He held up one finger, asking me to wait, and then stepped into the bathroom off his bedroom, closing the door.

Well, that’s awkward. If it was a work call he’d have taken it in front of me.

All I needed to hear was his gentle voice saying, “Portia? It’s seven in the morning. What is it, love?” before I grabbed my bag and headed out of the flat.

One of the amazing things about London is that you don’t have to drive anywhere. Want coffee? There are a dozen shops lining the street. Need to pop into Selfridges at lunch? Oxford Street Tube is across the street. Iconic red buses stop at virtually every corner and there’s even the River Bus to take you down the Thames. Need to avoid an awkward taxi ride with someone you may or may not have manipulated into sleeping with you? Thankfully, a short trip on the Tube and the Southwark stop is just a few doors down from my office!

It was still raining when I stepped out onto the street, because of course it was. I’d showered quickly at home but needn’t have bothered. My little flats were immediately drenched by the puddles and the constant downpour, and made soppy squishing noises with every step. Cars splashed water up onto the narrow sidewalk and even my umbrella was no match for the storm. Luckily, if I moved close enough to the storefronts, the various awnings offered me some small measure of cover.

By the time I stepped into Richardson-Corbett, I was drenched. I squeezed the excess water from my skirt and jacket, reminding myself that my hair would dry the same as it probably did every day. And besides, the shower at home, the walk to work—it had given me time to talk myself down.

The I-love-you-You’re-lovely tic was nothing. It was us. This is what we did: I dove straight in; he dipped a toe in and then pulled it out to give himself time to consider whether the water was too cold. It’s why we worked, and there was no point questioning it.

I also needed to calm down about the way he’d brought up Portia, and then slinked off into the other room to take her call. To be honest, my brain actually stuttered more on that last one and I searched wildly in my thoughts to explain it away. He’d only been with one person, and married to her for over a decade. Of course it would be weird, right?

Pippa met me in the hall with wide eyes that scanned me from head to toe before saying, “Here,” and handing me her cup of coffee.

“That bad?” I asked.

“Have you seen yourself?”

“Well, that answers that,” I said, continuing on to our shared desk and setting down the coffee. “Thanks for this.”

Pippa nodded and took the chair opposite me. “Everything going okay?”

I nodded as I slipped out of my coat. “Yeah everything’s fine.” I looked up to see the message indicator light blinking on my phone. Picking it up, I punched in my pin and then covered the speaker, telling her, “It’s not even nine and today has done a lot. I just had a mental meltdown so epic it was like something out of a bad sitcom . . .” I paused, listening to the message and then swearing as I hung up the phone. “Anthony wants to see me as soon as I get in. Shit. Why is he here so early?”

“It can’t be that bad. I saw the email congratulating the New York team. And that bridge redesign you worked up went off without a hitch. He probably just realized it’s still raining and hasn’t seen you in that top before.” She grinned and rolled her eyes. “Hoping for a little wet T-shirt action, if you know what I mean.”

“Gross,” I said, dropping down into my chair. I reached into my bottom drawer for my cosmetics bag and emergency cardigan. “Okay, I’m going to clean up a little and then get this over with.”

“Go get ’em,” she said.

“You wanted to see me?” I asked, peering in through Anthony’s door.

He’d been arranging something near the bookcase, and turned to look at me. “Miss Miller, yes. Come in.”

Miss Miller?

I stepped inside the office and he added, “Close the door, please.”

My stomach dropped.

I did as he said and crossed the room to stand in front of his desk, stopping just on the other side of the extra chair. “Yes, sir?” I asked, the sentiment setting off a shudder down my spine.

“I need to talk to you about something very serious, I’m afraid.” He pushed a heavy, leather-bound volume back onto the shelf and crossed to the desk. “You have a bit of a choice to make here.”

I’d seen Anthony like this before: serious in an oddly coy way, trying to get me to draw the answer out of him.

I stood across from him, smiling. “What is it, Anthony?”