The UK isn’t a culture shock. But it’s…different. We board the train, and I ask the nice looking elderly conductor if we’re on the route headed to London—mostly to sneak a jab at Casper while I have the chance. He says, “Hope so. Or else you’re in shit.”

Casper rumbles with laughter. He sees my confused expression, then laughs harder. “Welcome to England, baby girl. The home of dry humor and sarcasm.”

His laughter is mesmerizing, changing his gruff voice into something lyrical and infectious. And—my gosh. He does have dimples. I can’t help but dazedly smile back. It’s not just me either. Everywhere we go women stare at him, as if he’s a magnet for lingering gazes. His draw becomes even more powerful when he turns on the charm.

Good thing he won’t be around much longer. I could see myself doing something stupid, like falling for him. Or at the very least, falling into bed with him. Neither are good ideas.

We pass through a blur of lush countryside, and every now and then, quaint towns with narrow houses and buildings. The gray sky, full of fog and clouds, blankets the misty horizon. It’s so opposite from Florida; I can’t get enough of it. Colors here have strong contrast against the monotone backdrop. Sort of like a yellow canary flying through a rainstorm. Or a full, glowing moon in a black sky. You can’t help but notice the beauty wherever your eyes land.

Gran and I never traveled. I asked her once if we could go to the mountains to see snow, and she refused. “It’s cold. Wet. Dreadful. You wouldn’t like it,” she said, her tone telling me not to ask again. Our life in Tampa was its own box. A beautiful, sunny box, but still a box. Getting out sort of feels like breaking free.

Half an hour later, we arrive in London. Casper hails a taxi to drive us to our hotel, which is another fifteen-minute trip in the thick of traffic. My stomach growls while we’re waiting at the front desk to check-in. Casper notices. “There’s a pub across the street. Want to grab some dinner?”

The receptionist overhears us and offers to send the bellhop up with our bags. He slides two separate key cards to our adjoining rooms across the counter.

Rain drizzles the moment we step back outside. It’s not the loud lightning-packed thunderstorms I’m used to either. This kind is quiet but heavy. Pouring down in fat droplets, filling the streets and sidewalks with puddles. Casper lifts his jacket, holding it over my head to keep me dry.

“You don’t have to do that. I won’t melt.”

He ignores me, continuing to shield me while he gets soaked. There’s something about this moment that’s full of old-school charm. I catch myself wearing a stupid grin, then press my lips together to keep Casper from noticing.

By the time we reach the pub, my bones are frozen. Thankfully it’s warm and crowded inside. We’re instructed to order at the bar, then find a seat.

“After the day we’ve had, we deserve a few beers,” Casper says, pushing his way to the front while I keep close behind him.

“None for me. I don’t drink.”

He glances at me over his shoulder. “Why not?”

“It makes me…not myself.”

“You mean you lose your inhibitions? In that case, we’re ordering a whole pitcher.” He also orders us two cheeseburgers. The bartender gives him the beer right away, along with two frosty mugs.

Oh, what the hell.

It has been a long day.

We sit at a booth, and I pour myself a mugful. “That’s the spirit.” Casper holds his up, in toast. “Cheers.”

I gulp the beer down, licking my lips. Whatever this is, it’s more potent than any beer I’ve had back home. Not that I’ve had many. I really don’t usually drink.

“We should go see the sights tomorrow,” Casper says. “Buckingham palace. The Tower of London. Westminster Abbey. There’s lots you should see before leaving.”

“The National Gallery?” I add, hopeful.

He’s being so nice. Why? He said he was ready to be done with this job—done with me. Now he wants to take me sightseeing?

He’s stalling. Trying to change my mind about staying, but it won’t work.

“You have a thing for art, huh?” He takes a swig of his beer.

“Yes.”

“Why’d you go to school to become an accountant?”

His question feels like an invasion of privacy, making me shift in my seat. “You don’t have to be an artist to admire art. Besides, accounting is practical.”

His green eyes probe mine.

