Page 43 of Cross My Heart
“Your estate,” I say, slightly mocking. “Duke.”
Saint groans. “Don’t call me that. That’s my father’s title, not mine. And if I had my way…” he trails off. “The Ashford name is more trouble than it’s worth.”
“Sure,” I can’t help teasing. “Wealth… Privilege… Noble blood… It must be such a drag.”
Saint gives a self-deprecating laugh. “OK, OK, I get it. Don’t worry, I know I’m fortunate. What about you?”
“No noble blood here.”
“Come on, where did you grow up?” he asks. “Is your family still back in the States?”
I nod. “I grew up outside of Chicago. Suburbs. But we would go to a cabin on Lake Michigan every summer. Me and Wren would run around on the beach all day…” I trail off.
Saint reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I hope Max didn’t put you on the spot the other night, about your sister.”
I manage a smile. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” he says quietly. “Losing someone like that…”
I exhale. “You’re right. That’s just what I say, so people don’t feel awkward.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me, Tessa.”
I glance up. There’s something in his eyes, something aching and raw, that makes me believe it’s not just a platitude.
Somehow, he understands.
“It was awful at first. I couldn’t even say her name without breaking down,” I admit, letting myself reveal just a little of the truth to him. “But everyone says, it just takes time, and I guess they’re right. It’s easier now to talk about her now.”
“When my brother died, it took me a year before I could even look at his photograph,” Saint says quietly, and I widen my eyes in surprise.
“I… didn’t know.”
He gives a rueful shrug. “It’s been ten years now. I don’t like to talk about it. Clearly, I need some more time.”
I think of that photo in his library, of the older blonde guy, and the similarities in their features, but before I can ask anything more, Saint suddenly gets to his feet. “Our food should be here by now,” he says quickly. “I’ll go check on it.”
He quickly strides back to the pub, leaving me alone.
I exhale, listening to the river as I try to process this new revelation. It turns out Saint hasn’t led the charmed life I thought. He knows what it’s like to lose someone he loves, just like I lost Wren.
I wonder, is this the reason for the connection I feel with him? It turns out that under the charged chemistry and quick banter, both of us are hiding a deep, heartbreaking grief.
Maybe we’re chasing after this chemistry—the passion, the excitement, this new hopeful spark—as a way to move on from tragedy.
But whether it’s a fresh start or a mindless escape, I’m not sure yet.
Both might be just as dangerous.
By the time Saint returns, with our server right behind him, I’ve pulled myself together. Delving too deeply into the past is risky business, considering my mission.
And the fact that I still don’t know if Saint’s friends are connected to Wren’s attack.
“You came back,” I flash a breezy smile, once we’re set up with our lunch spread: a classic beer-battered fish and chips for me, and Saint’s rustic pie. “I would have bet good money on you fleeing for the hills to get away from my weeping woman routine.”
“I don’t remember you weeping,” Saint says wryly, reaching across to steal a fry—sorry, chip—from me.
I playfully slap his hand away. “You know what I mean. But let’s lighten the mood. Tell me more about you. Family, hopes, dreams,…”