1. Suzie

1

SUZIE

T he jangle of crockery pulls me out of my doze, and my eyelids flutter open. Jack carries a tray laden with a steaming teapot and two cups and saucers. The rich aroma of bergamot follows him into the room. But it's what's behind the tray that makes me smile.

Jack's buck naked. The hard lines of his torso are sharp in the morning sunlight streaming through the cottage window. He carries the tray below the waist, just above his thick thighs with the tiny curly hairs I've come to know intimately over the past two weeks. But it's what the tray covers that has me sitting up in bed, my body coming alive at the sight of him.

"I made you a cuppa."

I plump a pillow behind my back and sit up properly, making room for Jack on the side of the bed.

The Celtic tattoo that wraps around the bicep of his right arm dances as he sets the tray down on the edge of the bed. He pours the tea through a strainer into two cups. With an over-exaggerated sigh, he adds a splash of milk to mine. "If you insist on bastardizing a good cup of Earl Grey with milk, it at least has to be the full fat stuff."

My fingers trace the interlacing design of his tattoo, then the small scar below it, a one-inch line of pale raised skin on his upper arm. "How did you get this?"

"A bullet." He stirs the tea, and his eyes sparkle. I roll mine, because getting a straight answer out of Jack is impossible.

He's as evasive as he is sexy, and every time we get even remotely close to sharing something personal, he has a way of distracting me.

I looked up Celtic tattoos in the university's library, my curiosity piqued by the weave of the design.

I tap my fingers on his tattoo. "Is your family Welsh?"

He looks at me, surprised. "What makes you think that?"

"I looked up the tattoo." He raises his eyebrows at me, and I'm not sure if he's impressed or annoyed. I try to remember what the book said about them. "Many Briton tribes had tattoos before the unification. In modern Britain, it's a source of pride for the Irish, Welsh, and Scottish to recognize their Celtic ancestry with a tattoo." My fingertips trace the interweaving design. "The band motif symbolizes strength and courage, and when inked around the arm like a shield offers protection. This particular design would suggest Welsh origin."

I sit back against the pillows, feeling smug.

Jack nods appreciatively. "You're smart, Suzie. Don't ever give up your studies."

He hands me a cup of tea but doesn't answer the question.

"So…are you Welsh?"

Jack takes a sip of tea and shakes his head. "I'm as English as the Queen."

I frown at him. "But the tattoo?"

"My eighteen-year-old self thought it was a good idea when I was out drinking with the lads in Newquay. We all got them."

I sip my tea and try to hide my disappointment. I thought I'd solved a piece of the puzzle that is Jack. But the tattoo seems to be a red herring. Still, I'm enjoying the challenge of unraveling him like one of the history papers I'm studying.

"Thank you for the tea."

Jack places a hand on my knee and runs it up my leg to my thigh. There's a cotton sheet between us, but my body heats at his touch.

"You can thank me later." He gives me a wicked grin that makes his pale blue eyes sparkle and my core heat.

"I thought the British were supposed to be gentlemen?" From the last few weeks, I can say without a doubt that there is nothing gentlemanly about the way this particular English man has used my body. My cheeks flush just thinking about it.

"Nah." Jack removes the tray from the bed and sets it on the dresser by the window. "That's an image put out by the tourist board to attract unsuspecting Americans." He climbs onto the bottom of the bed, tea in one hand, and captures my foot in the other. "So that Englishmen can get laid."

His eyes sparkle with mischief as his fingers massage the arch of my foot.

"Is that right?" I arch my eyebrows at him and try to appear as unaffected by his touch as he is.

He sips his tea casually as his other hand sneaks under the sheets and finds my bare leg. You wouldn't know the effect it was having on him if he wasn't stark naked.

My gaze darts to his growing appendage, and I raise my eyebrows.

"I hope you're paying extra taxes to your tourist board, because whatever they're doing is working."

He takes another sip of tea, his gaze never leaving my face. The other hand slips slowly up my leg until it grazes my inner thigh. How he manages to stay so still, his face betraying nothing, I'll never know.

I squirm at his touch, and Earl Grey sloshes over the side of my cup.

Jack gives me a lopsided smile. "You're awfully distracted this morning, Suzie."

When he says my name in his clipped accent, it's my undoing. I place my cup and saucer on the bedside table, no longer able to play this game.

When I turn back, he's grinning. "I'll pay them double for sending me you."

As his hand continues its exploration I sink into the bed with a huge grin on my face.

