
But the kiss never came. Instead, the latch of the door clicked near her ear.
Grace’s eyes snapped open. “What—?”
“We’re going to finish this conversation, but first I need a shower.” He flashed a wry twist of a smile. “And proper clothes.”
“You’re a tease.”
He bent again, and this time, his breath brushed her cheek, raising a shiver on her skin. “Not a tease. Just not in a hurry. Make yourself at home.” He stepped away from her, then strode toward his bedroom.
She chewed her bottom lip to stop her grin, allowing herself an appreciative look before he disappeared. No, he wasn’t nearly as staid and conservative as he liked to pretend. But the hot-blooded athlete she remembered would have pushed her against the wall and kissed her senseless after that declaration. And they probably wouldn’t have gotten round to dinner at all.
Maybe it was good they’d both developed some restraint. Their first relationship had progressed so quickly, it had become easier to fuel their connection with the physical rather than own up to the emotions beneath it. Clearly, if they were going to have a second chance, it had to be based on more than chemistry.
She moved into the small, modern kitchen, taking stock of the space, then opened a cabinet above the dishwasher. Sure enough, the plates and glasses were there, just as they’d been in the Islington flat. That would mean the flatware was to the right of the sink. She smiled when she found the neat array of cutlery. Some things didn’t change.
Grace set the table and unpacked the two containers of food onto ceramic trivets, then wandered back into the reception room. A short hallway led to the bedrooms and bath. She bypassed Ian’s room and wandered into the spare he had set up as a gym. A weight bench with a rack of free weights stood in one corner, while his rowing machine took up the center of the room. On the far side lay his trophy wall, displaying a collection of shadow-boxed medals and framed photos.
There were several pictures of Ian with his Cambridge crewmates in their iconic light-blue blazers, along with framed newspaper articles showing the outcomes of the five Oxford and Cambridge Boat Races he’d rowed in—four wins, one loss. Five world championship gold medals from his time on the British national team, one in the juniors and four more in men’s and veterans’ classes. And in the place of honor in the middle, his framed Olympic silver medal.
Grace remembered when he had won that, or lost the gold, as he regarded it. Three full boat lengths ahead of bronze, and yet it was the half-second behind gold that had haunted him. He felt he’d let down his teammates, even though it had been years since Great Britain had won an Olympic gold in rowing.
He’d been brilliant back then: driven, confident in his own skills, maybe a little cocky. But he’d also understood how fortunate he was to succeed at something he loved. And then he’d proposed to Grace and decided he needed to do something steady and responsible. The nonstop training wasn’t conducive to a happy marriage, he’d said, as if he weren’t giving up something he’d worked for his entire life.
Had it not been for her, there might be an Olympic gold on that wall.
“Ready to eat?”
Grace started at Ian’s voice over her shoulder. She’d been so enwrapped in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard the shower turn off or noticed him enter the room. He put a tentative hand on her waist, and she leaned back against him, the faint, masculine scent of his favorite soap and aftershave enveloping her. It instantly brought back the memory of late nights years ago when he’d slip into bed after she’d fallen asleep, wrapping his arms around her beneath crisp sheets. She closed her eyes and inhaled the memory.
But that was another life. She straightened abruptly and turned to him. “Dinne
r?”
“Sure. Dinner.” He followed her back to the kitchen, pausing to turn on the stereo on the way to the dinner table. Grace lifted the lids on the containers of rice and stew as he came up behind her.
“Smells wonderful. What is it?”
“My famous tikka masala.”
Ian took the serving spoon from her hand. “You don’t pull punches, do you? I’ve been to every Indian restaurant in London trying to find something this good and failed miserably.”
“It’s the cardamom. Most restaurants don’t use enough.” She watched him as he served their food. In a simple T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, his hair wet from the shower, he looked worlds away from the executive in the bespoke tuxedo. This was the Ian she remembered—casual, relaxed, smiling. Almost unbearably handsome. That didn’t change with his wardrobe.
“You and Jamie used to drive me mad, trying to deconstruct every dish when we ate out.”
“I remember. He was more insufferable than me by far, but he was usually right.”
Ian smiled. Then his expression grew serious. “I think I owe you an apology, Grace. I know how much you love your work. I know how hard it must be to leave it behind.” He hesitated. “I also know people suffering from traumatic stress have an even more difficult time adjusting to a normal life.”
She combed her fingers through her hair, bowing her head against the acute prick of embarrassment. “You’ve been reading mental health websites.”
“Grace, I care about you—”
“I know. But just like you don’t want to be my consolation prize, I don’t want to be your rehabilitation project. Whatever my issues are, they aren’t me. I’m not a victim. My decision to leave the field has been a long time in coming. Even Jean-Auguste always warned me about staying too long.” She held out her wrist to display the detailed green dragon that encircled it. “His favorite quote is ‘He who fights too long against dragons becomes a dragon himself—’”
“‘And if you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss will gaze into you.’ It’s Nietzsche. You think your work has changed you?”
“I know it’s changed me,” Grace said softly. “You can’t see all the suffering and violence and hatred without wondering if there’s still good in the world. Most of my colleagues see evil as proof that God couldn’t exist. But despite all the bad, there are still people who help others when their safety, their very lives are at risk. When I see that, I know without a doubt He has to exist. I think without God the good that remains couldn’t survive.”
Ian reached for her hand across the table and brushed his thumb over her tattoo. “If you can still see the good, why fear the dragon?”
“Because I realized Jean-Auguste is right. Every day, the abyss looks back a little longer.” She held his eyes, willed him to understand that even as she mourned her old life, she was embracing something better, something that wouldn’t chip away at her belief in hope and happiness.
Something that, deep down, she wanted to share with him.
