I couldn’t stop thinking about it. My back against that brick wall. My legs wrapped around Dylan’s waist. The cold night air skating across my bare sex moments before he plunged into me. I felt that rush of electricity across my skin at the memory. The previous night was hotter than engaged sex had any right to be.

“Lydia? Helloooooo? Lydia?” Emily’s voice snapped me back to attention.

I’d taken the morning off, and Dylan’s sister and I had met up for coffee and a quick mani-pedi at her insistence. She’d said my nails looked like I’d been in a fight with a cheetah and a gorilla. I didn’t even know what that meant, but I knew it wasn’t good. Also, I knew the real motivation was so she could hound me about wedding planning. My nails were now painted something called Fire in Fiji and we were, predictably, standing outside Vera Wang on Brook Street. Emily had known about our engagement since January, and she was certifiably obsessed.

“Are you ever going to look at wedding gowns?” she sighed, glancing longingly from the gown in the window back to me with an irritated look of defeat. I could practically feel her thinking up outlandish yet tasteful centerpieces and creating a “concept” for the whole affair. She was like a dog with a bone, only we’d demanded she keep the bone a secret.

Emily was one of those women who would have you believe she was a brainless socialite with her big sunglasses, shiny dyed-to-perfection locks, and of-the-moment handbags, but the truth was she was sharp as a tack. If I let her, she’d probably have our wedding planned according to the highest standards within days, and all with an efficiency that would boggle my mind. She was amazing. She was also the only person in London we’d actually told we were engaged. Or she was supposed to be. The day we told her, we also ended up telling Dylan’s best friend, Will.

I’d told Dylan that even though the engagement would be a secret, we had to tell Emily. She would somehow be able to smell it on us whether we told her or not—she was like a bloodhound that way—and wouldn’t he rather it come from us than she figure it out? Plus I knew we might need an ally if we expected to keep it an actual secret for any period of time. So we’d taken a Saturday and visited her at Cambridge, where she was getting her degree in art history. Sometimes I forgot Emily was only twenty-two and still in college. She always seemed much older than that.

We’d driven up mid-morning—Dylan had wanted to show me around, do the whole memory-lane thing from his “uni days.” He’d recounted stories steadily from the moment we left London straight through till we arrived at the town center. Stories about him and Will and their band of mischievous aristocratic friends. When the two of them got together and began reminiscing, it was as though a film reel of all their memories was playing live before their eyes. So maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised when we’d stopped for a drink before our dinner with Emily and the man himself, Will, walked through the door. Apparently he’d been up for the weekend too, giving a talk about entrepreneurship to a group of young students—he’d become something of a local celebrity since the restaurant he ran and co-owned with Dylan had been given its first Michelin star.

So what we’d planned to be a quiet dinner in which we told Dylan’s only sibling became something more boisterous, more joyous, closer to a mini engagement party than a close-knit family conversation.

“It’s just as well you’re both here,” Dylan had started, and Will and Emily exchanged confused looks. “Lydia and I want to talk to you about something.” Dylan gripped my hand under the table.

“Dylan—” Emily had started, reaching for her wine, but Dylan raised his hand to stop her from speaking. I knew this look—he’d gotten a similar look of determination on his face when he’d proposed, like he had started and he couldn’t brook interruption or the whole thing might fall apart. He squeezed my hand under the table once again, but instead of holding it and stroking my thumb there, hidden under the table as he normally would, he raised our entwined fingers and placed them on the table between our glasses.

“First, you must swear to me. Swear on all that is holy. Swear on your goddamn shoe collection. No, no.” Dylan interrupted himself and got a look of total mischief on his face, the kind of delighted cunning you only see between siblings. “Swear on Miss Midgy—” Emily gasped and looked horrified all of a sudden.

“Miss Midgy?” I asked, looking between them.

“Swear on Miss Midgy that you won’t tell a soul what I’m about to tell you.” Emily was turning bright red, and Will started to giggle. And that giggle turned into full thigh-slapping laughter.

“Miss Midgy?” Will asked, barely getting the words out, following my lead in chuckling that was quickly turning into full-on hysteria.

Emily patted her reddening cheeks and spoke through gritted teeth. “Well, Lydia and Will, I do hope you’ve enjoyed being acquainted with my darling brother, because I am now about to throttle him, and it’s doubtful he’ll make it out alive.” Emily sighed, her fury brimming over the edges.

“Miss Midgy is Emily’s stuffed kangaroo,” Dylan explained formally, as though giving a recitation about a rare mammal species and trying to contain his gloating but failing miserably. “Apparently, the delightful Miss Midge actually came to life while we were at school and was a top-notch barrister in the animal world. And, if I’m not mistaken, I spotted her on Emily’s couch the last time I was at her flat. Isn’t that right, Em? Still sleeping with her as well?”

Emily’s face was in her hands, and her words were muffled as she said, “That is between me and Midge.” Then after a moment, when I swear steam was coming from her ears, she silently flung her balled-up napkin across the table at Dylan. “Fine, you petulant tosser. I won’t breathe a word. Some of us can keep important secrets.”

