The Great British Bachelor Chase

(Hollywood Bachelors Book 2) Lila

Monroe
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THE GREAT BRITISH BACHELOR CHASE
HOLLYWOOD BACHELORS
BOOK 2
LILA MONROE
 CONTENTS

Copyright
Also by Lila:

Prologue
The Great British Bachelor Chase
1. JJ
2. JJ
3. JJ
4. JJ
5. Fraser
6. JJ
7. JJ
8. JJ
9. Fraser
10. JJ
11. JJ
12. JJ
13. Fraser
14. JJ
15. JJ
16. JJ
17. JJ
18. JJ
19. Fraser
20. JJ
21. JJ
22. Fraser
23. JJ
24. JJ
Reeve

About the Author

Also by Lila:
 Copyright 2023 by Lila Monroe/ AAHM Inc

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information
storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.

Cover by British Empire Designs

 ALSO BY LILA:

Hollywood Bachelors Series:

1. The Hollywood Marriage Bargain
2. The Great British Bachelor Chase
3. The Treasure Hunt Hookup
4. The Tropical Romance Test
5. The Smalltown Seduction Plan

Billionaire Bachelors Series:

1. Very Irresistible Playboy
2. Hot Stuff
3. Wild Card
4. Man Candy
5. Mr Casanova
6. Best Man

Billionaire Bachelors Club:

1. Maverick Mogul
2. Renegade Roomie
3. Baller Boss
4. One-Week Wingman
5. Charming CEO

Cupids Series:
1. Cupid for Hire
2. What’s Your Sign?
3. The Romeo Effect
4. The Break-Up Artist
5. The Romance Plan

The Billionaire Series:

1. The Billionaire Bargain
2. The Billionaire Secret
3. The Billionaire Game
4. The Billionaire Prize
5. Billionaire with a Twist
6. Billionaire on the Rocks
 The Lucky in Love Series:
1. Get Lucky
2. Bet Me
3. Lovestruck
4. Mr Right Now
5. Perfect Match
6. Christmas with the Billionaire

The Chick Flick Club Series:

1. How to Choose a Guy in 10 Days
2. You’ve Got Male
3. Frisky Business

Head Over High Heels

Snowed in with the Billionaire (holiday novella)
 ***
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***

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 Hollywood Bachelors: Book Two
THE GREAT BRITISH
BACHELOR CHASE

Fall for a new grumpy/sunshine, exes-to-lovers rom-com read from USA Today bestselling
author, Lila Monroe! Perfect for fans of Tessa Bailey, Ali Hazelwood, and Emily Henry.
Fraser MacKenzie is handsome, Scottish… and the first man to ever break my heart. We had
a whirlwind romance during my study-abroad in England, until it ended in an epic ghosting (his), and
untold misery (mine). I haven’t laid eyes on his distractingly broad shoulders since… Until I arrive
back on British shores for my dream job consulting on a big new production of Pride & Prejudice,
and find… that Fraser is working on the movie, too.
Or rather, he finds me. Naked in the communal shower. Clinging to a hand-towel and my dignity
for dear life.
I have zero desire to go strolling back down memory lane with him, even if our burning chemistry
would put Lizzy and Darcy to shame. But when I accidentally send our lead actor fleeing on a
mysterious mission, Fraser and I have four days to track him down - before the entire movie falls
apart.
Embarking on a madcap British road-trip with my ex is a recipe for disaster… and serious
temptation. Fraser is more infuriating - and swoon-worthy — than ever, and soon, we’re not so much
rekindling an old flame as setting the world (and my burning loins) on fire.
But can we overcome the ghostings of the past to find real love? And will we make it to our
missing actor in time to save the movie - and my career?
Find out in the hot and hilarious new romance from Lila Monroe!

Hollywood Bachelors Series:

1. The Hollywood Marriage Bargain
2. The Great British Bachelor Chase (July 2023)
3. The Treasure Hunt Hookup (Oct 2023)
4. The Tropical Romance Test (Jan 2024)
5. The Smalltown Seduction Plan (April 2024)
1
 JJ

