And at first she’d found him pathetic, unable to do anything.

But he had worked with a will, dealt with his failures with good grace. He was improving every day. And he had definitely done this: this was all him. An achievement that was just him. Spoiled losers couldn’t have managed this.

As if sensing what she was thinking, he glanced up and caught her eye.

She couldn’t help it, she absolutely beamed at him. His eyes lit up almost comically and a smile split his face. He gave her a querying thumbs-up, and she replied with a double thumbs-up and got rewarded by that grin again.

She looked so pretty, he thought. Not overdone and Instagram-ready like so many of the girls he met at parties, with four inches of makeup and eyebrows plucked and stupid duck lips, wearing expensive clothes and talking about how bored they were with everything.

She was pink-cheeked and clear-eyed, her skin like roses and her lovely thick dark hair blowing around her, and her long scarf and coat concealing . . . well, who knew? It would be like unwrapping a parcel.

Even as the commotion continued all around him, he didn’t drop her gaze. In response, she took a step toward him. The light was flaring out behind him; it was quite, quite dazzling.

He. He was quite, quite dazzling.

She took another step. His face had changed, was nervous now. His mouth was closed, a faint smile playing around his curled lips. God, thought Isla. He was so handsome. Had she really not noticed before? Or had she thought, Stupid handsome tosser ?

Probably that one. She didn’t think he was a tosser now. Not at all. She thought of those long hands and long fingers and suddenly felt a shiver go down her. This was something . . . this was something. She was sure of it. She took another step.

Perhaps, thought Konstantin. No. He already knew she didn’t like him. She’d made it quite clear. Although . . . He licked his lips nervously.

Normally when he met women—and he met a lot of women—he had a lot of bolsters behind him. He had his money and his name. Most girls he met knew exactly who he was and absolutely fancied a shot at him.

More than that, he’d probably be drunk, and everyone else would be too, and it would just be a natural progression. The girl would do much of the chasing, and he’d be more or less happy to go along with it. For a little while at least.

This was different, and so, so new and strange.

He was standing in front of Isla with nothing—a kitchen boy, really, with no name and no money and not much except a dog who seemed to layer mud wherever he went. He hadn’t been charming with her or deliberately flirtatious. Quite the opposite.

She knew him. She hadn’t liked him . . . at first. But now . . . here she was, stepping forward, to him, with nothing at all. Could that have changed?