Who of course didn’t answer.

  I left a message explaining the situation, but where the heck was I meant to sleep? I didn’t trust the wiring when it was dry, let alone when it was dripping, and what if the place burned down in the early hours? Was there a stopcock somewhere? I found a tap under the kitchen sink and closed it, but the water kept on gushing. Was it even coming from my pipes? What if the problem was in the apartment above? I traipsed up the stairs and banged on the door, but nobody answered. Honestly, I felt like crying, but the floor was quite damp enough already.

  Should I call a plumber? What choice did I have? I’d paid up front for the whole two-month rental, so the chances of me getting the money back were negligible, but if I waited much longer for the landlord to return my call, I’d need a dinghy instead of a bed.

  My phone rang. I’d been looking forward to Owen’s call all day, but now I had to deal with…with this.

  “Can I call you back?” I asked.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “How do you know there’s a problem?”

  “Because I know you, Serena. I can hear the worry in your voice. What can I do to help?”

  “Do you know a good plumber?”

  “A plumber?”

  “There’s a water leak. In the ceiling. The landlord’s on radio silence, my upstairs neighbour isn’t answering the door, and I really, really wish I had my wellies with me.” The tears came. I couldn’t stop them. “I just want to go home. This was meant to be the role of a lifetime, and all I want to do is hightail it back to the Cotswolds.”

  “It’ll be okay, I promise. Give me your address and five minutes.”

  He only needed two. Owen rang back while I was setting cereal bowls under the torrent in an attempt to stem the damage—a pointless exercise because I couldn’t empty them fast enough.

  “Someone will be with you in the next twenty minutes,” he said.

  “A plumber?”

  “No, but they’ll assess the situation and do whatever needs to be done. Just pack your things.”

  “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  “You’re not staying in a damp flat.”

  “But—”

  “Let me do the worrying tonight, Serena. The people coming are from Blackwood Security, and they’ll be carrying identification. Let me know when they arrive, okay?”

  Blackwood Security? I didn’t need protection; I needed an umbrella. But if one of them knew how to shut the water off, I’d kiss their feet. And Owen’s. Hell, I’d kiss his feet anyway. Not that I had a foot fetish or anything. Yes, okay, I’d sold a few pictures of my feet online when I was at theatre school, but I’d been strapped for cash and short of rent money.

  Even though I was expecting it, the knock on the door still made me jump. I cracked it open and found two black-clad men staring back at me.

  “Ms. Carlisle?”

  “Are you the security people?”

  “That’s right. I’m Nye, and this is Zander.” They held out official-looking ID cards. Both could have given Marc a run for his money in the looks department, but they had a hardness about them that Mr. Hollywood was missing. “I gather you’ve got a plumbing problem?”

  I opened the door wider so they could step inside, and Nye sucked in a breath when he saw the waterfall coming from the ceiling. Until today, I’d always found the sound of running water relaxing, but now I was having a rethink.

  “It’s getting worse,” I said. “It was more of a trickle when I got home.”

  “Yikes,” Nye said. “Yes, I see why Owen called us.”

  “Do you do plumbing as well as security?”

  “We solve problems.”

  Zander peered up at the hole. “Do you know the layout of the apartment upstairs?”

  “I’ve never been in there, and my neighbour isn’t home. Or at least, he’s not answering the door.”

  “We’ll take a look.” He offered a charming smile. “Just relax, and we’ll get this all sorted out.”

  Two hours later, I huddled on a concrete bench outside the kebab shop. A paramedic had given me a blanket, and I pulled it tighter around my shoulders as I waited for yet another detective to question me. Crime scene tape flapped in the stiff breeze.

  “Want another cuppa, love?” a police officer asked.

  “I just want to go to bed.”

  “Won’t be long now.”

  “Why do I have to stay here? I keep telling you, I didn’t see anything. I wasn’t even here all day.”

  “I’m afraid we have to follow procedure, ma’am.”

