when I was in school. Music was always a hobby I happened to do well at. Then came our first single, and the hobby became a career.” He gazed out upon the waves and watched them break against the shore. “I have the best job in the world. I get paid an obscene amount of money to do what I like. Few people have that luxury.”
“You seem as though you have regrets.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Miranda studied his profile, and thought she saw a hint of sadness in his face. “I shouldn’t,” he said. “I’ve been incredibly lucky with my music for twenty-two years. My band mates are my best friends. I’ve got more money than I’ll ever know what to do with. I’ve got nothing to complain about, but…”
“But?” she encouraged, sitting closer to him to offer what comfort she could.
He turned and looked at her, and his gaze sent a blazing current of longing directly to her heart. “It’s a lonely life.”
“Millions of people all over the world adore you. You live in a castle with a staff of what, about two hundred? All you have to do is snap your fingers and you’d have an instant party.”
“Do you really think it’s that easy for me?”
“Yep.”
“You’re right. It is. But do you think that’s what I really want?”
She dropped her eyes to the tiny bubbles exploding to the surface in her wine glass. “I don’t know you well enough to know what you want.”
He hooked a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. He held her gaze long enough for her to consider the possibility that what he wanted was the same thing she wanted: honest companionship. “I’d like to change that. I’d like to know you better as well.”
She shrank away from him. “Mr. Fletcher—”
“Lucas. Please. Mr. Fletcher is my father.”
Miranda clapped a hand to her forehead. “This is very strange.”
He looked surprised. “I was enjoying the sheer normalcy of this. I’m sitting on a moon-drenched beach having a lovely conversation with a smart, fascinating woman. The only thing strange about the evening is that you actually accepted my invitation.”
“I didn’t really have a choice,” she admitted. “My publisher made it clear that my job depended on going through with this date.”
“I’m sorry, Miranda. That wasn’t my intention.”
“It isn’t your fault. It’s the way Rex Wrentham operates.”
Lucas swirled his wine in his glass. “Is that the only reason you came here? Because of your boss?”
She took a breath and opened her mouth to answer, but she was distracted by laughter from farther along the beach. Miranda saw a couple playfully chasing each other along the shoreline. “I assumed this was a private beach,” she said. “Or that your dogs would have eaten any other visitors.”
“This is a private beach.” Lucas grinned and shook his head as the couple neared. “Even so, the whole town is welcome to it.”
“Do you know those people?”
“The tall one is my father. The short one in the skirt is my mum.” He stood to greet his parents. Miranda followed suit.
“We didn’t know you were out, Luke, or we’d ’ave carried about down coast a bit,” said Mrs. Fletcher.
Miranda scarcely understood a word through the woman’s heavy Welsh accent.
“It’s all right, mum,” Lucas said. “We were just enjoying the view. Mum, Da, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Miranda Penney.”
“How do you do?” Miranda said.
Mrs. Fletcher reached up and took Miranda’s hand in both of hers. “Aren’t you the most darling thing? Very pleased to meet you. I hope you’re enjoying your visit to Conwy.”
Miranda nodded, having understood only the gist of what Mrs. Fletcher said.
“Me son tells me you’re a writer, for sports,” Mr. Fletcher said as he shook Miranda’s hand.
“Yes, sir, I am,” she said, relieved to understand him. Like Lucas’s, his accent was softer and sounded more English than Welsh. He was heavier than his son and his hair was
“You seem as though you have regrets.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Miranda studied his profile, and thought she saw a hint of sadness in his face. “I shouldn’t,” he said. “I’ve been incredibly lucky with my music for twenty-two years. My band mates are my best friends. I’ve got more money than I’ll ever know what to do with. I’ve got nothing to complain about, but…”
“But?” she encouraged, sitting closer to him to offer what comfort she could.
He turned and looked at her, and his gaze sent a blazing current of longing directly to her heart. “It’s a lonely life.”
“Millions of people all over the world adore you. You live in a castle with a staff of what, about two hundred? All you have to do is snap your fingers and you’d have an instant party.”
“Do you really think it’s that easy for me?”
“Yep.”
“You’re right. It is. But do you think that’s what I really want?”
She dropped her eyes to the tiny bubbles exploding to the surface in her wine glass. “I don’t know you well enough to know what you want.”
He hooked a finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. He held her gaze long enough for her to consider the possibility that what he wanted was the same thing she wanted: honest companionship. “I’d like to change that. I’d like to know you better as well.”
She shrank away from him. “Mr. Fletcher—”
“Lucas. Please. Mr. Fletcher is my father.”
Miranda clapped a hand to her forehead. “This is very strange.”
He looked surprised. “I was enjoying the sheer normalcy of this. I’m sitting on a moon-drenched beach having a lovely conversation with a smart, fascinating woman. The only thing strange about the evening is that you actually accepted my invitation.”
“I didn’t really have a choice,” she admitted. “My publisher made it clear that my job depended on going through with this date.”
“I’m sorry, Miranda. That wasn’t my intention.”
“It isn’t your fault. It’s the way Rex Wrentham operates.”
Lucas swirled his wine in his glass. “Is that the only reason you came here? Because of your boss?”
She took a breath and opened her mouth to answer, but she was distracted by laughter from farther along the beach. Miranda saw a couple playfully chasing each other along the shoreline. “I assumed this was a private beach,” she said. “Or that your dogs would have eaten any other visitors.”
“This is a private beach.” Lucas grinned and shook his head as the couple neared. “Even so, the whole town is welcome to it.”
“Do you know those people?”
“The tall one is my father. The short one in the skirt is my mum.” He stood to greet his parents. Miranda followed suit.
“We didn’t know you were out, Luke, or we’d ’ave carried about down coast a bit,” said Mrs. Fletcher.
Miranda scarcely understood a word through the woman’s heavy Welsh accent.
“It’s all right, mum,” Lucas said. “We were just enjoying the view. Mum, Da, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Miranda Penney.”
“How do you do?” Miranda said.
Mrs. Fletcher reached up and took Miranda’s hand in both of hers. “Aren’t you the most darling thing? Very pleased to meet you. I hope you’re enjoying your visit to Conwy.”
Miranda nodded, having understood only the gist of what Mrs. Fletcher said.
“Me son tells me you’re a writer, for sports,” Mr. Fletcher said as he shook Miranda’s hand.
“Yes, sir, I am,” she said, relieved to understand him. Like Lucas’s, his accent was softer and sounded more English than Welsh. He was heavier than his son and his hair was
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