Chapter3

“Vanessa wants to apologize,” Ethan said. “The least you can do is listen.”

The door closed behind us. He dragged out a chair without letting go of my arm. My heel snagged on its leg, and my ankle twisted as he pushed me down into the seat.

Pain flared up my leg.

I gasped.

Ethan released me at once.

“Claire?” He half knelt, hands reaching. “Let me look.”

“Ow—Ethan!”

On the other side of the table, Vanessa's hand had caught the teapot. Hot tea splashed across her fingers and onto the tablecloth.

“That's hot. God, that really hurts.”

He turned toward her without thinking.

She had her hand out to him before he could turn back.

My phone vibrated.

Margaret.

Quick check before we book it: you're good to fly tonight?

Across the table, Ethan was wrapping a cold napkin around Vanessa's fingers while she leaned into him, describing exactly where it stung.

Yes, I typed. I'm ready.

Seconds later, the confirmation came through. Departing a little after midnight. One layover, then Edinburgh.

I saved it.

Ethan waved a server over to look after Vanessa, then came back to me.

“Let me see the ankle.”

“I'm fine.”

“You can hardly stand on it.” He knelt by the chair, focused. “Can you move it?”

I rotated it slowly. It hurt, but I could manage.

He asked the server for ice, folded it into a clean napkin, and pressed it to the swelling.

For a second, his thumb skimmed along my shin, as gentle as it had always been whenever I got hurt.

Then he glanced over at Vanessa.

“I know it's your birthday, Nessa, but tonight was supposed to be Claire's. She's wanted to come here for weeks.”

So that explained the cake.

He looked back at me.

“I ordered the lamb, medium, no mint sauce. Crème brûlée for dessert, because it's your favorite. And I asked them for ranunculus.” He tipped his head toward the flowers by the window. “I remembered. Every bit of it.”

“I know you did.”

“Then stop looking at me that way.”

“Knowing what I like doesn't change what I told you.” I slid my leg out of his reach. “We're done. Please give me my locket.”

Vanessa padded across the room barefoot, the cold napkin already tossed aside.

“He's making an effort, Claire. Most women would kill to have a man do half this much.”

She laid a hand on his shoulder.

At her collarbone, a silver chain I knew caught the light.

I froze.

Inside the locket, under a small oval of glass, was a hand-painted miniature of my mother. She'd worn it nearly every day of her life. After she died, my grandmother kept it for me until I was old enough to look after it.

The clasp was new.

I'd come here to take it home.

And Vanessa had it on.

“Take it off,” I said.

She fingered the locket, then looked at Ethan.

“This? Oh—it's yours? Ethan gave it to me.” Her eyes went wide, all fake embarrassment. “Ethan, you really should have told me.”

He stood up slowly.

“I let her try it on. Don't twist it, Nessa.”

“Then she can take it off.” I held out my hand.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Ethan's eyes went from my open palm to my face.

“Claire. Tell me you didn't mean it.”

“Give me the locket.”

“Tell me we're not breaking up, and it's yours.”

I stared at him.

He was waiting for me to fold, as if this were just another argument he could win by refusing to hear the answer.

“That was my mother's.”

“I know. I'm not keeping it.”

“Then hand it over.”

“Just say it, Claire.”

The room went still.

I could walk away and leave it with him. Or I could say a few empty words and carry the last piece of my mother home.

“Fine,” I said, my voice dead level. “I'm sorry. We're not breaking up. Now give me back what's mine.”

From the lounge next door came a burst of laughter.