The One In My Heart

“You think he’d have taken one look at me and dropped all his plans for California?”


“I thought it was—what do Americans call it?—a Hail Mary pass. But now I’m not sure everything wouldn’t have worked exactly as they’d hoped. The boy is clearly wild about you.”

I shrugged—and wished I didn’t know better. It would have been a compelling narrative: the near miss, the long years apart, the accidental meeting, the fierce, instant attraction—the wedding announcement in the Sunday Times supplement all but wrote itself.

“By the way, he has plans to visit Mrs. Asquith on the way back, and he asked me to join him.”

“That’s wonderful,” Zelda said immediately. “I’ll ring her to let her know you’re coming. She’s been curious about you for ages.”

We talked some more about Mrs. Asquith before we said good night to each other.

As I brushed my teeth, I picked apart Zelda’s reaction. She was happy that I’d meet Mrs. Asquith at last. Mixed in, though, was a certain strain: Was she anxious that I’d learn too much of her past from her godmother?

But as I settled into bed, my mind drifted to Zelda’s revelation about the Somersets and their possible string-pulling to get me to the ball. I couldn’t narrow it down to anything specific she’d said; nor could I put a name to exactly what I was feeling.

I only knew that as I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, something chafed in my heart—and chafed badly.





Chapter 7





MUNICH, OTHER THAN THE ABSENCE of Bennett, went off almost exactly as I’d imagined. The paper I presented was well received. After a celebratory lunch with my collaborators that lasted three hours and left me a bit tipsy on Bavaria’s famous beers, I went for a walk in the Englischer Garten—in the snow.

In fact, it snowed the entire time I was in Munich. By contrast, Naples, where I landed Friday afternoon, enjoyed a clear blue sky and bright, lovely sunshine.

My fake boyfriend waited for me at the luggage claim, in a gorgeously cut black trench coat worn open over a black suit that probably had Tom Ford’s name on it. He was leaning against a row of seats, his eyes on his phone, and something about his posture was extraordinarily sexy—the relaxed shoulders, the slight slouch, the perfectly angled lines of his legs. I’d seen professional models on thirty-foot-high billboards who couldn’t project half this much easy confidence.

Aspirational beauty, I suddenly thought. What he presented to the world was exactly the kind of magnetic stylishness luxury brands tried to associate with their products, the kind that made people anxious to wear the same clothes and sport the same watch, because they couldn’t help wanting to emulate that powerful allure.

Because the assumption was that such a powerful allure could represent only the epitome of success and happiness.

Except he was a man who couldn’t go home. Who couldn’t even tell anyone, other than his fake girlfriend, that he wanted to go home.

After our first meeting, I’d been convinced he was made of rainbow and moon dust. At the end of our second meeting I’d come away feeling upended—he had been scheming, relentless, and possibly even unscrupulous in getting what he wanted from me.

But as he looked up and smiled, my heart quivered with a strange affinity: I understood what it was like to present an image to the world—and to be so good at it that no one ever questioned that image.

He came forward, took my carry-on bag, and kissed me on the lips. “I’ve missed you.”

The desire that coursed through me was painful in its intensity. I dug through my tote for a pair of sunglasses, pretending to be unaffected. “Very convincing. Did you take acting lessons while you were out in California?”

“Sweetheart, I had a SAG card at one point.”

I looked at him. “Seriously?”

The Screen Actors Guild did not give out those cards willy-nilly.

“My ex made films.”

“What kind of films?”

He grinned. “You look suspicious, Professor. Are you worried I might have porn on my résumé?”

I pitched a brow. “Doesn’t everybody in California have porn on their résumés?”

“In SoCal, maybe. But one of my ex’s short films was nominated for an Oscar—so at least you know not everything she made was porn.”

I was astonished. For a filmmaker to receive such a nod was a huge accomplishment, even if it wasn’t for a feature film.

“Were you in that film?” If he was, then I’d easily find out her identity.

“That was after we split.”

Still, I had to restrain my urge to start Googling right away.

Outside the airport, the temperature was a good bit cooler than the brilliant sunshine would have suggested. Bennett turned up the collar of his coat. Even though I understood now that his appearance was part of a facade, I still sucked in a breath—there was something innately stylish about my boyfriend.