“IT IS a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in possession of a love of Jane Austen
novels must be in want of tall, devastatingly handsome man to ardently admire and love her. Either
that, or a dashing scoundrel to sweep her off her feet—and onto her back,” I add with a smirk. “I’m
not picky.”
“Yes, you are!” My best friend, Tessa, laughs down the phone line at my greeting—and my
terrible attempts at an English accent. The Sussex countryside speeds by outside my windows: a lush,
green vista of rolling hills, quaint villages, and winding country lanes that already makes me feel as if
I’ve stepped through a portal to another world—and not just off an eight-hour flight from the East
Coast.
“And why are we tempting fate even talking about scoundrels?” She continues, “You deserve
nothing less than a Fitzwilliam Darcy to worship the ground you walk on.”
“You mean, fall in love with me despite all his rational objections to my lowly station in life?” I
reply with a smile.
“I mean, be enchanted by your fine eyes, wit, and lively disposition,” Tessa giggles. Since I’ve
forced her to sit through pretty much every adaptation known to man, she can quote along with the best
of them. “Until he pledges you his heart, vast riches, and his fine grounds at Pemberley.”
“Well, as long as we’re setting some realistic expectations for my trip…” I smile, “Although, I’m
not sure when I’m supposed to meet this strapping romantic hero. I’m going to be working sixteen-
hour days on the movie for the next couple of months,” I remind her, eying the filming schedule packet
they sent me. All twenty-two pages of it. “This isn’t a vacation. Well, it’s not supposed to be one.”
“If there’s two things I have faith in, Jolene Jameson, it’s your ability to find a hot man in any
circumstance… and multitask. Speaking of, what happened to texting me as soon as you landed?”
Tessa demands. “Have you gone Hollywood already and forgotten us little people?”
“If by ‘Hollywood’ you mean getting held up in baggage claim and watching nervously as a
Customs agent almost found my bag of sex toys, then yes,” I reply—and then catch the eye of my stern
driver in the rearview mirror. Whoops. “Not a whole bag full,” I explain quickly to Tessa—and him.
“Just, you know, the essentials! I’m going to be here on set for a while. You can’t expect me to be
parted from my vibrator for that long.”
“Who knows, maybe you’ll strike up a showmance with one of the hot Hollywood hunks on set?”
Tessa suggests, and I shake my head immediately—even though she can’t see me.
“No way. Cast are absolutely off-limits. I’m here to do a job, remember? This is a huge career
break for me, and I plan on being scrupulously professional with my coworkers,” I say virtuously.
Then I pause. “But if someone who isn’t part of the movie wants to come—”
“Butter your crumpet?” Tessa suggests. “Snap your biscuit? Make your buns rise?”
I laugh. “You’ve been watching too much Bake Off. But it sounds delicious to me.”
I gaze happily out of the window. I still can’t believe this is really happening. Career paths for
overeducated Austen scholars are few and far between, which is why up until a couple of weeks ago,
I was living in the tiny apartment above my mom’s trinket shop on Cape Cod, selling shapeless linen
dresses to women of a certain age while I struggled to finish my final PhD dissertation. But now,
thanks to a series of fortunate accidents involving Tessa’s boyfriend, a hometown movie production,
and my infinite persistence, I’ve landed the job of a lifetime:
Source Material Consultant (aka Head Austen Geek) for a new big-budget Hollywood adaptation
of Pride & Prejudice that they’re starting production on here in England. Apparently, it’s an actual
job—one the movie studio was even willing to fly me out to do! It’ll be my role to answer any and all
Austen-related questions from the writer/director, and the rest of the crew during filming, making sure
they don’t stumble into any literature faux pas, and inspire the wrath of millions of Austen purists.
They’re even paying me for the privilege.—when clearly, I’d do this for free, any day.
“Are you excited to be back in England?” Tessa asks. I can hear voices in the background, and I
can picture her in the lobby of the bed and breakfast she just opened.
“Excited, nervous… the whole gamut,” I reply. I studied abroad here in London when I was in
college, but since that ended in epic heartbreak and general romantic devastation, I’ve sworn off the
whole British Isles.
Until now.
“You’ll be great,” Tessa reassures me. “Reeve’s lucky to have you.”
“And also emailing new script changes every other hour,” I remark dryly. The movie’s director,
Reeve Donavan, is a new friend of ours. I thought I already knew just how neurotic and highly strung
he was, but after working with him all summer on early drafts of the script, I can tell that we’ve
barely scratched the surface of his creative control-freakery. “You know he was calling me at three a.
m. asking about Regency etiquette and who would curtsy to whom? That’s three a.m. English time,” I
add.
Tessa laughs. “See, the problem is, I know you’re happy to talk for hours about all things Austen,
no matter what time it is.”
I smile. She’s right. “And they said my PhD would be useless in the real world!”
“Ooh, new guests just arrived. I’ve got to go,” Tessa says hurriedly. “But stay in touch, OK? I
want all the updates!”
“Twenty-four seven,” I promise. “Prepare to be sick of me!”
I say my goodbyes and hang up, relaxing back in my seat. From the luxurious business-class flight,
to the uniformed driver waiting for me in Arrivals, this is already a far cry from my last time on
British soil, when I was stuck hauling my oversized backpack on the bus to my rundown student
housing. But the familiar landscape out here in the countryside is just as enchanting, the rare blue
skies bright above brilliant green fields, broken up by red brick garden walls and moss-covered roofs
as we speed through Sussex.
I feel a shiver of anticipation for the month ahead. It’s such a beautiful country. Why did I stay
away so long?
Oh yeah, the part where I got my heart well and truly broken, then spent the next decade as a
broke-ass student who could barely afford ramen, let alone international travel.
Well, things are different now—and I’m not just talking about the fancy mineral water in the back
of the chauffeured car. Gone is my wide-eyed nineteen-year-old sentimentality, that let me get swept
off my feet by the first brooding Scottish art student who glanced in my direction. I really believed
that we were soulmates, destined to be together forever. Which turned out to be more like, ‘A couple
of months of mind-blowing passion and soul-shaking intimacy until he ghosted me without a word,
breaking my heart so completely I can’t even hear a Scottish accent now without a wince.’
The man ruined Outlander for me, that’s how thoroughly the man broke my heart.
But that’s ancient history, I remind myself, firmly setting aside the memories. Like I told Tessa,
I’m not looking for another great love story this time around. I’m not sure I even believe that kind of
happily-ever-after romance is possible—so it’s easier for me not to even try. No, I want a tryst, a
conquest, une affaire. Something sexy and fleeting that won’t leave me utterly emotionally wrecked.
Maybe I’ll meet a charming local on location, or strike up a conversation in the pub one night…
After all, one disastrous heartbreak shouldn’t write off an entire nation. Or three. Between the
combined English, Irish, and Welsh male populations, there’s bound to be someone to keep my toes
toasty during the chilly summer nights, right?
But absolutely, definitely, positively—no Scotsmen.

