Chapter One

Historically speaking, very few people have met their end at the business end of a fountain pen. Fiona Turner considered the merits of the fountain pen as a weapon for murder as she spun it between her fingers and stared figurative daggers at her soon-to-be ex-wife. Late afternoon sunlight poured in and illuminated the bald conference room in rectangular, saffron slashes. It cast an unfairly pretty light on Chloe, who was already unfairly photogenic. Whether rubbing shoulders with the British elite, or rubbing…other body parts with Fiona in their bedroom, Chloe’s pristine, modelesque beauty persisted. Fiona used to admire Chloe’s invariability in that respect, but now she found it extremely annoying. Almost annoying enough to see how quickly she could vault the table and use her pen as a weapon.

“You don’t have to do this,” Fiona’s solicitor whispered. “This agreement is outrageous. We have the leverage to ask for more. The judge may not even believe this is fair.”

Fiona’s answer was absolute as she stared at Chloe’s smirking face. “I don’t want more.”

Her solicitor glanced between Chloe and Fiona and let out a little sigh. Fiona didn’t hire him to make judgments on the balance of power at the table. She wanted to be unstuck from Chloe—forcibly peeled away like stubborn Velcro.

“Ms. Turner agrees to the terms of the consent order,” Fiona’s solicitor said as he straightened up his papers. “I believe all assets have been divided to each party’s satisfaction.”

Chloe chuckled. “What, you don’t want that horrid little watercolor by the lifts?”

Fiona sent another round of daggers at Chloe from across the ugly, gargantuan conference table. A table they’d picked out together when furnishing Chloe’s office space five years ago. Fiona preferred an antique, but Chloe needed cutting-edge design. So, as always, Chloe got what she wanted and installed a thick, all-white table that reflected sunlight like a marble obelisk. A small, gorgeous original vista by British artist Elizabeth Murray hung in between the lift doors was the single compromise Chloe conceded in terms of decor.

“Are we finished?” Fiona clipped.

Chloe’s manicured eyebrows rose on her tanned forehead. “Always running off. Does Her Royal Highness need you to wipe her royal arse?”

Her disrespect toward the monarchy scandalized their solicitors, but Fiona was unmoved. Chloe’s long-standing hatred of the princess no longer affected her. It chafed their marriage for its entirety, and, in all likelihood, contributed to their divorce.

Unwilling to take the bait, Fiona turned to her solicitor. “May I leave?”

Chloe visibly fought to keep her expression neutral, her blood-red lips wavering. “Typical. Go on, run along, Fiona. It’s no wonder how we got here. Your constant departures forced my hand.”

A single bob of Fiona’s throat gave away the intense rage burning inside her. Sort of like an inverse-Hulk, the angrier Fiona grew, the quieter and calmer she acted. “Did I? I forced it up the skirt of—”

“Ladies, I think that’s quite enough,” the solicitor interrupted.

The energy in the room crackled. Disagreements and intellectual sparring matches used to make their relationship sizzle. Looking back—which was the only way to look during a divorce—she and Chloe derived passion solely from rows. Exchanging power. God, how Fiona tired of fighting. No love, and certainly no marriage, should subsist on contradiction alone.

Chloe held up her manicured hand. “Whatever. I’d rather eat this bloody table than sit here any longer.”

Considering Chloe probably shared more DNA with snakes than the average human being and could therefore potentially stretch her mandible to such a degree, Fiona believed it would be possible to witness her consume the table whole.

To the outside observer, Chloe fleeced her. Fiona financed the lease on the building Chloe used as her office, the one they sat in presently. Fiona bought and furnished their trendy flat in Hackney. Fiona spent time and money ingratiating Chloe with deep-pocketed aristocrats eager to support a burgeoning artist.

However, Fiona let Chloe have everything. All Fiona wanted was out. So, she allowed herself to be fleeced, like a runaway sheep caught in the Scottish countryside, shorn for her own good. In fact, she indeed felt lighter as she packed away her fountain pen into her briefcase. Eager to breathe air not choked with Chloe’s perfume, Fiona expediently left the room.