He’s judging me. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, come on.” There’s a thought behind that subtle look. “Just say it, Mr. I Dropped Out of Law School Because It Wasn’t Fun. You think my business degree is boring.”

He grins, and it makes him so frustratingly handsome. “That’s not what I was thinking—and I didn’t drop out. I didn’t take the bar exam.”

“Semantics. Then what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking our world isn’t always practical. Sometimes it’s random, illogical, and beautiful. And sometimes it makes you look for deeper meaning, like art. There’s room for both.”

I open my mouth to say something, then realize I’m at a loss. For years, Gran beat it into my head that a clear, defined path was always the best one. Studying art didn’t offer that, which made it a waste of time.

“I don’t have much talent anyway,” I say quietly, hoping to change the subject.

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

A waitress brings our burgers, sets them on the table, then disappears back into the kitchen. A depressing aura lingers in the air as we’re eating. It screams at me. COWARD!

Meeting my siblings would have meant everything, but I can’t risk their lives just to satisfy my curiosity. That doesn’t seem fair.

What’s even more frightening is what happens next. There’s still someone out there who wants me dead. Do I go to the police? Should I disappear? Change my name—again?

It all scares the everlasting crap out of me.

Casper notices the way I’m frowning. “The burger isn’t great, huh? American burgers slay these all day.”

“Agreed.”

“So what’s the real reason you look all pensive and frowny?”

Just how well does he know me?

“I’m wondering what to do next.”

“Hey, none of that. Save the heavy stuff for later.”

“It’s hard not to. I keep wondering if I’ll ever go back home, if I’ll ever see my friends again. Since Gran died, it feels like my life is falling apart.”

“You’ll get it worked out.” He stuffs a crinkle-cut French fry in his mouth, then washes it down with more beer. “Do you regret breaking up with your douchey boyfriend?”

“Huh?” What made him think of that? “Not even a little. Besides, there wasn’t much there to regret.”

“What do you mean?”

“We just weren’t…never mind.”

I lower my gaze. Not going there.

“You’re not saying something.”

Jesus. This guy has been watching me too long; his perception is annoyingly accurate.

“How long were you two together?”

“Eight months.”

“Seems like a decent amount of time to not have much to regret.”

I shrug. In that eight months, there were always major events taking the forefront of our lives. Gran’s funeral. Graduation. Ethan’s job. Our relationship never really had a chance to take flight. I think we both thought it would when the time was right, but now I see how wrong it was from the start. He just wasn’t the guy for me.

Casper pushes me with the weight of his stare. “You’re really not going to elaborate?”

“If you must know, we never had sex. We never took it to that level.”

Casper nearly spits out his beer.

I’m just as shocked at myself for admitting something so personal. I don’t usually do this. I narrow my eyes on the beer, blaming it for my slip.

“You’re telling me you never had sex after eight months?”

“It just never happened, okay? Why am I telling you this? You don’t need to know this.”

He furiously nods. “Yes, yes I do. I absolutely must know or else it will drive me fucking crazy with curiosity. Are you a…you know…are you a—”

“Virgin?” I supply the word he’s having trouble saying. “No, but I may as well be.”

This conversation needs to come to an end. But he waits patiently for me to keep going. By the look on his face, he’s not ready to bury it.

“My high school boyfriend and I had sex. Once. Apparently that was all he wanted because he dumped me a few days later. I remember crying in my best friend’s lap for hours. Hurt me pretty bad.” I stare into the amber liquid inside my mug. Hello, beer…or should I say, truth poison?

“Fucking asshole. You want me to punch him, too?”

I smile. “She slapped him—my best friend, Madelyn. After seeing me cry like that she walked up to him the next day at school and slapped him across the face. There was a red handprint on his cheek and everything.”

“Ballsy. She sounds like a good friend.”

