I felt a surge of fondness for Duncan the Skipper, wondering if I would ever see him again. I also wondered how things were going with him and his girlfriend, Gerry. They were dating long-distance, and I was heavily invested in their “happily ever after” because they were just gorgeous together. It was also easier than championing my own—and far more likely.

I’d met two men who lived across the world from me. That it would work out with one of them would be a minor miracle, one I wasn’t sure I wanted. Yes, I needed to shake up my life—like Josh and I had talked about in Greece, I wanted my life to be bigger. But that was about reconnecting with my friends, taking more initiative at work, travelling more. It didn’t necessarily mean leaping into a long-distance relationship—with anyone. I wasn’t sure my heart was ready for that.

What the hell am I doing?

I was having some fun, damn it—well-deserved fun.

After a string of horrid men, not one of whom was able to keep his hands off someone else, I was on a date with a seemingly nice man who thought I was beautiful. Where was the harm in that?

Not to mention, that if I wasn’t on a date with James, I would be at Cat’s flat, alone, watching bad daytime TV—is that a tautology?—eating too many digestive biscuits, and googling how to get the boat stains out of my clothes.

I turned my attention back to James and watched him navigate the rabbit warren of inner London roads with ease. He was a sexy driver. He probably looked sexy peeling potatoes too, but there is something attractive about a man who looks both confident and comfortable driving. His tanned hands rested lightly on the steering wheel and he frowned ever-so-slightly when he checked his mirrors.

“So, where are we going?” I asked after a few moments of silence.

“Have you been to The Summerhouse?” he asked. No, I had not. I hadn’t even heard of The Summerhouse, but if the millionaire was taking me there, it was bound to be good.

“No, not yet, but I’ve heard it’s lovely.” There was that word again, “lovely”. I felt like asking if we could make a quick stop at Waterstones so I could buy a thesaurus.

“It’s fairly close to home for me—not overly fancy, but good food and it’s in a nice spot. I think you’ll like it.”

“So, where is home?” I asked, remembering my conversation with Cat that morning.

“Paddington,” he replied. And then he added, “W2,” the way people who live in London sometimes do.

Cat had been right. “Single digit,” I accidentally said aloud.

“Sorry?” He hadn’t quite heard me, thank goodness.

“Paddington’s lovely,” I replied. Good grief.

*

As predicted, I liked The Summerhouse.

It was situated on a canal in an area of West London called Little Venice. I’d been to actual Venice, and the similarities ended with the canal, but it was—dare I say it—a lovely part of London.