chapter 2

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One of the drawbacks of being born into an extraordinary family is average can feel like utter failure. When you’re Lois Lane surrounded by a household of Supermen it can be rather . . . intimidating. Disheartening.

Or motivating, depending on your outlook.

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I come from a long line of remarkable people. Perfect people. People who seem like they were manufactured on a shiny assembly line of grand accomplishments.

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Take my father for example—Montgomery Felix Haddock, the 10th Earl of Bumblebridge—seated at the far end of the dining table, reading the morning edition of the Wessconian Times, his distinguished brow drawn low in concentration. Many would have been satisfied with their inherited title, but not my father, not in this family.

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He went on to become a world-renowned barrister specializing in international law and human rights. He’s also the founding partner of Haddock & Lipton, the most esteemed law firm in Wessco.

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Mother—Antoinette Bellamy-Haddock—seated to Father’s right, wearing her oval mother-of-pearl reading glasses, was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics before the age of twenty. Twice.

She’s now the Head Chair of the Bellamy-Haddock School of Physics and Chemistry at Wilfordshire University.

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Beside mother is my eldest brother, Sterling—a three-time gold medal triathlon Olympian and Rhodes Scholar. His wife, Gertrude, recently

developed the cure for Ebola and their ten-year-old twin daughters, Estelle and Helena, are musical prodigies in violin and cello, respectively.

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Seated across from Sterling’s family is my sister, Athena—an international supermodel and mathematician who managed to solve the previously unsolvable Collatz Conjecture in-between photo shoots.

And I’m not even joking.

Her husband, Jasper, sipping his tea and checking the market fluctuations on his phone, is a self-made billionaire and Governor of the Bank of Wessco.

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There’s an empty seat beside Jasper where my brother Luke would be sitting if he were here. Several years ago, Luke was on his way to becoming the youngest chess master in the history of the game. But then he . . . stopped.

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Now he travels, returning home occasionally—but he’s very good about sending photos from all his trips to the family group chat.

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In the seat of honor is my grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Bumblebridge. Her blouse is silk and dark green, matching the color of her eyes—the same shade as my own. The diamond bracelet around her slender wrist sparkles in the midmorning sun streaming through the arched windows, as she fills in the pages of her leather-bound organizer with perfect penmanship.

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Though my grandfather passed away years ago and there is “Dowager” in front of her title, Grandmother is still very much the head of the Haddocks. Because my father’s commitments take him out of the country, she casts the votes for the family’s seat in the House of Lords.

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Grandmother’s accomplishments are . . . us. She’s the glue that holds us together, the force that pushes us onward and ever upward, the fuel behind our desire to bring recognition to the family name.

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And then, there’s me.

I graduated from one of the most prestigious universities in the country

—but not early. I went on to attend an elite medical school and graduated with honors—but not as valedictorian. I’m the duck in a sea of swans. There’s nothing remarkable or extraordinary about me—though it’s not for lack of trying.

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“How are you progressing in your residency program, Abigail?”

Saturday brunch at the Bumblebridge estate is a quiet, reserved time for the family. A period of self-reflection and study. To refresh our focus, and prepare and plan for the week ahead. So, my grandmother’s inquiry is not an attempt at pleasant conversation—it’s a request for a status update.

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“Things are progressing well,” I reply. “This afternoon I’ll be scrubbing in on a laparoscopic cholecystectomy.”

I’m a surgical resident at Highgrove Hospital, with a focus in cardiovascular specialty. I gesture to the open medical journal in front of me, though I already know every step by heart. I record myself reading aloud and play it at night as I go to sleep to reinforce the information. “It’s an honor for a third year to be selected to assist in such a procedure.”

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“I see.” My grandmother nods. “It’s a six-year program, is that correct?” I take a drink of water to moisten my suddenly parched throat.

“That’s right.”

“Mmm,” she hums. “And you’ll actually require all that time to get through it?”

Every pair of eyes at the table turns to me. Even Estelle and Helena stare. Creepily. Like those little REDRUM girls in The Shining.

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And the damned clickety-clack of the grandfather clock in the corner sounds louder than ever. More distracting.

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Can’t they hear it too?

“I’m doing everything I can to accelerate my way through the program; however, it does seem that I’ll need the full six, yes.”

She nods—not appearing disappointed exactly, but none too pleased either.

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“Well, perhaps an opportunity will present itself for you to distinguish yourself from the pack. For instance, if the Queen were to develop an acute cardiac condition and there were no other surgeons available—you could volunteer to perform the procedure. And then you would be forever known as the doctor who saved Queen Lenora’s life.”