In the hallway, she backed against the wall and took in deep breaths. From discovering Chloe’s infidelity, to moving out, to parsing through their shared assets, Fiona wanted to hide away in an old, World War II bunker on a remote cliffside and speak to no one for months. London suffocated her with memories. She hoped Beryl might need her to do extensive international traveling soon, or perhaps belay into a deep, dark cave. She would agree to either.

“Fiona.”

A part of Fiona still enjoyed the sound of Chloe’s voice: beautiful and clear, like clinking glass, with an unmistakable burr. The other part of her hoped to never hear it again.

Chloe looked less defensive than she did in their meeting, but Chloe was deceivingly soft when not acting like a twat. “I knew I’d find you on a wall like a sconce. Always did like to pull that wallflower bit.”

So much for not being a twat. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. I couldn’t stand to be in that room with those repugnant men.” Chloe twiddled the ring on her thumb—her tell, though she’d never admit to having one. The anxious twitches of Chloe’s lips mesmerized her. “Where are you off to now?”

Chloe’s stare pinned her to the wall. Technically, they’d be married for at least another six weeks, and Fiona hoped—like a curse being lifted—that she might not feel so bedeviled by her soon-to-be ex-wife once the final order arrived in the post. “I—I don’t know. What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t.” If Chloe wanted to feign indifference, she’d have to try a little harder. Her impulse to control Fiona pulled the curtain back on her motivations. “Do as you wish. Always have done. You’re free to do Her Royal Highness’s bidding unimpeded.”

High heels clicking down the hallway intruded upon Chloe’s attempt at starting a final row. A young woman approached, looking as if she’d stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. She wore head-to-toe designer clothing, with what appeared to be professionally styled hair and makeup. Fiona assumed another business’s client got lost, except she walked right up to Chloe and kissed her on the mouth.

Bile rose in Fiona’s throat. This was no client—it was either Chloe’s mistress, or she’d procured yet another girlfriend. Unfortunately, Fiona gave Chloe the satisfaction of seeing the stupefied and hurt look on her face. The woman, at least fifteen years younger than she and Chloe, planted her listless gaze on Fiona. “This your ex?”

“Yes, this is my…ex-wife, Fiona. Fiona, this is Olivia. We’ve just started seeing each other.”

Olivia barely acknowledged Fiona, and instead adhered herself to Chloe’s side. “Are you done? I’m bored.”

“Ms. Campbell?” One of Chloe’s solicitors popped his head out of the conference room. “We need your signature one more time, I’m afraid.”

Olivia grunted in displeasure, and Chloe soothed her with a kiss before departing. Fiona didn’t know where to go. Jumping straight out of the window seemed uncouth, but since she couldn’t evaporate into thin air, it might be the best option. Olivia appeared unbothered by Fiona’s existence, but it didn’t seem she possessed more than half a dozen brain cells.

“Well, this is unbearably awkward, so I’m going to leave. Best of luck, Olivia.”

Olivia scoffed. “Not that I care, but she lied to you.”

“What?” Fiona gripped her bag so hard she worried the handle would snap. “Who, Chloe? Lied about what?”

The young woman’s heartless laughter engulfed Fiona in a chill which froze her in place. “We didn’t just start dating. We’ve been shagging for eight months.”

Uninterested in the emotional devastation she’d wrought upon Fiona, Olivia got lost in her phone. Fiona rushed toward the lift and slapped the buttons as the bile in her throat threatened to erupt. As she waited, she eyed the painting on the wall that Chloe disparaged. Her Murray watercolor. The doors dinged, Fiona snatched the painting off the wall, and she hurried inside as the doors closed.

Her world spun as she descended to the ground floor. Upon entering the foyer, she sought emotional relief in the reliefs in the ceiling. Erected in 1878, the building boasted Victorian grandeur design, and a neo-Gothic revival of intricate, shapely work and sculpted figures. Fiona preferred the easy symmetry of Georgian architecture, but she had a soft spot for the romance of neo-Gothic design. Though Chloe hadn’t cared, Fiona chose the building for its dignified artistic history, as well as her own enjoyment of the hand-carved art. However, even the beautiful renderings of peonies and poppies circling above her head couldn’t sedate her.

