“You hear that, Fraser? This lass needs your help. I’ll let him take it from here,” She gives me a wink, and moves off to serve someone else.
I turn, confused, and find myself staring into a pair of heart stopping gorgeous blue eyes.
Well, actually, I find myself staring directly at his chest, but when I crane my neck up a few inches, I clock the eyes. And the jawline. And the tawny, rumpled hair.
Wow.
“Elsie’s just teasing,” the handsome stranger explains—in a sexy Scottish accent. “Scotch. Scots.”
“Oh!” I blurt with a laugh, wishing I’d gone for some ‘sexy-insert profession here’ costume after all. That is, until I realize that he’s in an outlandish historical costume, too. A nineteenth-century outfit, with frock coat, cravat, and top hat. “Dickens?” I exclaim in delight, and he gives a bashful grin.
“Almost. William Morris,” he explains, opening his jacket to show me the waistcoat he’s wearing, printed with the classic motif of birds and trees. “I don’t think either of us got the memo tonight,” he adds, as a guy in a soccer shirt stumbles past, his arm around a girl in a skintight catsuit.
“Or, we’re the only ones dressed right, and everyone else fails at fancy dress,” I declare, and he smiles wider.
“I like your version better. So, that Scotch… Did you want to try some?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
Yes, please.
My heart is already beating faster, that delicious shiver of anticipation in my veins. “Only if you drink with me. And promise not to laugh if I can’t take it,” I add with a bold grin. He chuckles, and easily reaches over the bar to grab a bottle and two glasses.
“You’re a regular, then?” I ask, as he pours a measure for us both.
He nods. “I work a shift here, from time to time. Me and Elsie go way back, to my first year, pulling late nights.”
“You’re a student, too?”
“Art school,” he replies. “St. Martins College. Printmaking, with a side of painting, too. I’m Fraser MacKenzie,” he adds, raising his glass.
“JJ,” I reply, lifting mine to clink his in a toast. “Jolene Jameson.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Jolene.”
And even though I’m not wild about my full name—having drunken frat bros break into Dolly Parton will do that to a girl—the sound of it rolling off his tongue in that sexy Scottish burr…
Well, let’s just say the scotch isn’t the only thing that makes me warm from the inside out.
Then I cough, smarting at the strength of the booze. Fraser chuckles. “Easy there,” he says, amused. “This is the good stuff. You need to sip, not chug.”
I recover, blushing. “It’s good,” I venture, after a more cautious sip. “Kind of earthy.”
“That’s just the five-year version,” he says with a smile. “Wait until you taste one that’s been barrel-aged for twenty, or thirty years, even. We like to say you can taste Scotland in every sip.”
“Are you secretly working for the tourist board?” I ask, teasing, and he laughs.
“No. Just a little homesick, I suppose. London’s a long way from Inverness.”
“And even further from Cape Cod,” I agree, the scotch warming my blood—or maybe that’s just his smile. “But I like it. Being away from home, in a new city like this… You get to decide who you really are. Not just who your family, or school, or everyone else assumes you are, but the person you really feel like, deep down.”
“And who are you, Jolene Jameson?” Fraser asks, his eyes fixed on mine.
“I don’t know. That’s the fun part,” I add. “I guess I’m still figuring it out.”
“There you are!” We’re interrupted by his friends, a pack of boisterous guys ready to move the party elsewhere. I bring my roommates along, and soon, we’re on an epic pub crawl of Bloomsbury, trading jokes and drinks along the historic cobbled streets, until my head is spinning—from the alcohol, and the feel of Fraser’s hand resting casually on the small of my back.
As the hours wear on, more of our classmates peel off, calling it a night or pairing off to hook up, until we find ourselves alone on an old cobblestone street near the river.
“Looks like it’s just you and me.” Fraser says, pausing in the glow of a streetlight.
The words shimmer there between us, and I swear, I’ve never wanted anything so much.
So I kiss him. Right there in the street at two a.m., leaning up on my tiptoes and bracing myself against his broad chest. His mouth is hot and sweet, and feels so right, it’s like I’ve crossed a whole ocean just to come home to him—
A knock at the door jolts me back to reality—ten years later, and a whole hell of a lot wiser.
I struggle to my feet, feeling the past slip away from me all over again. That night with Fraser is ancient history now—and so is the rest of our ill-fated love affair.
So much for coming home. I left England after that semester with Fraser’s fervent ‘I love you’ ringing in my ears, and plans for us to stay together, no matter what. He’d fly out to Cape Cod for the summer; I’d start looking for graduate programs back in London. We’d make it work; our hearts wouldn’t have it any other way.
He returned my calls for all of five days, before cutting off all communication and never speaking to me again.
Brutal, right? I couldn’t even call it a bad breakup, since technically, he didn’t even bother to break up with me. I sent epic emails into the ether, begging him to at least talk to me, until it became clear that I wouldn’t get a response. So I did what any scorned woman would do in my situation: I wept, raged, and then embarked on a hot girl summer to try and get over him, posting wild parties and beaming selfies all over my social media so that if he ever looked twice, he’d see just how un-broken my heart really was.
Who knows if it worked? The bastard didn’t even have so much as an Instagram page that I could secretly stalk.
The knock comes again. My first thought is that it’s Fraser. He’s here to apologize from the depths of his very soul. He’s here to explain. He got hit in the head and experienced memory loss! He lost his phone and access to his email address! Someone threatened his life if he continued to be in contact with me!
“JJ? Hello?” a woman’s voice calls. “It’s Anna. I’m here to take you to rehearsal. Are you ready? Or, you know, awake?”
“Yes!” I blurt, calling back through the door. “Just give me one minute!”
Time to face the awkward music. I tear through my suitcase, searching for an outfit that says: “Remember that time you made me fall in love with you and then ditched me? That’s right, pal—mistake of a lifetime.”
There’s got to be something, right?
3
JJ
Back at the country house location, Reeve is running a rehearsal in one of the stunning drawing rooms. I slink in and take a seat next to some of the crew, as the actors run through one of the scenes, pausing occasionally for questions and comments. It’s one of the scenes with Lizzy staying at Netherfield while her sister, Jane, is sick. Lizzy is chatting in the drawing room with Bingley and his sisters—and Darcy. I’ve already been through the scene a dozen times with Reeve while he was writing it, and so it’s a relief to put all thoughts of Fraser and my romantic entanglements aside, and to focus on the drama in front of me.