Nancy Warren - British Bad Boys

I love you? She knew it. Repeating the words would only make him sound like a pathetic wanker.

She came forward, leaned down, and kissed him quickly on the lips. Soon she’d be gone and not a word spoken.

“Wait,” he said.

She turned. Her brows rose slightly.

“I want to give you something.” Oh, bloody hell. What? He was naked but for…

“My ring. I want you to take my ring. It’s not a proper engagement ring, obviously. Well, for that you’d have to be engaged.” He managed a bit of a grin. “And you haven’t said yes, yet.” He tugged at the ring on his pinkie finger until it gave way, scraping over his knuckle. “It’s just something to remember me by.”

He held it out and she looked at the thing shining dully on his palm. “In the States we have something called a promise ring.”

He shook his head. “No promises. Call this an answer ring. If you decide you can bear to marry me, we’ll get you a proper ring. If not, then keep this one. With my love.”

She touched it with a fingertip, as though scared. “It’s not a priceless heirloom that ought to be on display with the crown jewels, is it?”

“No. It’s my school ring. I’m fond of it, that’s all.”

She nodded slowly. She pushed it onto the ring finger of her right hand, and it fit pretty well. “Thanks.”

There was a pause, so thick with meaning that there was nothing left to say.

“I have to go.”

“Yes.”

And she was gone.

Failure. What did that mean exactly? Max mused as Simon’s rented Land Rover lumbered up to the next grand manor on the list. Simon was morose this morning. He wasn’t a morning person and she had a strong inkling that the beer followed by the scotch last night had left him less talkative this morning.

Green hills and fields dotted with sheep made restful, almost hypnotic viewing as they headed north. She’d already visited the location and knew that the industrious owners were selling a lot of Olde English jams, jellies, fruit cakes, condiments, and candies over the Internet.

The estate was family-run, and the baronet she’d be interviewing had three pink-cheeked English children, so perfect they looked like a politician’s Christmas card.

For some reason, going to that perfect family depressed her a little.

Failure.

Would she be more of a failure if she quit her job and became the wife of an estate-bound earl? Or would true failure involve passing on the only man she’d ever loved?

She’d received an e-mail from her mom with the news that her sister Rachel’s divorce was final. Somehow, if the universe had the time to send her signs, that seemed a clear one that true love wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

Although Rachel’s choice of husbands sucked big-time, which had to be a factor. Rachel hadn’t given up her career, though. She was a chef with a growing reputation in one of L.A. ’s hottest restaurants. Even with her marriage breaking up, she’d have her life. Her identity. Her work.

All the things that Max would have to give up.

But she could still marry George and be herself, for God’s sake. And there was always work. She could take over the marketing of the estate, for instance. She could produce a short film for the visitors to see that would add value to their experience.

She could maybe even get some TV work over here.

She ran her thumb over the bumpy ring on her finger. He’d looked so sweet when he’d given her the ring, still warm from where he’d slept with it on his finger. She missed him so much already.

George tried not to be a whiner. He liked to think he was a chap who got on with things. But it wasn’t easy when everywhere he looked, he saw Maxine or remembered something she’d said.

Two weeks passed and they managed one snatched night at an inn near York. Enough time to freshen their longing for each other, and make him more miserable when he returned home.

Two more weeks passed and the phone calls were getting longer, the sadness when they hung up deeper. She’d be finished in another few days and they were going to meet in London for a weekend before she took a flight back to L.A. for postproduction. Then how long until they could manage to see each other?

He was embarrassed at his own state of peevish lovesickness and, determined to rid himself of it, headed down to the pub for his regular Wednesday night darts game.

Arthur greeted him with a nod, and already had George’s pint on the counter before he’d reached it.

“Cheers,” he said, as he lifted the heavy mug and sipped.

“You look like a bag of shite,” Arthur said.

“Thanks very much.”

“You’ve got it bad.”

George contemplated asking what Arthur was referring to, but decided he’d look like more of a git. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t think I’d live to see the day that you got that lovesick look about you.”

“If you don’t mind, I came here to have a few drinks with the lads and throw darts. I did not come to discuss my love life.”

“Then you shouldn’t come into my pub looking like a wet weekend.”

“Sorry. You’re right.” George sipped again. “I thought I’d be able to forget about her for five minutes down at the pub, but I was remembering the scene they filmed here.”

“Aye. I remember. That’s the day she told me she loves you.”

George set down his mug with a thump, feeling foolish and eager. “She did?”

“Clear as a bell. We were watching you. Well, I wasn’t, but that girl couldn’t tear her eyes off you. She had it as bad as you.”

“I wish I knew what to do.”

“Don’t worry. She’ll come back.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then it wasn’t meant to be. And a year from now you’ll be falling all over yourself for some new bird.”

He wouldn’t, but he appreciated that Arthur was trying to cheer him up.

“You ever been in love?”

“Funny, Maxine asked me the same thing.”

“She did?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Same as I’ll tell you. Lots of times.”

George shook his head. “Wasn’t real love. Believe me. When it hits you, you’ll know.”

“Well, if it makes me look as sick as you, I think I’ll stick to the kind I know, thanks.”

“You’re the smart one. This kind hurts like hell.”

Arthur glanced up as the door opened. It was Wednesday; with the darts they were always busy Wednesdays.

“What would you tell Maxine if she walked through the door right now?”

A tiny shaft of pain pricked him. God, if only.

“I’d tell her I love her. Which she already knows.” He rubbed a hand over his face and realized he’d forgotten to shave. Which wasn’t like him. Arthur was right. He was turning into a wet weekend.

“What else?”

“I’d tell her I’ve already set up three interviews for estate managers. I want to tell her I’ll chuck the place entirely.” Arthur looked startled until George shook his head. “But I can’t chuck it. All I can do is work it out so I don’t have to be here as often, I suppose. I’d tell her I can live without her, because there’s nothing more nauseating than somebody pretending they’ll die if they don’t get the woman they want. But I won’t live as happily, you see.”

“That’s not a bad declaration,” Arthur said, a tiny grin playing around his mouth.

“Yeah. Maybe you should tape it and send it to her. She likes things that go on telly.”

“He doesn’t have to. I already heard it,” a voice said from behind him. A female voice, one he heard in his mind all the time and hadn’t imagined he’d hear again in person, not so soon.

He turned so fast he damned near fell on his arse. “Maxine.”