  On the plus side, the water had been turned off. On the minus side, when Nye and Zander checked out my upstairs neighbour’s flat—the door had been unlocked, apparently—they’d found him floating lifeless in the bath, the taps still turned on full. Now crime scene investigators were traipsing in and out, and even if there hadn’t been a flood in my flat, I wouldn’t have been allowed back inside anyway. The landlord had finally shown up. Needless to say, he wasn’t thrilled about the situation, and the way he grumbled, you’d think it was all my fault.

  Nye said that accommodation tonight wouldn’t be a problem, but he’d been worryingly vague when it came to the details. Thank goodness Owen had told me to pack. I’d managed to grab my suitcase before we were kicked out of the building, so at least I had clean underwear.

  My phone rang. Why was Marc still awake?

  “What’s going on, sweetheart?”

  “Huh?”

  “With the cops?”

  “How do you know there are cops?”

  “It’s all over Facebook. Feather saw the news and texted Patrick, and he called me. There are pictures everywhere.”

  Of course there were. I raised my weary head as some nosy ghoul snapped another photo on his camera phone. The reporters were here in droves too, although a pair of constables who didn’t look old enough to wear a uniform had kept the press outside the cordon.

  “Brilliant.”

  “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “Oh, they just found a dead body in the flat above mine. Plus my living room is flooded and part of the ceiling fell down.”

  “Are you shitting me? And they’ve left you sitting there on a bench?”

  “It’s procedure. One more interview and then I can leave, apparently.”

  “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

  “I have a two-bedroom suite. Want me to send a car? Just tell me where you are.”

  Did I? The idea of curling up under a duvet in a fancy hotel room made me weep with relief, but would that lead to awkwardness between Marc and me? After I’d turned down his advances, I definitely didn’t want to give him the wrong idea.

  “Maybe? I⁠—”

  A shadow fell over me. I looked up to find Nye and a man who seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. Tall, dark, and handsome. Short brown hair with a hint of curl. A neatly trimmed beard. Dimples. A tight T-shirt that stretched over well-defined pecs. Worried brown eyes.

  No…

  No, it couldn’t be…

  The T-shirt said “I closed my laptop to be here.”

  “Serena.”

  One word, and my heart puddled in my chest. “Owen? What the…? You look, uh…”

  Incendiary.

  He glanced down at himself. “I started going to the gym.”

  “Where are your glasses?”

  “I got LASIK.”

  When he smiled, I saw that he’d had his teeth straightened as well. Holy hotness. All these years, I’d been fantasising about a slightly older version of the skinny nerd I’d adored as a teen, and now Superman’s younger brother was standing in front of me?

  “You look good. Uh, healthy. I meant healthy. Owen, what are you doing here? I thought you were in Peterborough?”

  “When I realised you were in trouble, I got into the car and started driving.” He tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “This wasn’t quite how I’d imagined seeing you again, but I’ll take it.”

  A sob burst out of me, followed by another and another, and then I was wrapped up in Owen’s arms. He gave the best hugs. Whenever teenage me had been miserable, I just used to put my head on his shoulder and wait for him to work his magic.

  “Serena?” The voice was tinny. “You okay?”

  Crap! I’d forgotten Marc. I pressed the phone to my ear.

  “I’m fine. An old friend just showed up.”

  “Is this the old friend?”

  “Uh, yes?”

  He gave a soft chuckle. “Good luck, sweetheart. Don’t forget to get some sleep, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Who was that?” Owen asked.

  “Marc.”

  “I see. Are you going to stay with him tonight?”

  “He offered, but…” Boy, Owen’s chest was solid. I leaned my cheek against his shoulder and sighed. For the first time in years, I was exactly where I wanted to be. “I missed you.”

  “Do you want to borrow my guest room?”

  I nodded, and a tear dripped from the end of my nose. Such a damn mess.

  “Is Serena done here?” he asked Nye.

  “I’ll hurry things along.”