I still remember the way the entire hall became silent as Madelyn approached Noah, the sound of her flats clicking at an ominous rate along the linoleum floor. She was all of five foot three, an itty-bitty thing in comparison to his six foot two. She didn’t let that intimidate her though. She simply pulled her arm back and swung at him as hard as she could. To Noah’s credit, he took it without saying a word. And none of the other students present that day snitched to the admins, either. They knew what he’d done. We’d been together a whole year. Within a week of us breaking up, he started dating Abby White. Pictures of their relationship were plastered all over social media. I couldn’t go online without being reminded of how quickly he moved on.

I take another giant gulp of my beer, wiping the foam from my mouth with the back of my hand. “After Noah, I got weird about sex. I swore I’d never let a guy use me the way he did. Probably another reason I never fully hooked-up with Ethan. Dating Noah gave me the ability to sniff out debauchery.”

Casper chuckles. “Sniff it out, huh? Or do you think the guy just got tired of waiting?”

“That’s another possibility,” I admit.

He shakes his head. “That was a joke. If the guy knew he couldn’t handle waiting, he damn well shouldn’t have been with you to begin with. There’s no excuse for cheating.”

“But just like you said, eight months is a long time.”

“As far as I’m concerned, any guy should be happy to wait lifetimes for you. You hear me? Happy as a fucking clam. If they aren’t, you send them my way.”

A blush works its way to my cheeks. “Thanks for saying that, Casper.”

“Anytime. Ready to get out of here?”

“Yes, please. How does tipping work in this country?” I look around, wondering about the correct protocol.

A young twenty-something guy at the table next to ours overhears my question and laughs. “Wait—don’t tell me. Americans?”

I nod. “Yes, why?”

His lips curl into a sly smile, and he pats the surface of our table. “You just leave your tip money right there. We’ll take care of it for you. Fifty percent is the standard rate.”

Casper and I share an amused look. Well, that answers that.

* * *

“Hey, Mila? You see that light? The one lit up on that post that says walk?”

Knowing where he’s going with this, I roll my eyes. Here it comes.

“It means we can walk across the street—”

“Shut up, Casper.”

“Without fearing for our lives.”

As we’re crossing, I swing my purse at him but miss. The beer has made me lightheaded and warm. I don’t even mind that Casper is making fun of me. “You know why I stopped in the street.”

“I still think you’re crazy for doing it.”

“Someone had been stalking me twenty-four seven,” I kindly remind him. Then, sheepishly, “I didn’t mean to freeze up like that though.”

We reach the other side of the street. A black cat slinks out of the alley ahead, creeping in front of our path.

“Let’s change directions.”

I press my palm against Casper’s chest, stopping him.

He levels me with an incredulous look. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“I don’t need any more bad luck, thank you very much.”

“You, Miss Practical, are superstitious?”

“There are some things in life you just don’t mess with. Never let a black cat cross your path. They teach you that from childhood.”

He shakes his head, a grin pulling at his lips. “You’re an oxymoron, you know that, Amelia Serra? Or maybe you’re just a total wackadoo.”

“It’s De Palma—and you’re an ass.” I swing my purse again. It hits him in the arm this time. He catches the strap, jerking me forward. I collide into Casper’s arms in an attempt to not fall on my face, my whole body smacking into his.

“Sorry,” he laughs, then suddenly stops.

My hands are gripping each of his biceps, and my breasts are pressed against his chest. His face is a breath away from mine. Neither of us move away.

Up this close, he’s hypnotizing. I feel like one of those dancing cobras, falling for the flute’s melody. Casper stares at me with just as much heat. I’m not sure who is the flute in this scenario; he looks just as entranced.

Those eyes.

So very, very green. Like a granny smith apple at the center, darkening into a lime peel at the edges.

I drop to his lips, the only sensual part of a face full of hard lines and angles. The tiny white scar on his jaw ticks. For a second, I think he’s going to lean in.

But he coughs instead.

Then he sets me far, far away from him. “We should get back. It’s getting late.”

He turns his back on me, walking off in the direction of the hotel.

A giant anvil of disappointment flattens me.