Eight months.

Dazed, she stepped out into the waning sunset. London swirled with roads which led in any direction one might desire to go, but Fiona couldn’t move. Indecision and anxiety gripped her in iron fists. She’d taken her anxiety meds, though evidently they weren’t nearly enough, as her heart pounded against her ribs.

Should she take a cab back to Colchester, where she’d bought the kind of historical home Chloe expressly forbade them to live in for the entirety of their relationship? Walk to the nearest pub and get pissed? What would Chloe want her to do the least?

Fiona rang Jack.

“Dear sister!” His bombastic voice boomed into her ear. “How’d you get on with the she-dragon?”

“Eight months, Jack.”

“Pardon?”

“Eight months. Eight. Months. Eight bloody months.” Plopped on a bench, Fiona clutched the painting to her chest. “We went to Abigail’s wedding in September. We went together. And she—behind my back?”

“Fiona, darling, I ask this with all the love in the world: the fuck are you on about?”

“Chloe cheated on me for eight months. With…with some teenager I just met outside her office.” Pressure built behind Fiona’s eyes. “I didn’t know…all that time.”

Jack didn’t say a word, but Fiona heard shuffling on the other end. Keys jingling. The sound of a door. “Where are you?”

“I’m…I’m sat on a bench?”

“Okay, that’s unhelpfully vague. Meet me at Finny’s.”

Fiona sniffled. “But you hate Finnegan’s.”

“Yes, but I’m willing to have my arse stick to a seat in that beer-sodden rubbish heap so you can get pissed somewhere comfortable.”

“You’re my favorite brother.”

“Your only brother, thank God. See you in a few.”

Finnegan’s Pub weathered nearly two hundred years of British history, and every inch reflected its age: carpets worn to threads, first by leather boots and then rubber trainers; big, brown, British furniture crafted by men long gone into the earth; and daguerreotypes hung on the wall proudly showing off the burly men in aprons who opened the bar. A beer-sodden rubbish heap, as Jack described, but Fiona preferred it over any trendy bar in London.

Not one seat to be had near the barman, so Jack got their drinks and they settled at a table in full view of the “action,” as Jack liked to call it, but away from the crowd proper. Fiona stared at her stout ale and watched the bubbles race to the top. Even the bloody beer reminded her of Chloe. She detested Fiona’s taste in beer and thought it unrefined, to the point where she didn’t allow Fiona to keep any at home, nor drink it in her presence. Was this freedom, then? To drink her favorite beer out of a tall, thick glass nearly too wide to wrap her hand around? No net to ensnare her, and yet, Fiona did not feel liberated. She felt alone.

“So.” In one syllable, Jack packed in the totality of his conversational intent for the night. “Eight months.”

“Eight months. I don’t believe this is her first affair either.”

Jack carelessly plunked his drink on the antique table without a coaster. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve given her a good telling off, as big brothers do.”

Fiona winced and placed his glass on the coaster herself. “I’m older than you.”

“By a measly four minutes,” he reminded her. “I’m six foot three and you’re barely scraping five and a half in tall shoes. So, I am, in fact, your much bigger brother and therefore capable of intimidating your twat ex-wife.”

“Maybe you should have. She already hates you.” Fiona drank half of her beer, hoping to draw from its amber depths the fortitude to be fully honest. “You know how Beryl’s schedule keeps me busy. We rarely stay in one place for long, and Chloe needs constant attention. She didn’t always object to my trips, but did always behave moodily when I returned. Then, three years ago, it stopped.”

“What stopped?”