Dylan chuckled, but quickly resumed the task at hand. “And you,” he said, looking at Will, “you—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. No. Whatever bollocks you’re going to blackmail me with, just don’t. I swear on my career as a chef, on the entire bloody restaurant, I won’t breathe a word.” He was giving Dylan a look of death. Dylan must have some amazing dirt on Will—I was going to have to get it out of him later.

Dylan’s shoulders relaxed just a hint, and he looked at me. He smiled—not so much that anyone would notice but me, but I saw it, how the pride and excitement caught in the corners of his mouth as his eyes met mine. “Lydia and I are engaged to be married.”

I was looking back at Dylan so contentedly, taking him in, that it took a minute for me to process the shrieking happening on the other side of the table. I looked up to see Emily clapping her hands. Then she reached across the table for my left hand, pulling me halfway across the table as she searched for a ring.

“Ah, so you’re up the duff then, are you?” Will clasped his hands, rubbed them together and leaned back in his chair, looking entirely too pleased. And Emily gasped, looking intensely from Dylan to me and back to Dylan as though we were a tennis match.

“Up the duff?” I asked, looking at Dylan.

“Calm down,” he said sternly to Emily, freeing my hand from his sister’s grasp. “First, William, no. Lydia is not pregnant. And, Emily, do you think if we want this to be a secret, she’d be wearing a ring?”

Oh lordy. It was clear that was going to be what everyone thought when they found out we were engaged after dating for only a few months. One more reason to wait as long as possible to spill the beans. Not that being pregnant would be a bad reason to get engaged, but I had a feeling that would be a tad more scandalous in Dylan’s world than it was in mine. As if we wouldn’t have enough media attention to deal with once the announcement was made.

“Oh, you’re no fun. Fine. Which ring are you giving her?” Emily asked, calming a bit and sulking a little at the realization that we weren’t embarking on an extravaganza quite yet, but she was now leaning over the table, her chin in her palm, with rapt attention.

“Yeah, Dylan, which ring are you going to give me?” I said, smirking, and grasping his hand just a little tighter.

He chuckled and squeezed my hand gently in return. “Cheeky girl,” he whispered in my ear as he moved in to kiss my cheek.

“You don’t think I’m going to tell her, do you?” he said, still smiling, directing his question to Emily. “You’re a girl—you should know how these things work. Isn’t it meant to be a surprise?”

Emily raised her eyebrow at her brother, and Will laughed at Emily’s defiance and ran his hands through his hair—clearly enjoying the sibling dynamic as much as I was. “Have you ever done anything as it’s meant to be done, Dylan?” his sister asked him skeptically. “For all I know, you intend to abandon the ring altogether and give her a Thoroughbred or a house in the Maldives.”

“Oh, now there’s an idea,” I said, enjoying feeding into this frenzy. “I mean no to a Thoroughbred, yes to the Maldives.”

Dylan looked slightly frustrated with our shenanigans, but Emily resumed before he could get a word in. “I mean I’ve always been able to count on you to not do it as it’s meant to be done. Don’t disappoint me now.”

I laughed out loud and Dylan gave me a look that said not you too.

“Oh, trust me, when the time is right, there will be a ring, you pain in the arse.”

“All right, all right, my turn,” said Will, who was rising from his chair. He rounded the table and slapped Dylan on the back. “Finally, mate, you’re finally making something of yourself. You’ve been such a disappointment in the love department,” he said jokingly.

“Oh, really?” said Dylan, looking up to his best friend. “Well, maybe it’s time you start reining in whatever it is you have going on—”

But Will cut him off. “Now, now, bridegroom, don’t go casting stones. There’s more important business to attend to,” he said, halting Dylan and moving in my direction. At this point, assuming there were no serious skeletons in Dylan’s closet, I realized I no longer cared about his colorful sexual past. I just knew, under my skin, with total certainty, that I was different to him than any other girl had ever been. This realization was floating through me when I found myself being lifted into the most joyous encompassing hug in Will’s arms. He was literally shaking me. I couldn’t help but laugh and hug him back.

As he put me down, he said quietly, so I was pretty sure only I could hear, “Smartest decision that dolt has ever made. Welcome to the family, you wee yank.” I smiled big and hugged him back again—it felt like after years of being mostly alone, my family was expanding rapidly, and it was incredible. Will was the steady force of true friendship in Dylan’s life. They’d opened a business together, and anyone who knew Dylan knew he wasn’t good at sharing control, so that spoke volumes of the trust between them. And Will was the one guy I’d seen who’d ever made Dylan truly laugh. When Dylan had been ready to go public with our relationship the first time around, to announce to the world he had a girlfriend for the first time in nearly a decade, Will was the first person he’d introduced me to. And now, the guy was holding me tightly in a firm hug, one that said more than words could about how happy he was for us.

“Thank you,” I whispered back.

When Emily was done sulking that she had to keep things quiet, she fully embraced this new reality. I showed her my non-engagement engagement ring and told them the PG parts of Dylan’s proposal. And Dylan and Emily exchanged some sibling look that I’d probably never understand, but looked to me like the end of a conversation they’d been having, like Emily wholeheartedly approved of our decision to get married.