The Haddocks are distantly related by marriage to the Pembrooks. I’ve met Queen Lenora and her grandsons; Prince Nicholas and Henry are only a few years older than me. I like them all very much. They seem . . . warm, fun . . . at least when there aren’t too many people around to see it.

It doesn’t feel right to imagine an affliction befalling the Queen just so I could make a name for myself.

So I smile tightly and say, “Perhaps.”

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Grandmother nods and closes her organizer, then she rings the silver bell beside her bread plate, summoning the butler.

“You may clear the table now, Grogg.”

I stand and slip my textbook and laptop into my satchel.

“My new trial begins this Friday,” Father says. “I’ll be away for the next few weeks.” Slowly, he gazes at each of us. “Be well, everyone.”

“Be well, Father,” I return softly, and we all wish him success.

Sterling, Athena and I don’t live on the estate grounds with my grandmother and parents. My flat is in the city near the hospital. But there is one additional reason I enjoy coming to brunch at Bumblebridge. I look out the window, towards the rear of the house, and glimpse creamy Italian marble and sparkling aquamarine water.

As my grandmother walks past me towards the door to her private office, I tell her, “I’m going to swim a few laps to clear my head before heading to the hospital.”

She pats my arm.

“Whatever may help, darling.”

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The swimming pool is my happy place—my meditation altar and my yoga mat. I love the rhythm of the breaststroke, the coordination of the front

crawl, the weightless, worriless repetition of each smooth, gliding movement.

Fifty good laps in the rectangular oasis later, I take off my goggles and float on my back into the middle, breathing slow and steady. My arms are out, eyes closed, muscles relaxed and my face tilted like a flower towards the warm summer sun.

After a few moments, I swim over to the ladder and climb out, pulling off my swim cap and shaking out my wavy auburn hair. Just as I’m about to slip on a robe and head into the house to dress, a familiar sound comes from behind.

Kersploosh

I turn and gaze down into the pool—where a fat little frog floats on his belly on top of the water. I kneel down to grab him, but the little bugger kicks away.

And I just can’t leave him, not when I know he’ll be bloated and drowned by morning. The small ones love to jump in, but they can never manage to find their way back out.

I move down the steps into the waist-deep water—and I’m able to scoop him into my hands. “Gotcha!”

Until he jumps right back out again.

Kersploosh

“Hey!” I trot after him. “Come back here, I’m trying to help you!”

After a few minutes of thrashing and splashing, I capture the little ingrate and tell him in no uncertain terms, “You can’t swim in here. It’s not good for you. Can you please not be stubborn about this?”

“I hope you’re not expecting him to answer,” a smooth, deep voice says from behind me.

I whirl around and come face-to-face with the man I’ve tried very hard not to think about for the past two years. For a moment, all the breath rushes from my lungs, because kissing Tommy Sullivan was the most reckless, thrilling thing I’ve ever done. A spontaneous, insane lapse in judgement.

And now he’s here, looking even more handsome than he did then.

Broad-shouldered and tall, with careless hair, and full lips that I already know are strong yet soft—and very, very skilled.

And I’m standing in a pool . . . holding a frog. Life is odd sometimes.

“Of course not. The frog larynx isn’t sophisticated enough for speech. But I believe any living being can understand your intentions if you lay it out for them.”

The corner of his mouth pulls up, like he’s amused. Then he crouches down and gestures for me to hand the creature over. He holds him in his large hands and looks him sternly in the eyes.

“Stay out of the pool or I’ll stick a firecracker up your arse and blow you into pieces, mate.”

Then he tosses him on the grass.

“A bit violent, don’t you think?” I ask. “But effective.”

As quick as I can, I get out of the pool and slip on my robe. The terry- cloth barrier makes me feel more confident, a shield against the grazing brown eyes watching my every move.

“I remember you,” I inform him.

“Happy to hear it, I like to make an impression.” He grins. “And I remember you—a woman who’s good with her hands and her tongue is not one I’d soon forget.”

Tommy Sullivan is over six feet tall, and every inch of him is wicked. It emanates from him—in the slouch of his stance, the curl of his lip, the mischievous sparkle in his eyes. He’s the kind of man who could make a girl forget herself, without even trying.

“What in the world are you doing here?”

He jerks his thumb over his shoulder towards the main house.

“I just met with the Dowager Countess about the security position.”