“Her moodiness. She acted fine, as if I hadn’t gone away at all. I thought it was strange, but I assumed she got used to my absences.” The more Fiona mused upon it, the more she realized how willfully ignorant she’d been of Chloe’s philandering. If you question nothing, the answer can’t devastate you. “I ignored signs. Evidence of people having been in our flat. Occasionally, she didn’t answer her phone for hours, that sort of thing.”

Jack sucked in a breath through his teeth and leaned back. “Christ.”

“I know. I reasoned it away. Maybe she’d had some mates come by while I was gone—surely, she got lonely. If she needed comfort when I traveled, then…that was reasonable, yeah? She’s happy, I’m—”

“If you say happy, I will unstick my foot from this grotesque floor and shove it directly into your shin.”

“The work makes me happy,” Fiona insisted. “And if Chloe was happy, things went a lot smoother. I just—I didn’t want to believe she’d actually cheat on me. Then I find evidence that she has, and I’m busted, obviously, but it felt…abstract. It felt unreal, like it was happening to someone else. Until today, when I met the young woman she’d been messing around with. God, it messed me up, Jack. It’s like it all became real at once. She cheated on me. She shagged another woman for months and months…maybe she’s been shagging other women for years. Nine years of my life down the drain. My marriage is well and truly over.”

“Cheers to that,” Jack grumbled.

“Cheers to what? I’m nearing bloody forty years old, and I’m meant to do what, start over? She gets to prance about with her young girlfriend and I’m sat here, utterly alone.”

“No, you’re not. You have me, Mum and Dad, Beryl, and a rather heaping handful of friends who despise Chloe and only tolerated her for you.”

Fiona groaned in exasperation. “Why didn’t anyone tell me? If you all hated her, you could’ve done me the courtesy of telling me why.”

“You’re barely around as it is, and when you were, you let Chloe walk all over you. Chloe’s such a malignant shrew, we assumed you must really love her, because why else tolerate her ridiculous narcissism?”

Because who else would have me? She dared not speak the question aloud, but it played on repeat since Chloe applied for divorce. What future existed for a woman her age—a middle-aged, bookish divorcée who worked the same demanding job her whole life? Where could she possibly find someone to love her? Fiona preferred not to even fathom a dating app.

“Well, it’s gone tits up, hasn’t it? So, I can resign myself to a fate as a well-traveled spinster without a wife or family, but perhaps a short mention in the Wikipedia article for Beryl, and bequeath a significant number of books to a university upon my death.”

Jack grimaced. “Oi, that’s bleak. We’re thirty-five, not ninety-five.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re a man and bisexual—the world is your oyster. I’m a lesbian. I don’t have an oyster. At best I have a bloody cockle.”

“There’s a clam joke in there that I’m too much of a gentleman to make.” Jack nudged the painting at their feet. “Why’d you bring this, by the way? Have you nicked that from her office?”

“It’s mine,” Fiona replied stiffly. “I took it on my way out. Chloe said it was ugly.”

“Well, she’s a slag, but she’s right about that.” Fiona kicked Jack under the table, and he chuckled. “I’ll get us more beers. We need to get you properly sloshed.”

Fiona absently followed Jack with her eyes as he slid in between a man in a business suit and a woman in a pair of denim dungarees. Jack, genetically incapable of resisting the urge to flirt, appeared torn between the man or the woman. Surprisingly, he decided on the woman. She didn’t look to be his type—Jack tended to go for blond women with massive breasts, and this woman did not fit that description. Not at all blond, she had a thick pile of gorgeous, short, curly black hair styled off to the side, showing off a neat undercut. Incredibly fit, with her dungarees and a black crop tank top showing off muscled arms. She leaned to the softer side of butch and extremely attractive.

The woman looked over Jack’s shoulder and caught Fiona’s eye, and Fiona’s stomach flipped. How mortifying to be caught ogling a stranger. Throughout her and Jack’s conversation the woman stole glances at Fiona, and every look sent a tiny thrill into the bottom of her stomach. Fiona’s libido all but gave up over nine years of Chloe’s hot-and-cold affections, but it came alive any time this random woman made eyes at her.

