23. Roseanne

Jane

My performance of the chilled-out girl who's not bothered to sleep in the same room as the guy she likes deserves an Oscar. My body temperature skyrocketed when the receptionist said we'd have to share a room, but it cooled down once Colton mentioned the contract, then said how sorry he was that we had to share. He can't stand the idea of sleeping in the same room as me, and here I am pining for the guy. There is something seriously wrong with me. This needs to stop now.

But those kinds of feelings aren't something you can switch on and off. As soon as I lie down on the bed, the mattress seems to burn below me. Colton, who just got out of the shower—he let me take mine first—is now lying next to me, and he smells heavenly. I feel so vulnerable in my pajamas.

Not that they're anything fancy or sexy, just comfy pants and a T-shirt. But I might as well be naked. And the fact that Colton is in his pajamas too doesn't help.

"Do you have enough space?" he asks.

I swallow hard. "Yes. You?"

"Yes."

O-kay. I know I should try to break the awkwardness, but nothing comes to mind. My mouth is as dry as the Sahara.

The bed sinks, then rises. "I'm going down to the bar," Colton mumbles in an exasperated tone.

Here I haven't slept in the same bed as a man in years, and he can't even stay five minutes next to me without fleeing. I know this isn't ideal, but he could be a little nicer about the whole thing. None of this is my fault.

Light fills the room as he walks into the bathroom. Minutes later, he steps out of it fully dressed.

"You're serious?" I ask, propping myself on my elbows.

"I'm not tired. Jet lag," he snaps. "See you tomorrow." With that, he slips out and closes the door behind him.

I whip the cover off in a swift movement so I can breathe and try to fall asleep, but I end up tossing and turning for what seems like hours in this tiny bed. Every time I hear footsteps in the corridor, I think Colton is coming back. And every time, my heart sinks as the room stays plunged in darkness.

When I wake up, Colton still isn't lying next to me. I didn't hear him come back last night. My heart freezes. What if he met someone at the bar? What if he slept in someone else's room?

I lie back on my pillow with a groan. Why do I even care? I'm not supposed to care. Actually, you know what? I don't. He can do whatever he wants. Sure, it doesn't seem fair that he's allowed to see other people and I'm not, but I didn't think twice about that when I signed the contract. Now, I want to rip it apart.

I groggily haul myself out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom. When I come out, he's sitting in the armchair near the window, looking at his phone.

"Oh, you're back. I didn't hear you come in."

His eyes meet mine, but I look away. "Did you sleep well?" he asks.

"Yes. You?" I shoot back, biting my lip.

"Yes. I didn't wake you up when I came in, did I?"

Relief floods me. "Not at all. I didn't hear you, not last night or this morning."

"I had some calls to make, so I went down to the lobby."

"What time is the wedding ceremony?"

He glances at his watch. "At four."

"Okay. I think I'll just grab some food and meet you there later, then?"

He frowns, then brings his eyes back to his phone. "Sounds good."

I can't stay a minute longer in this room with him. Today is going to be hard enough with the wedding. We'll have to act in love for longer than ever before, and I'm not looking forward to it.

Except I am looking forward to it, and that's the freaking problem!

At the café downstairs, I grab a muffin and a cup of coffee to go, then head outside. People say it's always raining in England, but the cliché hasn't proven true so far. The weather is fantastic. The sky is clear and blue, birds are chirping, and the smell of the lilies planted all over the hotel grounds hangs in the air.

The venue is located at the heart of a small town, but it's incredibly lively because there's a farmer's market today. I stroll past the stalls, surprised to see so many people. Well, the wedding did bring in a lot of guests, I suppose. Looking around, I try to memorize some faces to see if I spot them again later today.

The problem with farmer's markets is that I always want to buy every single product I lay eyes on. Homemade jams or honey, mustard, spices, soaps. I have Colton's unlimited credit card, but I would never use it for a purchase like that. Something that's not directly related to my job.

And just like that, it hits me. It's all just a job, and once again, I somehow ended up trapped in a relationship in which I can't do whatever I want. Sure, buying homemade jam is different from going out and having friends—or a life—but in the end, the feeling is pretty much the same.

Sensing a wave of tears welling up in my eyes, I hustle away from the market and sneak onto one of the smaller streets. Pausing, I suck in a calming breath. In less than twenty-three months, it'll all be over, and I'll have my freedom. Finally. But the relief I usually feel when I tell myself that this relationship has an expiration date doesn't come.

To distract myself, I amble along the sidewalk, admiring the old crooked buildings and wondering what stories they could tell, until I reach a cemetery at the end of a narrow street. I'm about to turn around when movement attracts my gaze. A man just stood up from in front of a tombstone. He rubs his hands and adjusts the blazer of his suit. Just when I'm starting to think that suit and comb-up hairstyle look very familiar, the man turns around and throws something on the ground. It only takes a second for Colton to notice me.

