I suppose I should have let the subject drop since it clearly wasn’t pleasant. But now that I knew there was a girl he’d liked, I needed to know more.

I decided to keep my tone light. La-la-la, no big deal, oh, and, “Does she have as cool a last name as Ramsbottom?”

He snorted. “Blanchard.”

“Too bad.” I took a sip of my drink and let the hot peppermint sensation warm me from the inside. “How did you two meet?”

He was quiet and I worried I might be going too far. But he seemed to have decided to at least venture into this area of his past.

“We met through my sister, Polly. She works with Astrid’s father in finance. Deadly dull.”

“I thought you liked finance.”

“I do. I meant Lord Blanchard is deadly dull.”

I laughed. “Lord Blanchard, huh? Fancy.”

“Very.”

“When did you meet young Lady Astrid?”

He slowly started walking along the edge of the pond and I fell in step beside him. “It was two summers ago.”

Keep it playful, Finley. NBD.

“Ooooh. A summer romance.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

I noticed there were more shadowy couples around this area, no doubt attracted by the darkness and surrounding trees.

“Did you and Astrid date all the way from summer to Christmas? Is that how the mistletoe came in?”

Arthur slowly twirled his cup of cider. “It’s . . . it’s, um . . .” He stopped and sighed. “. . . difficult. Embarrassing.” He rubbed the back of his neck before facing me. “Humiliating, really.”

Oh. This was different. It was one thing to get a romantic backstory from the boy you liked, it was quite another when that same backstory was the source of humiliation and pain.

I waved him off, taking a step back. “You don’t have to tell me.”

But it would seem he wanted to. “The short version is I liked her. I thought she liked me. I was wrong.” He said it as if stating mere facts disassociated from himself. He resumed walking and I followed.

“Her mistake.”

He sent me a wry look. “Isn’t that what people say when they’re trying to make you feel better?”

“Yes. But it’s also the truth.”

For what it was worth, he seemed to appreciate that. A cuddly couple approaching us from the opposite direction passed by. We nodded politely to each other as we crossed and continued on our respective ways.

“Actually, it was my mistake,” he admitted. “Quite a doozy, too.”

“You really don’t have to tell me.”

“I haven’t told anyone. Not since it happened.”

“Does your family know what happened?”

Resentment flashed across his expression. “Oh, yes. They know. All of them. And Sonya Martinez.”

I frowned. “Ms. Martinez?”

He nodded. “At my auntie’s behest, Sonya helped me gain admission to Barrington . . .” He cleared his throat. “. . . after I was kicked out of my previous boarding school in the UK.”