Jack returned with their beers and Fiona ignored him in favor of drinking and receding into her thoughts. Her glass held but one sip’s worth by the time Jack waved his hand in front of her face, and she snapped back to attention. “Sorry.”

“Quit moping, you’re absolutely slaughtering the vibe in here.”

“I do not mope,” Fiona objected. “I reflect quietly. It’s entirely different.”

“It’s entirely the wrong way to get piss drunk.” Jack gripped Fiona’s hand. “No more thinking tonight, yeah? Your grimy, almost-ex-wife cheated on you. You know what you ought to do?”

“Set fire to her ugly, polyester sofa?” Fiona gazed up innocently.

“Oh, I like where your mind is going, but no. You ought to have a proper shag. Get truly, properly, and sweat-soakingly shagged.”

Fiona’s mouth dropped open and she slapped Jack’s hand. “Ew, don’t ever say that again.” Without her permission, Fiona’s gaze again wandered to the dungaree-clad woman.

“The thought of you in any sexual scenario repulses me, make no mistake. But I am a selfless man tonight. Come on. When’s the last time you—”

“No, we are not discussing the last time I did anything.”

September, Fiona recalled, when they returned home after Abigail’s wedding and Chloe pounced upon her. Guilt, she knew now, propelled Chloe to take as she pleased. Fiona acquiesced, but her heart hadn’t been in it. Nor Chloe’s, apparently.

Jack’s eyebrows raised high. “It’s been that long, has it?”

Fiona objected to the premise of sharing intimate details with her brother, but she didn’t have anyone else to share it with at present. “We had issues in that department. Compatibility issues.”

At that, his already raised eyebrows nearly shot off his forehead. “Compatible how—ohh. In the bedroom, I see. Too kinky? Not kinky enough? A top? A bottom?”

“I regret every decision I made in my life that wrought this conversation upon me.”

“You mean to tell me you’ve been together this whole time and the sex wasn’t even good?” Jack looked appalled. “What the hell have you been doing?”

“It’s not that it wasn’t good, it just wasn’t ever…” She trailed off and sighed. It wouldn’t do to explain to Jack the finer details of her sex life. It wouldn’t erase the many years she wondered if Chloe even found her attractive. It wouldn’t change how Chloe’s behavior in their bedroom often seemed performative. It wouldn’t fix the ways Chloe’s insults dug deep into her psyche to the point where they felt less like opinions and more like truths. “Chloe had to control everything, and that extended to our bedroom.”

Jack knew her well enough to know not to pry any further. He pivoted to humor, as they both often did. “What you’re saying is on top of being a twat, she was a bloody awful shag? Well, lucky for you, I’ve just the thing.”

“You’ve just what thing?” Anxiety rushed through Fiona’s bloodstream, not helped by Jack’s insufferable little smirk. “Jack, what’ve you done?”

“That tasty morsel you’ve pretended not to look at all night?” Jack very obviously jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I told her to come over after you finish your beer.”

“You did not!” Every muscle in Fiona’s body seized. “Tell me you did not.”

“I did. So, you’re about two sips away from meeting Miss Americana, who looks like she could not only unwind you like a watch, but throw you over her shoulder and carry you right out of here. She’s quite muscular, isn’t she? Americans don’t fool around with their exports.”

“Your commentary, as always, is foul.” Fiona grimaced. “I have no intention of allowing anyone to ‘carry me out of here.’ Let alone a woman who looks like she arrived here on farm equipment.”

“Come now, Fifi, don’t be classist,” Jack chided. “I didn’t tell you to marry the Yank, just let her shag you into next week. She’s an American. They love to overcompensate, especially in the bedroom. She’ll be aces, I’m sure of it.”

“I came here, regrettably, to have a drink with you. I’m not going to leave with some—”

“Howdy.”

Fiona nearly spat her drink. Instead, she loudly gulped and gazed up at the woman. “H-hello.”

“Alice, love, good of you to join us.” Jack stood and familiarly put his arm over Alice’s shoulder. If audacity could be absorbed in the womb, Jack must’ve siphoned all of it. “Alice, this is my sister, Fiona. Fiona, this is my new best mate, Alice.”

