mountains, never vulnerable, always in control. But sometimes the world became too much and he found himself struggling alone, too ashamed to speak up, terrified of being seen as weak, and the soul-crushing avalanche of hopelessness wiped him off the map. Friends, though, thought nothing of his vanishing act. Tarquin would often disappear on a whim: off paragliding, gambling, volunteering in Senegal building hospitals—anything to shake the dark clouds. Weeks later, bruised but determined, he’d emerge from the rubble with false tales of derring-do and half-remembered parties. His most recent ‘getaway’, fueled by the sadness over his split with Alex, was last June. He decamped to Scotland and built a backyard playhouse for Ava, then spent several months in New York City working for Harry’s dad until plans for his own business and a renewed sense of purpose drew him back to London in December.
His finger skimmed down the window, following the outline of Tower Bridge and its bascules opening for a tall ship to pass. “New York can have Times Square and its ball drop—nothing beats London’s fireworks and Big Ben chiming in the background. Did you see it on TV?”
“I did! I can only imagine how amazing it was in pers—” A muffled voice dragged Leia away. Tarquin couldn’t make out their conversation, but the person’s tone pinched with impatience.
“Saz, I know.” Sounding exasperated, Leia rejoined the call. “Sorry, Tarquin. I have to run. Brunch is ready.” Her sigh caressed his ear. “But before I go, I was wondering if your offer’s still open? To meet your designer friend?”
YES! Tarquin’s pulse took off like a shot. “Absolutely!” Flippin’ heck! Eager, much? He sucked in a breath, hitting the brakes. Keep it in your pants, Balfour. “Uh, just let me know when you’re free and I’ll arrange it with Simon.”
“I’m free tomorrow after my dad leaves for the airport—so late afternoon, after work? I know it’s short notice…”
Short notice is good! “Tomorrow’s fine.” He grinned. “I can meet you there, say around half five?”
“Perfect.” Her reply was sunny and quick.
“Brilliant!” Tarquin stepped back from the window, his eyes sweeping across the river, taking in the bright blue sky. “So, you need details. Do you have a pen?”
“I do. Shoot.”
“His shop is called Desjardins—that’s his last name—and it’s on Wilton Way in East London—Hackney. I’ll text you the exact address.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I can Google it,” said Leia. “That way I’ll figure out the best route to take.”
“It’s not far from the Overground. Hackney Central is the closest stop, then it’s a few minutes’ walk.” Tarquin looked across the room, catching a riveted Lucy peering between the glass door and the doorjamb, brows scrunched and a ketchup bottle in her hand. She mouthed, “Simon’s shop?”
Tarquin gave her a fleeting nod then glanced back down to the swarm of tourists on the bridge. “I’ll text him this afternoon and let him know to expect us.”
“Thanks, Tarquin. This is really kind of you.”
“Hey, happy to help. See you tomorrow.” Ending the call, an easy smile monopolized his face. Yes! So much can change in twenty-four hours. His thumb skipped over the screen, saving Leia’s contact details as a savory aroma urged him back to the kitchen. Chin up, he sprang back into the fray, stashing his phone on a shelf away from the mess of eggshells and baked bean splotches left on the counter in Harry and Lucy’s wake.
“Another American, eh?” Lucy crunched a sliver of bacon and shot a look at her boyfriend frying eggs an elbow away.
“Nope.” Tarquin squeezed past, checking their grilled breakfast. Another minute and it would be ready to serve. “She’s Canadian.”
“I’m all for unique dates, but Simon’s shop?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “Balfy, that’s a bit random, even for you.”
“That’s because it’s not a date. She has a boyfriend and lives in New York.” He shrugged. “She’s a fashion designer, just starting out—I thought Si might be able to help her. I was just being nice.”
“Yeah, because you fancy her.” Lucy waved a greasy spatula his way. “She’s blonde, right?”
I know where this is going. Tarquin pressed his lips together and dove into a cupboard, removing three large plates for their full English breakfast.
“Oh, god help us.” Lucy smirked. “Trade fashion for playwriting and she is like Alex.”
And what if she is? Is that so bad? Tarquin dipped his fingers underneath the neck of his t-shirt, scratching his chest. Alex meant everything to me, but her heart was never really mine.
“Is this that girl you met