Later that afternoon, I'm humming to myself as I unlock the door to the cottage that I rent in a small village a few miles south of Cambridge. I balance a paper bag on my knee, and a big red tomato rolls out and down the concrete steps.

"Damn."

I laugh at myself chasing the tomato and imagine telling Jack about it if I can only get my overflowing bag of produce inside. The local farmers market was on in the village square, and I've got fresh goodies for tacos tonight.

"I'm back," I call as I kick the door shut behind me. "I hope you like your tacos spicy, because I've got a chili here and the guy had no idea what kind of heat is in it. It's chili roulette, he told me."

I plunk the bag down on the kitchen table and shrug off my coat and hang it up by the door. There's no answering call from Jack, and I toe off my shoes and then pause to listen.

The cottage is quiet, the only sound the creak of the eaves from the wind and the birds outside.

"Jack?" I walk through to the living room which joins the kitchen, and it's empty. The bedroom's deserted too.

He must have popped out for a walk or something. I cast my gaze around the room. The tea things are cleared up, and he made the bed where I left him dozing this morning.

The neat pile of his clothes sits on the dresser, but his phone's gone.

He's probably gone out for a walk in the woods near the village.

I head back to the kitchen and grab my phone from my purse. There's no message, and I send one now.

Back home. Tacos for dinner

I add three fire emojis, which could refer to the tacos or could refer to what I plan to do to him later.

I hold my phone in my palm, waiting for a message back. But only one tick comes up. I frown at the screen and stare at it for another minute, waiting for the second tick that tells me he's read the message.

But it doesn't come.

A twinge of uneasiness flares in my gut. In the two weeks since Jack exploded into my life, he's taken up residence here. It was supposed to be for one night only, but for the past two weeks he's stayed here most nights and we've hung out during the days, him going for walks or reading quietly while I study.

I put my phone down on the table where I can see it and unpack the groceries.

I've only been gone a few hours. I caught the bus into Cambridge to meet with the dean about my paper. Then I came back via the farmers market.

When I left Jack, he was in bed. We kissed goodbye, and I asked if he wanted to stay for dinner tonight.

It's the routine we've gotten into. Staying in, eating, making love, talking and laughing.

Since I saw him at the local pub two weeks ago, leaning against the bar with a mischievous twinkle in hie eye, we've not spent a night apart.

I knew he'd be trouble when I got back from the bathroom and he was sitting at my table with a pot of tea, perusing the history books I had spread across the table. I'd come to the pub to study, and he seemed generally interested in what I was reading.

He managed to seduce me without ever buying me a drop of alcohol. Just that damn Earl Grey tea that he drinks in bucketloads without any cream or sugar.

At first it was the chemistry between us that propelled us into bed, but in the morning he seemed reluctant to leave, and I wanted him to stay.

Jack told me he was passing through town and staying with a friend. He never told me what he did, but late at night I'd wake up to find him on his laptop. He always closed the screen and gave me his winning smile and told me it was just some business he had to take care of.

But what that business was I never quite figured out. He had a way of distracting me until I couldn't remember what my name was let alone what I'd asked him about.

And so the days grew into weeks, and somewhere along the way I found my heart racing whenever Jack was close and my thoughts consumed with him.

From the start he said he was passing through, and my study visa's up at the end of the year, so we both knew there was no future in it, but that didn't stop me fantasizing about one. On the cozy nights when I went to sleep with my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat and wondering what life would be like if this enigmatic man was always by my side.

I'm not sure if it's possible to love someone after only knowing them for two weeks, but that's sure as hell what it's beginning to feel like.

Two hours later and there's still no reply from Jack. The one tick sits next to all my messages showing he's not read the three I've sent him in the last two hours.

The uneasiness in my stomach churns, and I give him a call. The number doesn't connect. I try again, but it doesn't even ring.

He must be in an area where there's no signal, I rationalize.

I put the worry from my mind and start preparing the meal. Jack will come back, I'm sure of it. He'll call me or text when he gets to a place with signal. There will be a logical explanation for his absence.

One week later…

Rain lashes the glass, and the window frames rattle in the harsh wind. I roll over in bed and burrow my head deeper into the pillow. My shoulder is exposed, and the chilly air causes goose bumps up my arm. Winter has crept in during the last week, and no matter how many layers I put on, I can't escape the English chill.