Colton

Jane is here. At the cemetery where my mom is resting. She's quite far away, but even from here, I can feel the intensity of her gaze. And like the coward I am, I spin back around, fixing my eyes on my mom's tombstone again. I can't face Jane right now. I couldn't be with her last night, and I can't be with her today at the wedding, pretending I'm in love with her. Not because it's not true, but because I'm afraid it might be.

Images of my mom flash before me as my eyes study the gray stone, and guilt gnaws at me. It's been years since I've been here. Ever since I moved to America. When I left, I wanted to say goodbye to this place and never look back. I'm a bad son who didn't deserve my mom. Our life might have been hard, but she loved me. She saved me.

Tears brim in my eyes, and I wipe them away with my sleeve. Then, I squat back down. The stone is overgrown with spindly weeds, proof that I never came to take care of it. I continue pulling weeds by the roots, tossing them away, when I hear a brushing movement behind me.

It's Jane, I'm sure of it. I knew she wouldn't be able to stay away. I felt her presence when she stood at the other side of the cemetery, so it's only natural I feel it now.

"Hey," she says in a small voice.

I don't get up, refusing to look at her. Mentally, I try to will my tears back into my eyes.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," she says. "I just—is this your mom?"

"Then don't," I snap, getting up and throwing another clump of weeds to the side. I keep my back to her, but I can hear her footsteps retreating.

My breath gets trapped in my lungs, and suddenly, I feel even more like a loser than I did a few minutes ago. It's not Jane's fault I have feelings for her. She doesn't deserve to be treated this way.

"Wait," I say, turning around. "I'm sorry, Jane."

She stops, angling herself to face me. Her expression, as always, is hard to read, but she doesn't seem angry.

"It is my mom's grave," I say, drawing a shaky breath as she shuffles back toward me. "Appalling, isn't it?"

"How long has it been?" she asks, kneeling next to me.

As she waits for my answer, she starts yanking out weeds, and that simple gesture melts my heart. I don't think I've ever met a kinder person than Jane Myers.

I wipe the perspiration from my forehead before continuing to clear the grave. "I haven't been back here since I buried her. Ten years ago."

She doesn't say anything. I, on the other hand, seem unable to shut up. "I'm a poor excuse for a son. My mom deserved better," I snarl, dusting a fine layer of soil off the tombstone.

"Don't say that," she murmurs, laying a hand on my shoulder. Her touch spreads warmth to my body, and I wish I could fall into her arms. "You live far away. And it must be hard for you. I don't know what it's like to lose someone so close, but I can imagine not wanting to go back after the fact."

"I should have made the effort. Now look at this mess."

"It's okay," she says, her tone sweet and gentle. "You're here now. We're here."

We spend the next hour cleaning up my mom's grave in silence. Not that there is anything to say. No words could express what it means to me that she's on the ground beside me, getting her hands covered in dirt and stung by nettles with me.

"There. That's a lot better," she chirps, swiping the stone with her hand to brush the rest of the dirt away. We can see the whole inscription now—Roseanne Green. Proud mother and nurse.

"Your mom was a nurse?" she asks, cocking her head to the side.

I nod. "Always ready to help others in any way she could. She used to say, ‘Life is about people, Colton. It's not about who has the biggest car or house. It's about who has the biggest heart.''' A bitter laugh escapes my throat, and I sit down on the ground. "Look at me now. I completely failed her. The only person who ever took a chance on me, loved me."

Jane kneels in front of me. "You didn't fail her, Colton. You have money, but that doesn't mean you don't have a big heart. When I was researching you online, I saw all the charity events you attend."

"I could do more," I mumble.

"We can always do more," Jane says. "But what matters is what we're actually doing, not what we could do."

We're quiet for a moment as a cool breeze brushes past us. "You know, I've always wanted to set up a charity in her name, but I've never gotten around to it. There's always a more pressing matter. Something to divert my attention. And then I forget." My heart clenches at the thought. How could I forget the woman who raised me?

"It's not too late," Jane says. "You just have to make the time."

I raise my head, and my gaze locks on hers. "You're right. I'll set it up as soon as we get home. And if I don't, please badger me every day until I do, okay?"

"Deal," she says, holding her hand out. I take it, but instead of shaking it, I pull her toward me and wrap her in a hug. Her flowery perfume reassures me and makes me feel at home.

"Thank you, Jane."

When we break apart, her cheeks are flushed. I might have crossed a line, but we are in public after all. Who knows? There might be someone looking. At least, that'll be my defense when she inevitably scolds me.

But she doesn't. Instead, she stands up and walks to the end of the row, where a field of flowers starts. She picks a few blooms and comes back next to me. Choosing a long stem of grass, she ties it around the flowers to form a bouquet before placing it on my mom's grave.

"There," she says, standing up again. She gives me a little pat on the shoulder and a smile that soothes my heart. "I'll let you say goodbye. Meet you back at the room."

And just like that, she leaves. Once she's out of earshot, I say, "Mom, this is the woman I'm going to marry. And I might just be the luckiest man in the world."