On occasion, when Father goes to trial against a particularly nasty adversary, temporary personal security is hired for the family as a precaution.

“Aren’t you still on the Prince’s team?”

He shakes his head. “After the fire at The Goat my partner, Logan, and I hung out our own shingle.” He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, like he’s tasting something there. “What about you, Apple Blossom? Are you still at Highgrove working to become a physician?”

“A surgeon,” I correct. “Yes, I am.” “That’s adorable.”

“Adorable?” I don’t like his tone—it’s condescending. Cocky. I cross my arms and step towards him. “You think studying to become one of the

best cardiovascular surgeons in the country is ‘adorable’?”

He chuckles. “No, not actually, I just wanted to see you get riled up again. I figured that would do the trick.”

“You like making women angry with you?”

“Not typically. But there’s something about your ire that really does it for me.” He leans in closer—all smooth, suave and seductive. “You have a beautiful frown, sweets. Has anyone ever told you that?”

His comment makes me frown harder. Which amuses him even further.

Or maybe Tommy Sullivan just spends his whole life amused. “Masochist,” I counter.

“Never gave that one a go.” His voice drops low. “But I’m game if you are—I’ll try anything once—and then, again and again if it appeals.”

With that, his tone shifts, reverts to casual, making me feel unbalanced.

Off-kilter.

“Is your friend still there too? Henrietta? She seemed like a lively one.” I tilt my head towards him. “You remember that?”

He nods. “Sure.”

“Most concussed patients can’t recall details from the moments they first regain consciousness. That’s fascinating.”

He takes it as a compliment, and taps his temple.

“Big brain. You know what they say about men with big brains, don’t you? We’re big everywhere.”

“Are you implying there’s a correlation between the size of your brain and the size of your genitals?”

His brow furrows. “Well, I wouldn’t have used those words—ever. But yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”

“Absurd. There’s no scientific evidence to support that claim.”

“I could be an anomaly. I think you should investigate it firsthand—just to be certain.” He winks. “For science.”

With the grace of an old screen movie star, he reaches into his suit pocket, takes out a pack of cigarettes and slips one into his mouth.

It’s infuriating on so many levels.

Before he can light it, I pluck it from his lips. “For God’s sake, man, it’s the twenty-first century. Do you know what smoking does to a human body?”

I tick off the ailments on my fingers.

“Lung cancer, stroke, heart disease . . . Have you ever seen someone with emphysema, struggling for just one tiny gasp of breath?”

“Aren’t you delightful?” He snaps the silver lighter closed and slides it back into his pocket. “I bet you’re a real hit at parties.”

Any calm and tranquility I found during my swim is gone now. I’m frazzled—like a live wire that’s been cut and spliced and is sparking at its ends.

“I have to go. I’m not going to spend time chatting with someone who’s hell-bent and determined to end up speaking through an electrolarynx. I have a surgery this afternoon.”

“Are you free afterwards?” he asks. “Would you fancy grabbing some dinner with me?”

I pride myself on being a decisive person. An anticipator and a planner, clear and confident in my words and thoughts. I’m not a stammerer or stutterer. But Tommy Sullivan has a knack for turning me into both.

“I . . . I . . . don’t have time for dinner.”

He nods and moves in closer, so near I smell the warm, pleasant spice of his aftershave.

“I understand, I’m quite busy these days too. We can skip dinner and just go straight to fucking.”

My mouth drops, but before I can craft a reply, his rough fingertips tenderly touch my cheek.

“It would be good between us. Can’t you feel it, Abby?”

What I feel is a wobble in my joints and a knot of heat pulling tight and low in my stomach. It’s my name I think—the way he says it—like a secret promise of dirty delights.

“I . . . don’t have time for that either.”

“Now that’s a damn sin.” He dips his chin mournfully and places his hand on his chest. “You’re breaking my heart, lass.”

I shake off whatever tempting spell he’s weaving, and straighten up.

“Sounds like a medical condition. You should probably see someone about that.”

I brush past him, walking up the path.

“Is that an offer to examine me?” he calls. “I accept, anytime.”

And the echo of that deep chuckle chases me all the way back to the house.

Well, that was . . . interesting.

But now I can put Tommy Sullivan right out of my mind—it’s not as if I’ll have to see him again. The Dowager Countess of Bumblebridge would never employ someone so . . . improper. Incorrigible. Incredibly good- looking, a cheeky voice sighs inside my head.

But I ignore it.

Because it doesn’t matter. Grandmother won’t hire him. I’m sure of it.