Alice. Alice, whose unassuming beauty radiated like the most welcome sunrise after a dark night. Alice, whose effervescence rendered Fiona unable to speak, so she nodded daftly.

“Nice to meet you, Fiona.” Alice looked at Jack in concern. “You’re sure you don’t mind? I don’t want to put you out.”

“Nonsense. That dartboard is calling my name.”

Alice stuck out her hand. “Appreciate it.”

“I bet you will.” Jack shook her hand, and placed a key on the table in front of Fiona on his way by her. “My flat.”

Fiona seized him. “Where will you be?”

“I’ll find a good citizen to take me in as charity.” He surveyed the pub like a shark eyeing a school of fish. Jack never wanted for suitors, no matter what ocean he swam in. “Have fun, Fifi.”

Alice took the seat vacated by Fiona’s deceitful brother and slid a beer and shot glass toward her. “Couldn’t decide what I wanted, so I figured I’d try what you’re having. It’s, uh, very hoppy? That the word?”

Fiona’s nerves felt raw and she self-soothed by tracing her fingertips along the smooth glass. “I’m afraid I enjoy rather strong beers.”

“Tastes all right,” Alice choked out.

“Does it?” Fiona smirked. “Do you usually flinch when you drink beer?”

Alice coughed and flashed an endearingly bashful smile. “Um, well, it is a little like someone blended a loaf of sourdough bread.”

“You don’t have to drink it. I won’t be offended.” Fiona gestured to the wide array of beers on tap. “You may get a beverage you like.”

“Don’t worry about me, I can handle it. When I was seventeen, one of my brothers made moonshine out in the woods.” As if the dungarees and accent didn’t swiftly pinpoint Alice’s origin, a tale about homemade moonshine sounded like it sailed right out of Huckleberry Finn. “Ezekiel snuck out there and built a still. He must not have done the chemistry right, because, on my life, Miss Fiona, he made straight gasoline. His ’shine could’ve put a man on the moon. So, this? This is a proper beverage. That stuff tasted like we sucked it out of a tailpipe.”

Fiona scrunched her nose. “Why would you drink it in the first place?”

“I got dared. I got five brothers, and if I turned down that dare, I’d never hear the end of it. And, I ain’t a coward.” Alice puffed up a bit. “Takes more than hillbilly moonshine to knock me down.”

“Yet, it appears you’ve met your match with this stout.” Fiona tapped the smaller glass Alice had placed in front of her. “What are we meant to do with the shots?”

“Well, if we finish these beers and want to keep chatting, we take a shot. If we finish our beers and want to go our separate ways, we leave the shots on the table. No harm, no foul. No awkward goodbyes. Figured it’s the least I could do since your brother put you on the spot.”

As someone who dreaded most social interactions, Fiona appreciated the clever, easy out. “That’s gracious of you.”

“Not at all, I’m getting a heck of a deal. A beer, a shot, and I get to talk to the prettiest woman I’ve seen on this rainy island since my plane landed.” Fiona’s derisive snort didn’t appear to faze Alice—she soldiered on as if she’d told a truth as unassailable as the moon being round. “I’m sure you guessed I’m not local.”

“The accent gives you away a bit.”

“Does it? Dang, I thought I was starting to fit in.” Alice forced down more beer. “I’m from Alabama, down there in the Deep South of the United States of America. From a little place called Two Brooks. Now, I want you to guess how many brooks we have in that town, Fiona.”

The din of the pub muted as Fiona became more invested in her conversation with this strange, alluring woman. She smiled. “Two?”

“Five! Five damn brooks and they’ve been there since the Lord’s first Friday so I do not know how they got the name Two Brooks, but I tell you it is what they call a misnomer.”

Fiona stifled her laughter into her palm. “And what are you doing in a London pub, Alice from Two But Actually Five Brooks?”

