No way.
No fucking way.
But it is. The Hot Scot himself. Fraser MacKenzie.
The first—and only—man to break my heart.
2
JJ
I sink back against the vanity, my heart suddenly racing in my chest, every nerve in my body on fire.
It’s impossible, I tell myself desperately, trying to picture the random stranger ten years younger, and without the beard. I’m still half-asleep, I must be. Because out of all the country house hotels in all the world… The fates wouldn’t be so cruel as to send him walking into mine.
But I already know, they have.
Because that man? I’d know him anywhere. At twenty feet in a snowstorm, or in a pitch-black room. Already, I’m flooded with memories—the sound of his laugh, teasing and infectious… That dark spark of intention in his blue eyes, so tempting, it made my pulse kick… The way his smile would soften, brushing back my hair and reaching for me in the morning light…
The fucker’s etched on my damn heart.
And he’s outside this bathroom door, right now.
Fuck.
I eye the tiny window, briefly considering an ungraceful escape. But I’m too high up, and knowing my luck, I’d wind up breaking both my legs with my robe up around my head. There’s only one way out… And it’s through him.
It’s been ten years, I remind myself, peeling my body off the wall and trying to control my racing heart. A whole decade! It’s all water under the bridge—or should be, by now. And since I’d rather die than let Fraser know how much his ghosting act wrecked me, I’ll just be easy and breezy, like the memories of that semester haven’t haunted literally every attempt at a meaningful relationship since.
Simple!
I take a deep breath, open the door—and find him standing there in the hallway, all six-foot-two of him, leaning against the wall with an unreadable expression on his handsome face.
His handsome, bearded face. Since when did he grow a beard? I wonder, taking in the trimmed, sexy facial hair. And, more to the point, what the hell is he doing wearing a button-down shirt and a perfectly tailored suit?
I blink, stunned. The Fraser I knew lived in worn-out jeans and paint-stained T-shirts, with maybe a moth-eaten cashmere sweater for good measure. All this time, I’ve been imagining him irresistibly scruffy and disheveled, with charcoal under his nails and his tawny blonde hair falling - into his blue eyes.
The artist. Playful and creative, his tempting smile full of adventure.
But this Fraser? He’s the opposite. Sauvé and sophisticated, in a suit and tie, not a hair out of place—nor a smile to be seen. His jaw looks like it’s been carved from marble, and his body language is just as cold and stiff. Even if he does look undeniably hot, all buttoned-up and stern, and—
Get it together, Jolene!
“Hi!” I blurt loudly. Too loud. Fuck. “Fraser, wow, sorry about that. I wasn’t expecting to see you. Or anyone, obviously. These old locks, huh?”
Fraser dips a nod, like he hasn’t noticed I’m chirping like a chipmunk here. So much for breezy. “How have you been, Jolene?”
Well, I’m standing in front of my ex looking like a half-drowned rat, so not great!
“Great!” I force a smile. “Umm, what are you doing here?”
He’s rubbing the back of his head where—I am fairly certain—he recoiled so sharply from my naked body that he smacked into the wall.
“I’m staying here for work,” he says politely. “What are you doing here?”
I pull myself up with as much dignity as possible when you have a sloppy bun and a too-small robe. “I’m consulting for a movie,” I say—breezy!—like I do it all the time. “We’re filming nearby, maybe you’ve seen it?”
“Oh, I’ve seen it.” Fraser presses his lips together, in clear disapproval. “I’m here from the studio, to oversee the finance department.”
“Finance?” I snort with laughter at the idea of Fraser sitting at a desk, crunching numbers all day—and then I realize he’s not smiling. He’s 100% serious. “Oh. Wow,” I mutter quietly. “Congratulations, I guess?”
“For what?” Fraser replies coolly. “The budget on this project is a mess. The director has no sense of economy, and as for the historical period expenses… I’m guessing I have you to thank for those extravagances.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply faintly, my head spinning.
Did I just step through a portal into opposite-world? Or run into Fraser’s identical twin? The man I knew would never go corporate, or flash a designer watch on his wrist, like this guy is wearing. I blink again, but this not-Fraser doesn’t disappear, he just stands there, tall and broad-shouldered, and glowering at me like I’m personally to blame for every inconvenience in his life.
I was right, ten years is a long time. Everything can change. Everything about him.
Disappointment stings, and I don’t have time to figure out why. I just paste on a big smile again. “Well, in that case, I’m so glad I could break the ice by being straight-up naked! We can only go up from here, right? So, see you around, I guess.”
I grab my towel and dart past him before he can get in another word, wrenching my hotel room door open and then hurling myself inside. I slam it shut behind me, and put the chain on too, since apparently, these locks aren’t worth a dime.
How in the world…?
The ghost of relationships past—who ghosted me—just showed up in a bathroom like a freaking… ghost.
I sink down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor. I can’t help it. Fraser’s presence fills my mind, and just like that, the memories I’ve been holding back flood in.
TEN YEARS AGO…
It was my first weekend in London, and I was already having the time of my life. Nineteen, and away from home for the first time, studying in old libraries packed with classic literature, the whole city at my fingertips—and surrounded by a bunch of rowdy students looking for a good time.
And we found it, at the pub down the street from the student housing halls. They were hosting a fancy dress party, and I managed to pull together a Jane Austen-inspired look from borrowed pieces in the dorms: a floor-length linen nightgown, layered with a chemise and almost authentic looking bonnet. Of course, when I showed up to find every other woman in a sexy cat/nurse/nun outfit, it felt like the effort was wasted, but after a couple of pints of ale, I didn’t even care. The pub windows were fogged from the heat inside against the frigid January weather, the cheesy music was blasting, and I felt giddy with freedom and possibility by the time I get to the bar for another round.
“What would you recommend?” I ask the brassy barmaid, who’s not only wearing leopard print, but massive hoop earrings too, like she’s stepped out of those BBC soaps my grandma used to watch. “I’ve tried the English ale,” I add, “and a Welsh beer, too.”
“You want to complete the set with an Irish red beer?” she asks. “Or, if you want something harder, like a Scotch?”
“I’ve actually never tried a Scotch,” I admit, and the barmaid grins at someone next to me.