The hotel was one that she had only ever heard of as being very posh. She tried not to gawk, but it was like something out of a movie with its checkered tiles and chandeliers, its arches and columns and refined opulence.

The staff treated Saint like a movie star, too. Or, she supposed, like a man who could buy out the place if he wanted to. As they arrived at the dining room, the maître d’ escorted them to a table that bore a Reserved sign, leaving a well-dressed party of four grumbling at the reception podium.

“Do you have any allergies?” Saint asked Fliss as he seated her.

“No.”

“Have the chef prepare us a tasting menu,” he told the maître d’. “Wine to pair, and don’t let anyone bother us.”

The man nodded with deference and melted away.

“Fliss. Is that short for something?” Saint unbuttoned his jacket as he sat, leaving it hanging open while he leaned back, at ease with who he was and where they were. “Tell me about yourself.”

Ugh. “Must I?”

“You don’t want to?” His gaze delved deep into her own.

“It’s gloomy.” She dropped her own gaze, heart clenching. “My parents died when I was eight. They were all I had aside from my granny. She raised me and passed a couple of years ago. I moved to London for a fresh start.” Losing her was still a painful knife in her chest.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.”

An amuse-bouche arrived to lighten the mood. It was a single bite of ceviche on a foam of fragrant dill served on a silver spoon, topped by a few grains of caviar and a sprinkle of chopped chive. They chased it with a light wine ripe with notes of pear and anise.

Fliss had never noticed such subtleties of flavor before. She thought her senses might’ve been sharpened by the company she was in. Being in the aura of this man was a thrill somewhere between lion taming and steering a high-performance car through the streets of Monaco.

“What do you do here?” he asked.

“Fashion designer.” It might not have been her job, but painters were artists even if they didn’t sell their work. “I’m still starting out. You? What brings you to London?”

“Patting the backs of our top performers at the gala this evening.”

“Shouldn’t you be there, then?”

He shrugged it off. “They’ll have more fun without the boss keeping them in check.”

“Is that what your work entails? Travel and glad-handing?”

“Much of it, yes.” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Why are you asking about my work?”

“Why are you interested in mine? We have to talk about something. It’s too bad I don’t have my tarot cards.” She looked to her small handbag. “I could have done a reading for you.”

“Do you really believe in the supernatural, or are you stringing me along?”

“Both.” She couldn’t help grinning. “Granny used to take me to a psychic sometimes, to see if we could talk to my parents. When I was twelve, I won my tarot cards at a fair. It came with a book of interpretations, so I spent the rest of my adolescence learning to read them. I’ve delved a little into astrology and numerology. Crystals. As far as explaining life’s mysteries, they make as much sense as anything else.”

“What about ghosts?”

“What about them? Don’t say you don’t believe in them.” She leaned forward to warn, “There’s one right behind you.”

It was their server, coming to remove their plates. Saint’s reaction to the sudden movement in his periphery was a flicker of his gaze, then a shake of his head at her. “You’re trouble.”

She bit back a chuckle, enjoying herself. This was a unique position. She had no history with him, no future—only now. It allowed her to be completely herself without fear of judgment or consequence. It was thrilling.

“I know how farfetched these things sound,” she conceded. “But belief isn’t about being rational, is it? It’s what we convince ourselves is true when we don’t have evidence to tell us otherwise. When I set out my cards, that’s all I’m looking for—evidence to support a belief I already have. Should I move to London? Oh, look. I pulled a card that means material success. That must mean I’ll achieve my goals if I move to London.”

“Sounds more like you’re tricking yourself.”

“We all trick ourselves.” Fliss waved that away. “If you prefer to believe that heaven exists, that’s the trick you’ve chosen because there’s no way to prove what really happens after death. Maybe it’s my imagination that I hear my grandmother’s voice when I set out my cards, but who cares if it is? It brings me comfort to feel like I’m talking to her. And in a way, I am keeping her spirit alive by invoking her. Does that make her a ghost whose energy is in the room?”