“Wanted to see the city a bit, sort of stumbled into this place. I’m still getting my bearings. What about you? You sound right at home, if I may be so bold to assume.”

“You assume correctly. I’m from London, actually. Well, just outside.”

“You don’t say? Well, then I must be in a pretty dang good bar if a local hits it up.”

Fiona drank in her strong beer and Alice’s appearance. A spray of cute, tangerine freckles spread across her cheeks and nose, expressive and beautiful deeply green eyes were unrelenting in their contact with Fiona’s own, and a roundness to her cheeks and jaw that gave the impression of a baby face that never hardened into adulthood. Her body, however, did not mirror this softness. Clearly defined muscle tone on any exposed part of her meant she probably could carry Fiona out the door.

However, plenty of other women milled about in the pub for Alice to carry out if she chose, and most of them were more attractive than Fiona. Why would this gorgeous woman choose her? Fiona began to suspect Jack may have told her about the divorce and she agreed to flirt with her out of pity.

“Okay, so, we will get into small talk because, Fiona, I love small talk. And big talk. But first I have to ask you a really important question. Actually, two really important questions.”

Fiona steeled herself. “Okay…”

“First question: are you seeing anyone? Second question: what is your favorite flavor of ice cream?”

If this were a setup, it would be the goofiest setup Jack ever pulled. He enjoyed negging Fiona, but never outright pranking her. “Both questions are of equal importance to you?”

Alice nodded. “Yes, ma’am. They both have the ability to break my heart.”

Fiona thought it improbable that someone who looked like Alice might find her attractive, but nothing out of Alice’s mouth so far sounded like deception. “My brother didn’t tell you if I was seeing anyone?”

Then, Alice took her turn to blush. “I didn’t give him a chance. He said hello, real nice, and I asked him right out if you two were dating and he said y’all was siblings, so I asked if he thought you’d be okay with it if I bought you a drink.”

So, Jack had not given her up. At least, if Alice told the truth. “I am not seeing anyone, and my favorite flavor of ice cream is rum and raisin.”

Alice snapped her fingers. “I knew it. See, when you walked in here, I said to myself, I said, ‘Alice, that’s a woman who likes an interesting ice cream. That’s no vanilla woman, Alice. You better go talk to her.’”

A ridiculous giggle flew out of Fiona’s mouth and she smothered it with her hand. “You bought me a drink to ask me about my favorite ice cream?”

“Why? Is that not done around here?” Alice ran her tongue along her lip to clear off a layer of foam, and Fiona could’ve shattered the beer glass in her hand restraining her attraction.

Maybe she should’ve bought a drink to coyly swirl, dainty and inviting. Instead, she chugged more beer and scoffed. “Sure, it’s done, just not done to me.”

“I’m surprised to hear that. But, listen, if you ain’t keen on company, I won’t take no offense.”

“No, no, that’s not it.” Fiona didn’t want to scare off Alice with self-deprecation, but, as a British woman, she knew little else in terms of flirting. She put her face in her hands. “I’m sorry, I’m not very good at this.”

“At what? Talking to a loudmouth American?” Alice gently pulled one of Fiona’s hands away. “You’re doing fine, far as I’m concerned.”

“Are you sure? Are you sure you don’t want to cut your losses before I bore you to death?”

“Fiona, you don’t know me yet, but I am not an easy person to bore. I’ll tell you how I know you can’t be boring, all right? ’Cause you walked in here looking glad to be here and desperate to be anywhere else. I ain’t never seen someone so ambivalent in my life. You also brought a real pretty painting into a crowded bar like the world’s worst art thief.”

“It’s my painting. I own it,” Fiona contested weakly. “She’s my favorite artist.”

Alice simply smiled. “See? All of that is interesting to me. You’re interesting to me.”

In a blink, Alice dug beneath her insecurities. Not even like digging, but sliced through as if they didn’t exist. It angered Fiona a little—a perfect stranger made her feel more worthy in ten minutes than her wife had in ten years.