I sit up and pull my sweater over my pajamas before getting out of bed. My twice-socked feet bump against a stack of school books, causing them to go sliding across the floor. One of them hits the dressing table and the flimsy leg wobbles against the weight of the study tome, causing a mug to topple over and splatter cold tea across the floor.

"Fucking fuck," I mumble to no one.

As I bend down to pick up the mug, my phone buzzes. My stupid heart leaps into my throat, and hope that it's Jack explodes in my chest.

"Fucking idiot," I admonish myself as I push the hope down. It's been a week and I haven't heard from Jack. Not even a text.

Every call has gone straight to an impersonal voicemail message. Every text unanswered. Worse than unanswered. The single tick that shows he hasn't even received the text stares at me like an insult.

Worried, I went to the police to report him missing. When I spoke to the officers, I realized how little I knew about Jack. I didn't know his address, what he did for a living, or even his last name.

When I explained that he'd left his clothes folded on the dresser, they pointed out that it was a pair of underwear, a spare pair of socks, and a t-shirt. They didn't say it outright, but I knew what they were thinking. Not items of value. Items easily left behind by someone who wanted to take off.

They were polite, but I saw the side-eye the officers gave each other. A man ghosted an American tourist. It's probably not unusual. It doesn't matter that I've been studying here for the last three years. They just saw the tourist who had been taken in by a charming English man.

After a few days, I admitted to myself they were right.

Jack and I never agreed it would be anything more than a fling. But I didn't expect him to leave like that, with no note, no message, no goodbye.

And now a week later, my stupid heart still flutters every time I get a text hoping it's him.

The persistent buzz from my phone is coming from under a pile of clothes where I chucked it last night to stop myself from the endless scrolling. Jack is as elusive online as he is in the real world. He mentioned a childhood story in Cornwall once, and I think that's where he said he was from. But Googling Jack from Cornwall only brought up a hundred other smiling English men and not the one I wanted.

I searched the photos on my phone, but the only one I had of him, he turned away from the camera at the last minute so you can't see his face. He didn't like his photo being taken, and over the last week, the reasons for that have being playing through my mind like a bad movie.

Does he have a secret family hidden away somewhere? Is he a scruffier real-life James Bond? Is he wanted for some heinous crime?

I checked my bank account and changed my passwords, but nothing has been touched.

There's no evidence that Jack was ever in my life.

My phone stops buzzing before I can find it and immediately starts again. Whoever's trying to call is persistent.

I finally locate it under my enormous bra and am annoyed at the disappointment I feel when it's my sister.

Disappointment quickly fades to worry. It's the middle of the night in North Carolina.

"It's come back."

My stomach drops at her words. I slump to the floor and lean my back against the end of the bed. Mom was diagnosed with cancer soon after my acceptance into Cambridge University. But she didn't tell me or my sister until I was already here, halfway across the world.

It was left to Carrie to take her to chemo and look after her, sworn to secrecy about the details. I was only ever given the good news; the chemo was working, she was feeling fine, it was only a small tumor. She played it down, and it was only on my first trip home, when I saw how thin she was and the wigs on her dresser, that I realized how sick she had been.

It had been my dream to live in England and study history. I worked hard to get an overseas placement, and Mom didn't want me to give up on that.

I swallow the lump in my throat. "When?"

Carrie's voice is strained. "The bloodwork came back two weeks ago. She's out of remission."

"Carrie, why didn't you tell me?" Even after three years, Mom still keeps me in the dark about her health.

Carrie sighs, and I hate that the burden has fallen to my little sister. "You know Mom. She didn't want to disrupt your studies."

I think about the two weeks with Jack, and guilt overwhelms me. It was a very different education I was getting and not one Mom would approve of. While I was messing around with Jack, she was coming out of remission.

"What's the plan? When does the chemo start?"

Carrie doesn't respond for a long moment, and the silence tells me everything I need to know. "She doesn't want any more chemo. It's spread too far."

My body goes heavy, and I can't speak.

When I finally find my voice, it's a whisper. "But the doctors . . . what are they going to do?"

"She's asking for you, Suzie. I don't think she has long."

I slump against the bed. My mom who raised two daughters on her own, the pillar of strength who allowed me to follow my dreams. She can't be dying.

I scramble to my feet as panic rises in my stomach. "I'll be on the next flight."

Fuck Jack, fuck Cambridge, and fuck my studies. I'm going home for Mom. I'll speak to the doctors, I'll convince her to have chemo, and I'll stay until she's strong and better.