So, while telling Emily had been planned, telling Will was a surprise. But now, after those drinks and the boisterous dinner that followed, I was glad they both knew. If for no other reason than it meant that in those rare moments when we didn’t want it to be a secret, we had friends we could talk about it with. But sometimes, like that moment standing in front of Vera Wang, it could also be downright annoying.

“I’ll look at gowns when I’m ready,” I finally replied to Emily, hands on my hips.

“Well I’m ready,” she said, “and have been for years—”

“It’s only been five months!”

But Emily waved her hand in dismissal. “If you dare even think about trying on gowns without me, I will disown you as a sister-in-law,” she said, on the verge of shouting indignantly at me.

I grabbed her hand and dragged her past the store as I looked around for paparazzi. “Emily!” I whisper-shouted. “You can’t say that in public!”

She huffed, “Oh, please. No one heard me. Although, I am half hoping someone does. Then we could get the show on the road, as you lot say.”

I raised my eyebrow at her. “You are shameless, you know that?”

“I do,” she said, smiling, and I threw my hands up in the air as we walked towards the coffee shop on the corner.

“Besides,” I said, smirking, “having it be a secret is so much fun, I’m not sure I’ll ever want to plan the wedding.” I knew I was blushing, but I didn’t care.

“Ew. Stop being vile. I don’t want to hear about it.”

“I didn’t say anything!” I protested.

“You did. You think I don’t know that look, Miss Lydia Bell? You shall not ever allude to my brother’s…my brother’s…well, I can’t even say it.”

“Fine,” I huffed out between chuckles, “but then no more wedding talk.”

“You,” she started firmly—you could really imagine Emily commanding a room someday, she was so no nonsense sometimes—“are evil. And I’m questioning this entire enterprise,” she said. “Now. Let’s get some coffee, shall we? And for lord’s sake, let’s change the subject. How’s the store going?” she asked as we walked into the cafe.

She was referring to the store I helped open for Hannah Rogan, an up-and-coming fashion designer. It was her first brick-and-mortar store, a flagship in Mayfair, and it was my idea. In what felt like a crazy how-am-I-so-lucky-to-get-my-dream-job kind of moment, we’d gotten the investors on board and gone to work. We’d rushed the launch—something that was only possible with the help of Dylan’s contacts in the design world—in order to open before Christmas, which meant we were past the “new store” phase, settling into being part of the couture London shopping scene, and I was finally getting over the feeling of not believing it was really happening.

“Well,” I said. “I mean, I think it’s going well. We’re moving merchandise, and the press has been decent—”

“Decent?” Emily asked skeptically, eyebrow fully raised. “I’d say a full-page full-on crush piece in the Sunday Times is a bit more than ‘decent.’” Emily had been incredibly supportive, bringing in her posh posse of school friends and talking up the store. And as one of London’s “It Girls,” her opinion mattered. “Also the fact that she is sending you to New York to open a pop-up store is a solid indicator that Hannah thinks you’re doing well. When is that happening again?”

“First week of May—wow, next week actually.” Hannah and I had been planning the pop-up store for months. I’d be gone for a month, preparing the store, launching it, and breaking it down. The goal was to showcase her spring line as well as some resort wear for summer. It’d been my idea—part of my big “say yes to everything, go after things I want, enjoy pre-duchess life” plan. “I can’t believe it’s coming up so soon—we’ve already shipped the merchandise. Your brother would obviously prefer I not go, or I’m certain he’d come with me if he weren’t so busy. He’s convinced I’ll get mugged or lost or who knows what, As though I didn’t manage to live my life perfectly safely before he came around.”

“What? My brother is being overprotective? Impossible!” We both laughed—if anyone knew Dylan’s protective side as well as I did, it would be his little sister. “I will say you’ve made him far more reasonable. At least he has the good sense to say, ‘I know you won’t listen to me,’ before he tells me not to take the Tube at night or tries to interfere in my dating life. Thank you for that.”

“Yeah, poor guy. He knows I’ll give him the death glare if he goes too far. I’m half tempted to walk around bad neighborhoods at three in the morning just to drive him crazy.” Emily looked at me mischievously as though she wished I really would—she had the terrorizing look of one sibling out to torture another, which always made me laugh. “Anyway, I’m hoping that announcing the New York pop-up might even drum up business here.”

“You know what would ensure a steady stream of customers for the foreseeable future, don’t you?” she asked, and I prepared to take mental notes. “For the director of sales to be involved in a stylish and fabulous wedding-of-the-century to her famous boyfriend,” she finished, smiling in victory.

I couldn’t help smile through my sigh. “You never give up, do you?”

“Never,” she replied, and we leaned on the counter in the window of the cafe, chatting. And she was right. I knew much of the press attention we’d gotten so far, any puff pieces about the launch, had something to do with the fact that I was linked with the Dylan Hale, the preternaturally gifted architect, the rock-my-world-attractive 17th Duke of Abingdon, and irresistible former bad boy.