“It’s—you know—the holidays,” she answered.

He sat beside her and saw she was holding the silver picture frame Everett had given her with the picture of the once happy family at Brighton ages ago.

It confirmed his suspicions; this trip back to London must have been tiptoeing through an emotional minefield for Rachel.

“Maybe coming back home wasn’t such a great idea,” he suggested.

She shook her head but managed a smile. “It’s actually been so much better than I thought. Dinner last night, the Ferris wheel, being here with you . . .”

She motioned out the window. “We even got ourselves a white Christmas.”

Frankel followed her gaze. The streets of Covent Garden were blanketed in white, courtesy of a heavy snowfall in the middle of the night. The city looked dazzling, but in his eyes it didn’t hold a candle to Rachel.

“Still, I know it must be hard being here this time of year—any time of year for that matter—without . . .” He broke off and nodded toward the photograph.

“That’s for sure.”

He reached over and took her hand. “Maybe you’ll just tell me it’s none of my business, but I know there’s this thing between you and your father that’s gone on since your mom died. But I also see the way that he looks at you, the way he talks about you, and I know whatever it is, it’s tearing him to pieces. And with him retiring, something I’m damn sure he’s not ready for, I think he’d be lost without you in his life.”

“I think those are the most words I’ve ever heard anyone say without taking a breath.”

“Rachel . . .”

“I’m not avoiding the subject, John. I want him in my life more than anything.” She shook her head. “And I don’t want you minding your business. I’ve barely known you a week but for some reason I want you to know everything. Warts and all.”

“But . . .”

“But I’m afraid if I tell you everything, you might end up running for the hills and never look back.”

“First of all, London is pretty flat and I’d collapse before I even got to a hill. And secondly, I can’t imagine anything you might have done that would make me even consider it.”

“It’s not something I did.” She shook her head again. “It’s something I should have done.”

“Just tell me, Rachel.”

“John . . .”

“You said it yourself. You want me to know everything, right?”

She gently nodded. “I do—but . . .”

“Just like I want you to know everything about me.” He held up her hand and clutched it with his other one. “For this to succeed, it needs to work both ways. And I want this to work—more than anything in my entire life.”

The tears fell again down her cheek. Frankel gently wiped them away.

“Me too,” she whispered.