“I did. I was happy for the company. Why? Is he not permitted to ride?”
“No, I was glad to see some color in his cheeks. I often worry about him.”
“Does your father share your concern?”
“My father worries for nothing but himself and his own amusements. Which is why he’s determined to have me married and gone from the estate as soon as possible.”
Robert assumed as much. He had only ventured to Greenspeak last week to discuss a property line with Lord Destonbury when the man insisted Robert seek out his daughter, who he mentioned was of the perfect age to be married.
“Is that why you’re so opposed to me?” he then asked. “To spite your father?”
“I need to stay at Greenspeak for George. I will not leave him here alone.”
Robert looked at Charlotte with a hidden smile. So that’s why she wanted no part of him. She was protecting her brother. He wasn’t surprised. He was in awe of her. His little lioness.
At that same moment, Charlotte stole a glance up at Robert. She couldn’t deny she felt a certain attraction to him. How could she not? Gazing off into the distance, he looked impeccable but completely masculine in his blue tailcoat, brown buckskin breeches and Hessian boots. She forced herself to turn away as a flicker of heat began to spread through her chest and stomach and beyond.
Inexperienced as she was, Charlotte could sense what was beginning, and she had no doubt that wanting a man like Robert Westmond would cost her far more than she was willing to pay...
I pull my fingers away from the keyboard, dizzy and a little out of breath. I’d like to think it was solely due to the excitement of making headway with my story, but I know it’s not just that. My night with Ryan is still buzzing around me. There’s no mistaking it now. I’ve linked him to this novel, and I won’t be able to have one without the other. As if my writing process wasn’t painful enough.
And with the way things left off tonight, I’m sure he’s going to do whatever he can to stay away from me. But it’s also becoming increasingly obvious that if I’m going to finish this book by my deadline, I can’t afford to stay away from him. It’s going to be a battle only one of us can win, and that person has to be me.
6
The next morning, I’m dressed in stretchy pants, a long knotted T-shirt and running shoes when I exit my Tudor City apartment building. Nestled between 40th and 41st Street, the towering prewar building has vintage steel windows and romantic stone architecture. The interior gives off a distinct English manor house feel, so much so that when I look out the hallway windows, I sometimes expect to see rolling countryside instead of the United Nations or Long Island City.
I spot my friend Maggie standing outside the Tudor City Greens, a small gated park that’s parallel to the building’s entrance. There aren’t many cars on the road as I cross the street, but that’s usually the case. The uncommon quietness of the block is part of the reason why I fell in love with Tudor City and used the signing advance from my biggest book deal as the down payment for my one-bedroom co-op.
Maggie’s eyes are closed with her face tipped towards the sun when I reach her side.
“Hey, hey!” I call out.
Maggie and I met five years ago at the New York Sports Club. We both joined the gym on a whim and quit after a month (we weren’t allowed to drop out earlier due to contractual reasons). We hit it off right away when we both got the giggles during a yoga class. It’s amazing how fast a bond can form when twenty people are giving you death glares in tandem from eco-friendly mats.
“Morning,” she says, giving me a hug.
Her curly black hair is pulled back in a high ponytail with a pair of sunglasses resting in the unruly waves. Wearing a pair of skinny jeans with a stylish but effortless white V-neck and strappy sandals, she looks casual while exuding feminine confidence. I want to dress like her when I grow up.
“So I’m thinking I need to find the most substantial meal this island has to offer. Are you ready to join me on this endeavor?”
“Ready and willing,” I answer.
“Phenomenal.” Maggie locks her arm through mine and starts walking, pulling me along in the process. “How about The Smith? Their Sunday brunch is always on point.”
“I’m all about it.”
“The Smith it is. And if we walk fast enough, we won’t feel like gluttonous monsters when we split the s’more in a jar for dessert.”
“We shouldn’t feel that way regardless. God didn’t put us on this earth to not eat s’mores.”
“Amen,” Maggie agrees. “And after we eat, I need to stop at Old Navy—my last stain-free blouse got assaulted with finger paint at the nursery school last week. I don’t know how this keeps happening to me when I’m not even the art teacher.”
“The struggle is real.”
“It’s very real. Marjorie nearly threw my ukulele at me yesterday when I stopped for a water break. People have no idea what a volatile field music therapy can be.”
I didn’t even know music therapists existed until I met Maggie. When I went to her apartment for the first time and found it flooded with instruments, I was taken aback. When she spent the following half hour playing the piano, the guitar, the violin and a dash of percussion, I almost hit the floor.
I’ve always been jealous of musicians. They play and get lost in their music, escaping to an untouchable place that I want to go to, but can’t. That’s probably why music therapy is so transformative for so many people—it’s a little taste of magic.
“I love Marjorie,” I say, remembering her from the time I shadowed Maggie at work. “But I thought you said the nursing home