Alice lifted up her shot glass. “Listen, I can take my leave and thank you for the conversation. Or, you stick around, and I tell you the other reasons I bought you a drink.” With one swift gulp, Alice took the shot. “I leave it up to you.”

For perhaps the first time in her pragmatic life, Fiona didn’t think. Fiona downed the drink.

Alice talked a lot. She aptly steered a good portion of their conversation by regaling Fiona with tales of growing up with five brothers, which sounded like a nightmare to Fiona, though Alice recalled them fondly. Alice’s radiating acceptance was a warm light, and it cracked Fiona open like a baby chick emerging from its egg. She even began to feel bold enough to share similar anecdotes about herself and Jack. Their banter centered on their personal lives, as Fiona preferred, since her job with the royal family left her at liberty to discuss very little. So, she hadn’t a clue what Alice did, but, as the night wore on, she knew what (or who) she wanted Alice to do.

Fiona didn’t engage in flings. Before Chloe, she monogamously dated fewer than a handful of women. At present, though technically still married and far from able to conduct a relationship, perhaps she could manage a one-night stand? Chloe wouldn’t think she could. Against her will, Chloe’s criticisms stampeded through her brain. You’re so predictable. Ponderous. Boring. Words Fiona accepted as truth, but they stung like burrs beneath her skin. She needed to prove her wrong. Maybe Jack had it right—a good shag would fix her.

Three beers (and two shots) in, the key to Jack’s flat burned a hole in her pocket.

“Pa’s madder than a wet hen because my brothers weren’t allowed to have girls in their rooms. So, Ham’s swearing up and down he had no girl up there, meanwhile, we hid her in my room. I’m fourteen and gayer than a double rainbow, and this girl, she’s sixteen and pretty as a picture. One thing led to another, and that’s how I got my first kiss.”

“Your brother’s girlfriend? How scandalous.” Fiona rested her chin on her hand. “My first kiss was a girl at boarding school. Dreadfully cliché. Not a very good kiss either.”

“First kiss and first good kiss are usually different, right? That first good kiss is a life-changer. You chase it for the rest of your life.” Alice’s gaze dropped to Fiona’s mouth, and Fiona ran her tongue across her lips. “The kind of kiss that starts in your lips, but then you feel it in your stomach and your toes, right up to your fingertips.”

Fiona lightly grazed the inside of Alice’s wrist. Her skin felt soft and inviting, and, though Fiona rarely touched another person uninvited, she wanted to trace the rest of Alice’s skin to compare. “I don’t think anyone’s ever kissed me like that.”

“That’s a damn shame. Reminds me of a…what’s that quote from Gone with the Wind?” Alice’s Southern drawl dripped like honey, so sweet Fiona could practically taste it. “‘You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how.’”

Fittingly, Alice looked like the hypothetical product of Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara’s propagation. The charm and dark good looks of Rhett, the softness and piercing green eyes of Scarlett, and the Southern American affability and hospitality Fiona heard existed but never experienced.

“Is that one of the reasons you bought me a drink? You never did elaborate.”

Alice smirked around her glass of beer. She set it down upon the coaster and slid her chair closer. “Fiona…can I be honest with you?”

Fiona braced for the inevitable rejection. “Yes.”

“I bought you a drink because you’re drop-dead gorgeous, and I’m not in the business of letting gorgeous women pay for their own drinks, unless they insist. I bought you another drink because I really love to listen to you talk.” Alice propped her elbow on the back of Fiona’s chair, then placed her lips next to Fiona’s ear. Her other hand warmed Fiona’s leg as she pressed her thumb into the top of Fiona’s thigh and slid the other four fingers beneath her skirt. Strong, dexterous fingers alternated between digging and caressing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. “I bought you a drink because you walked in here looking like a million bucks, and the sight of you filled my heart with sin. And don’t get me wrong, darlin’, you look amazing and to behold you is a privilege. But…since the moment you got here, I haven’t stopped thinking about how pretty the view must be from between your legs.”

Fiona’s trepidation shattered. “The flat is a fifteen-minute walk from here.”

“How fast in a taxi?”