He released her hand, the absence coming sharp like a physical pain. But he simply circled round to the chair beside her and took her face in his hands. “I know you are not a victim, Grace. You are a strong, caring, talented woman.”
The way he was looking at her made her chest seize. She reached for humor out of reflex. “You forgot beautiful.”
A smile flickered across his lips and put a new light into his eyes. “Oh no, I didn’t forget beautiful.” He brushed the lightest kiss across her lips. “Or sexy.” Another kiss at the corner of her mouth. “Or tempting.” He pulled back long enough to stare into her eyes, his intensity making her breath hitch and her insides twist with longing.
Without a doubt, she still loved him. And for the first time since her return, she believed there was a chance he could love her again too. She tipped her head to his forehead, breathing him in, embracing the hope that there might be something to salvage from the wreck of their past. And then he was kissing her again, while the stew cooled on the table and the years between them slipped away.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IAN WAS LATE TO WORK for the first time in years.
Last night, he and Grace had finally gotten back to their supper when it became clear how little it would take to reignite the flicker of desire into a full-fledged bonfire. Their reunion was too new and too fragile to endure the temptation. Instead, they had stayed up late, music turned on low while they talked with her feet in his lap, as if no time had passed. Then he’d insisted on seeing her home, which led to a rather lengthy good-bye in the hall outside Asha’s flat.
All only tangentially related to his lateness, except that he’d been too distracted to set his alarm. He’d slept through his morning outing and woken at half eight, with just time enough to throw on clothes, comb his hair, and hail a taxi, which had been a mistake considering the London morning traffic. The Tube would have been faster.
Fortunately, his morning schedule was relatively clear, allowing him to begin calling Ms. Grey’s references personally. Of all the candidates he’d seen the previous week, she remained the most qualified and the most stable. Still, there was an element of danger in hiring because of Jamie’s celebrity status. It was Ian’s job to fully vet anyone who would have any contact with Jamie, his finances, or their family. But every supervisor he spoke with said the same thing. Ms. Grey was dependable, logical, and dedicated to her work in a way that bordered on obsessive. A creative problem-solver, good with people, the type that should have been well on her way to an executive position. What had happened to make her leave a managerial position at one of London’s largest firms without a reference?
He certainly wouldn’t get a straight answer from the firm itself. Instead he sorted through his contacts. He didn’t know anyone at Walker and Brown, but he had gone to university with the vice president of the independent auditing firm that worked with them and every other major financial services company in London.
“Ian!” Alexander picked up on the second ring in his syncopated London accent. “Long time, mate. How are you?”
“Good. Yourself? Finally made VP, I hear.”
“Long time in coming, that. You calling for business or just to catch up?”
“Actually, I was hoping you could get me some information on a potential hire. Abigail Grey, most recently at Walker and Brown. She left about six months ago and won’t say why.”
“Grey, right. Senior financial examiner. Sharp woman. I worked with her on the last two audits, but I hadn’t realized she left. Want me to see what I can find out?”
“If you would.” Ian paused. “Heard you got married recently. How’s married life treating you the second time round?”
“Good. Hoping this time it will stick, you know? The hours aren’t exactly conducive to romance. What about you?”
Ian let himself smile a little. “Dating someone.”
“Past time you settled down. We’re getting old.”
“Yeah, I’m aware of that. Let me know what you find out.”
Ian hung up, then began to go through his overflowing e-mail in-box. His mobile phone beeped beside him. A text message from Grace.
Lunch today? Miss you already. (Lame, I know.)
He grinned and texted back: Wish I could. Dinner later?
A few seconds later, her reply: Asha’s working late. Come by and I’ll cook.
That was something to look forward to. Grace clearly knew his weakness for her cooking.
He went back to his in-box with slightly more enthusiasm. The weekend’s new mail was about finished when his direct line rang.
“Ian, Alexander here. I talked to my friend at Walker. No one really knows what happened. Abigail Grey was a private woman.”
“Surely there were rumors.”
“Rumors, yes. Sounds like she’s a single mother and her daughter has health problems, so she definitely didn’t leave by choice.”
“So . . .”
Alexander hesitated. “No one is s
aying anything, but no other female executive has lasted in that department more than two years. Everyone has quit or been transferred. Ms. Grey lasted more than twice that time, but . . .”
Definitely suspicious, and it hinted at some sort of harassment. Just because there were laws against these things didn’t mean they still didn’t happen. “Nothing to indicate impropriety or criminal behavior or anything like that?”
“Not remotely. Everyone suspects she was driven out.”
“Fair enough. Thanks for the help.”
“Anytime, mate. Nice to talk.”
Ian hung up the phone. His instincts said she was the right hire, and this information seemed to confirm it. He hesitated over her CV before he picked up the phone and dialed her. She answered on the third ring.
“Ms. Grey, I’d like to offer you the job. I’m e-mailing you a formal offer letter now, but I’d like to have you start as soon as possible.”
“May I review the offer and get back to you?”
“Of course.” She was cautious, and Ian couldn’t blame her. “I’ll look forward to your decision.”
Which was an understatement, considering she was the only candidate who had a chance of lasting more than a week. Maybe people assumed working for the company of a celebrity chef would be glamorous, when in reality, it was mostly boring, dry business details. Clearly Ms. Grey hadn’t gone into finance for the excitement.
He sent off the letter, then turned to another stack of paperwork, hoping his offer had been aggressive enough to snag her.
Alexander was right. They were getting old, and his workaholic tendencies weren’t conducive to maintaining a relationship. He would do what it took not to lose Grace again, and that included getting help in the office.
Once the workday was over, he resisted the urge to skip his workout and forced himself through a grueling weight circuit that made him wish he’d gone straight to see Grace after all. By the time he made it to Asha’s place, he could barely contain his anticipation.
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