  Ten

  “Morning.” The bed dipped as Owen sat on the edge, and the delicious aroma of hot chocolate wafted in my direction. “How are you feeling?”

  I didn’t remember much about the journey to Broxbourne. Owen had half carried me to his car after yet another detective asked me to go over last night’s events. Unfortunately, I’d made the mistake of mentioning the drug dealer next door, which had led to a hundred more questions from the police and a lot of frowning from Owen. I was never going back to that apartment again—he’d been very clear on that.

  So now I was in his guest room, which was roughly the size of the entire flat I’d just left and came with an en-suite bathroom, a chaise longue, and a small balcony. I’d only caught a few glimpses of Owen’s home, but the parts I had seen were beautiful.

  “I still can’t believe I’m here. That you’re here.”

  “I considered climbing up a tree and in through the window the way I always used to, but then I decided the stairs were more civilised.”

  “Do you remember the time you fell out of the tree?”

  He rolled up his left sleeve. “I still have the scar.”

  Except now the scar was covered by a tattoo that went from his wrist to his shoulder.

  Jumping jackdaws, I’d never been a tattoo girl, but the sight of all that ink made my thighs clench. Owen looked like a cyborg. Skin peeled back to reveal gears and pistons, cables and springs.

  “I designed it myself,” he explained. “Theoretically, the machinery would actually work.”

  “I… Wow. I guess I never imagined you with a tattoo.”

  “Me neither. It was my boss’s idea.”

  “What kind of company do you work for?”

  Owen chuckled. “Luke’s become a good friend over the years. There was an axe-throwing contest at his wife’s birthday party, and there might have been beer involved, so we ended up making a side bet.”

  “Alcohol and axe-throwing?”

  He pulled a face. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Anyhow, the loser had to get a tattoo.”

  “And he won?”

  “Actually, his ex-girlfriend won overall. He only came nineteenth.”

  “Let me get this straight… Your boss, who I’m assuming is an intelligent man, went axe-throwing with his current wife and his ex-girlfriend? Was he not afraid someone would die?”

  “It was an amicable break-up.”

  I must have looked dubious.

  “Yes, I thought those were a myth too,” Owen said. “But it’s true, I swear. I went to the wedding, and his ex was a bridesmaid.”

  Wow. I’d run into an ex at a wedding once, and after he suggested “a quick shag for old times’ sake,” I’d been forced to climb out of a bathroom window. Then I nearly broke my ankle fleeing across the golf course where the reception was being held. A golfer yelled at me for getting in the way, and I almost got run over by a caddy in a cart—hardly my finest hour.

  I peered more closely at Owen’s arm. The tattoo was a work of art, and when I squinted, I could just make out the old half-inch scar hidden in the shadow of a gear wheel.

  “You didn’t consider a smaller design?”

  “I did consider it.”

  “And then you chose this?”

  “Do you like it?”

  Was I shocked? Totally. I’d never pictured Owen with any tattoo, let alone such a dramatic one, but how well did I really know him now? We’d grown apart, and I hated that. Hated that I hadn’t been in his life for so long. But did I like the ink? Hell yes.

  “I do like it.”

  “My mother detests it.” He sighed. “She overheard me telling someone about the bet and gave me a lecture. Axe-throwing is dangerous, tattoos are uncouth, my friends are bad influences, blah, blah, blah. ‘You will not get a tattoo, Owen,’” he mimicked. “‘I forbid it.’”

  “Did she have a heart attack when she saw it?”

  “Well, so she hasn’t actually seen it yet.”

  “Chickenshit.”

  “Someone told her about it, and she yelled down the phone at me.”

  I giggled as I traced a cog with a finger. “I bet she did. Was it painful?”

  “The yelling or the tattoo?”

  “The tattoo.”

  I’d had firsthand experience of Mrs. Cadwallader’s shrieking, and I already knew the damage that could do to a person’s eardrums.

