In a rush, his accident at the job site came back to him—except, what the hell? Last thing he knew he’d had one hundred and twenty volts of electricity sizzling through his body—so it seemed logical to assume that if he could still string two thoughts together he must be alive and therefore in a hospital. Except as far as he knew, hospital beds were not covered in…sod.

And in the States most nurses and doctors didn’t sound like British lords or call each other lawns.

Jim opened his eyes. The sky overhead was dappled with cotton-puff clouds, and though there was no sun to see, the glow was all summer Sunday—not just bright and stormless, but relaxing, as if there were nothing urgent to do, nothing to worry about.

He looked over to the voices…and decided he was dead.

In the shade of a castle’s great stone walls, four guys with croquet mallets were standing around a bunch of wickets and colored balls. The quartet was dressed in whites, and one had a pipe and another a pair of round, rose-tinted glasses. The third had his hand on the head of an Irish wolfhound. Number four had his arms crossed over his chest and an expression like he was bored.

Jim sat up. “Where the hell am I?”

The blond who was lining up his shot glared over and talked around his pipe. Which made his accent even more high brow. “One moment, if you please.”

“I say you keep talking,” his cross-armed, dark-haired buddy muttered—in the same dry voice that had woken Jim up. “He’s cheating anyway.”

“I knew you would come around,” Round Glasses chirped in Jim’s direction. “I knew it! Welcome!”

“Ah, you’re awake,” the one next to the wolfhound chimed in. “How lovely to meet you.”

Goddamn, they were all good-looking, with the no-care-in-the-world vibe that resulted from not just being rich, but coming from generations of wealth.

“Are we done with the chatter, lads?” Pipe Guy, who was evidently named Nigel, looked around. “I should like some silence.”

“Then why don’t you stop telling us what to do?” the dark-haired one said.

“Pop off, Colin.”

With that, the pipe was shifted around to the other side of the mouth, the shot was taken with a crack, and a red-striped ball rolled through a pair of wickets and struck a blue one.

The blond smiled like the prince he no doubt was. “Now it’s time for tea.” He glanced over and met Jim’s eyes. “Well, come on, then.”

Dead. He was definitely dead and in Hell. Had to be it. Either that or this was some weird-ass dream because he’d passed out in front of the TV and there’d been a Four Weddings and a Funeral marathon on.