“You’ve almost convinced me to believe in something completely illogical.” He tilted his head as though trying to understand how she’d accomplished it. “It sounds like you were very close with her.”

“I was.” She was unable to prevent the pang of loss that thinned her voice. “But her quality of life had deteriorated so much by the time she passed, I really believe she’s in a better place. It was still hard to be left behind.” She could feel herself descending into melancholy so she added, “She loved to spin a yarn, too. You couldn’t trust a word she said. I suppose I keep her alive in that way as well.”

Saint’s face blanked. “Is everything you’ve just told me pure BS?”

“Does it matter? You wanted to be entertained, and you are. Thank you.” She smiled as the server presented a crystal shot glass filled with layers of gazpacho from dark red beet through a rich green cucumber and avocado to a bright yellow heirloom tomato topped with a morsel of lobster and a sprig of mint.

A Reuilly Sauvignon Blanc was poured into a fresh glass, even though she hadn’t finished her first glass of wine and the bottle was still mostly full.

Saint wasn’t trying to get her drunk by urging her to finish, though. He caught her concerned glance at the ice bucket and said drily, “The staff won’t let the opened bottles go to waste.”

The soup was gone in three swallows but left a minty tang on Fliss’s tongue that was amplified by a sip of the citrus and vanilla in the wine.

They talked about incidentals over a delicate bouquet of colorful baby lettuce leaves and sprigs of herbs arranged with edible flowers on a pureed dressing, then a main of braised duck with baby turnips and figs.

Saint seemed genuinely interested in her, asking about her taste in music and movies, where she had traveled—London and a school trip to Paris, years ago. He made her feel special, but Fliss knew that was an illusion. She was here. That was all.

It was still nice to be on a date. She had a strong sense of self and what she wanted to accomplish with her life, but she suffered certain feelings of inadequacy and lack of experience with romantic relationships.

She veered from thinking about that piece-of-dirt boyfriend she’d had back in sixth form, irritated that she was still letting him affect her, but he’d made sexuality such a complicated thing for her. At first, it had been fun and light, but soon he’d pressured her to have sex. She’d gone along with it out of insecurity with their relationship and normal adolescent curiosity, but it had been very un-special.

First times were often awkward, so she wouldn’t have had such hard feelings about it, but he’d begun telling people she’d given it up to him. Angry, she’d broken up with him only for him to spread nasty rumors that he’d broken things off because she was “the town bike.”

She’d lost friendships over it and a lot of trust in boys. For the rest of school and into uni, she had had all the typical curiosity and desires of a healthy, youthful person, but she’d also felt deeply self-conscious when she’d showed so much as a collarbone or an ankle, loath to draw sexual attention in case she’d been accused of asking for it.

Eventually, she’d begun to relax and come out of her shell again, but by then, Granny’s health had turned. Fliss had moved home, where she had fallen back into old patterns of keeping her head down. In a lot of ways, worry for Granny had tapped her out emotionally, too. There hadn’t been room for a romantic relationship, so she hadn’t pursued any.

Moving to London had been another fresh start, but between making ends meet and chasing her dreams, she didn’t have much time for a social life. Occasionally, she joined her housemates at the pub, but she’d never met a man who interested her enough to choose him over her ambitions.

Until now.

Not that Saint was likely to derail her in any way. He was the most unattainable man in dating history. It was well-documented. He was buying her dinner. That was all this was and all it would be.

She turned the tables on him, though, and learned that his parents lived in New York and that he had a penthouse there but also a home in California because he spent so much time there. He attended plays or movie premieres. He was wired for logic and technology where she gravitated to arts and the ethereal. He traveled the globe on a monthly basis.

“We genuinely have nothing in common,” Fliss noted wryly. “I have a passport I’ve used precisely once. I renewed it when I moved to London, hoping I’d need it for work.” Surely she would be recognized as a genius and sent to Fashion Week in New York? Or, at the very least, would book herself a trip to attend?