  “It was like having a sharp nail repeatedly run over my skin. The first time I got a tattoo, I was slightly inebriated, and somehow I didn’t remember how bad it could be.”

  “You have another tattoo?”

  “A much smaller one.”

  “Where? What is it?”

  He smiled, but unless I was imagining it, there was a sadness in his eyes too.

  “Maybe someday, I’ll show you.” He brushed hair away from my face, an old habit of his and one that made me shiver inside. Did he realise what those barely-there touches did to me? “What time do you have to be at work today?”

  “Uh… Nine o’clock. What time is it?”

  “Seven. There’s a car waiting outside, and the driver will take you back to Dalston whenever you’re ready.”

  I pushed myself up to a sitting position. “You’re not coming with me?” Rats, how needy did I sound? “I mean, not that I expected you to or anything.”

  “I wish I could come, but I can’t afford to fuck up this deal. If we land this contract, we’ll be able to secure several jobs and create half a dozen more.”

  “You have to go back to Peterborough?”

  “Only for a few days. I’ll be at your play on Friday, and I can take next week off.” Owen leaned down, and for a moment, I thought he was going to kiss me. Hoped he was going to kiss me. But he only hooked a finger under my necklace and lifted it for a closer look. My cheeks burned. “Didn’t I give you this?”

  “Uh, yes?”

  “And you’ve kept it for all these years?”

  “It reminded me of a time when I was happy.” An expression I couldn’t read crossed his face, and I caught myself chewing my lip. New Owen could be a little intimidating. “It’s fine, honestly. You go to work, and I can sort out a hotel.”

  “No, you can stay here. I’ll give you a key. There’s a direct train to Dalston from Broxbourne Station, or if you’d rather travel by car, I’ll arrange for a driver to come each day.”

  I didn’t like the idea of staying in this place alone.

  Without him.

  Which was irrational. And also unreasonable.

  Owen had dropped everything to help me yesterday—if he hadn’t stepped in, a dead body in a bath would probably have fallen into my living room in the middle of the night—and now he was offering to lend me his beautiful house. I should be grateful, not greedy. But that didn’t stop me from wishing I could have him all to myself.

  “You’re sure you don’t mind me being here on my own?”

  “Make yourself at home.”

  “I really appreciate it. And the train will be fine. My budget doesn’t stretch to taxis at the moment.”

  “I wasn’t asking you to pay for it.” He placed a key with a plastic fob attached onto the bedside table. “The alarm panel is in the hall closet. You can use the panel beside the front door to tap in and out, but if you need the code, it’s zero-four-zero-three.”

  My chest tightened. Four-three. The fourth of March.

  “That’s my birthday.”

  “I know. And I owe you eight presents.” Owen rose to his feet, and he looked so much more imposing than he used to. The geek had turned into a living god. “Serena, I have to go. Call me if you need anything, and I’ll see you on Friday.”

  “What if I just need to chat?”

  Did he know how sexy that smile was? When it hit me full force, I wanted to drag him down onto the bed with me.

  “As I said, call me.”

  Eleven

  Sometimes, I wondered why I’d stuck with acting for so many years.

  Tonight, I remembered.

  I remembered every line, every move, every nuance, and we received a standing ovation for our performances. Alice had won the audience over and claimed her man while Eliza fell victim to her career ambitions. The final act of the play was set on Valentine’s Day—ironic when the play’s run finished on the twelfth of February—and I cried real tears when Richard chased Alice across the city and confessed his love with a single red rose. What a freaking rush! Okay, so Priscilla still hated my guts, but what was new?

  “Fuck, this high is better than coke,” Marc said as we walked off stage.

  “Which you absolutely haven’t taken, right?”

  He flashed me a grin. “Absolutely not.”

  Two days ago, I’d have swooned at that smile, but now that I’d become acquainted with Owen’s fifty-shades-of-gorgeous alter ego, I was basically immune to anything Marc di Gregorio might throw at me.

 

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