Then the strangest thing happens. It’s like he’s heard my thoughts. Jamie glances up and locks eyes with me. Then he smiles, slow and soft and a little crooked. It makes my heart thud violently against my ribs, makes each step toward him pound in tempo with my heartbeat.

And when I’m at his side, everything feels right. “Hi,” I tell him.

He swallows roughly, then slides his arm around my waist, pressing a long, soft kiss to my hair. “Missed you,” he whispers. “Doing all right?”

I wrap my arm around him, too. “Yeah. I’m good now.”

He nods.

“Tell him, Hawthorne,” a man says, and instantly I know it’s his dad. Not only because of the posh British accent but because, God, Jamie looks just like him—tall, lean, neat waves; same long, proud nose. And yet he doesn’t. When Arthur Westenberg’s gaze lands on me, I shiver. There’s a chilliness in it that makes me shrink against Jamie. Where Jamie’s eyes are full of warmth and kindness, this man’s gaze is calculating and ice-cold. His voice dies off. He cocks his head. “Who’s this, James?”

Jamie softly releases my waist and sets a hand reassuringly on my back. “This is Bea Wilmot, my girlfriend. Bea, my father, Arthur Westenberg.”

“Nice to meet you,” I lie.

Arthur sniffs and doesn’t say anything, just tips his head in the other direction, examining me. Jamie’s grip on my back tightens as he introduces me to the rest of the group. “Bea, this is an old friend of my father’s and his colleague, Dr. Lawrence Hawthorne—” The older man nods politely. “And my brothers, Henry, Edward, and Sam.”

The first two, who are much more a blend of Jamie’s parents, give me openly critical once-overs, but it’s Sam, whose resemblance is more like Jamie’s, his eyes just as warm, his hair cut much shorter, who offers his hand and grins. “Good to finally meet you. I’ve heard lots of great things.”

“Behave yourself,” Jamie warns, but he’s smiling gently.

“Nice to meet you all,” I tell them. Except you, you, and you, I think to myself, directed toward his prickly, cold father and the snobby other brothers. “Sorry I interrupted.”

“Quite all right,” Dr. Hawthorne says.

Swirling his cocktail, then draining it, Jamie’s dad gives me one more critical glance before he sets his glass on a passing tray. “I was just asking Hawthorne here to talk sense into James.”

Sam sighs and sips his cocktail. Jamie’s stiff beside me.

Arthur leans in a little. “Well, aren’t you going to ask what I’m talking about?”

“I think you’re going to tell me whether or not I do.”

Jamie’s grip on my waist tightens. He hides a smile behind his cough.