WE DRIVE another half-hour through the picturesque countryside, until the driver turns off the main
road and down a winding country lane. “It’s just up ahead,” he says, eyeing me in the mirror again.
“You can’t miss it.”
I roll my window down and crane my neck for the first glimpse of the country estate where we’ll
be shooting our first scenes. There’s a scree of trees and hedgerows, and then we crest a small hill,
and the undergrowth opens to show—
“Holy shit!” I gasp out loud and hear a chuckle from the driver.
“She’s something, isn’t she?” he comments, sounding amused.
Something like the most beautiful building I’ve ever seen in my life. The historical country house
sits surrounded by rolling lawns and gentle woodland, the sandstone exterior glowing gold under the
midday sun. Even surrounded by equipment trucks and trailers, with a bustle of people all around, it’s
still brimming over with historic charm. The perfect Netherfield. I can almost see Charles Bingley
striding out of the front doors, with a carriage and footmen awaiting. The whole scene takes my breath
away.
A base camp’s been set up about a half-mile from the house, with trailers, tents, and a dizzying
array of screens and equipment on the lawn. We pull over to the side of the gravel driveway, and I get
out, stretching and yawning from the ride.
“JJ! Over here!”
I turn, and find Reeve’s assistant speed-walking over, with her phone in one hand, and a clipboard
in the other, her perky brown ponytail pulled back under a ballcap. “Anna!” I greet her with a hug.
“It’s great to see you again.”
“Welcome to Sussex,” she says, looking only a little frazzled. She’s twenty-five, and basically a
human Siri, the only person who can keep Reeve on schedule. “Was your flight delayed? Never
mind,” she says before I can reply. “Everyone’s gathering for the welcome meeting in the main house.
Then I have new script pages for you, and a schedule, too. We have a read-through this afternoon, by
the way—"
 “Breathe,” I tell her, amused, and she finally cracks a smile.
“Sorry, it’s just… Everything’s crazy right now. The Last Time You Left Me was nothing
compared to this,” she explains, naming Reeve’s last movie. I look around, taking in the mayhem of
crew and equipment, not to mention our impressive location. There have to be two hundred people
here, minimum, plus the massive trailers and trucks littering the palatial grounds.
She’s right, this is a whole different league.
I gulp, realizing the scale of the production. This is the real deal. I’ve been thinking like I’m
helping out a friend, and getting a lucky break—and paycheck—in the process, but now it hits me that
this is a serious undertaking. Millions of people are going to see this movie, and if I don’t do my job
right…
Well, that’s a whole army of pissed-off Austen fans who are going to be cursing my name.
“It’ll be fine,” I reassure Anna—and myself. “I’m sure Reeve’s got it under control.”
“Uh huh,” Anna murmurs tactfully, but it doesn’t sound convincing. She turns to where the driver
is scrolling on his phone. “Would you please drop her bags at the hotel down the lane?” she asks,
before turning back to me. “Come say ‘Hi’ to everyone, then you can go get settled in.”
“Are you sure there’s no time for me to go now—?” I start to ask, painfully aware that I’ve just
stumbled off an eight-hour flight. But Anna is already whisking me through the chaos towards the
house, so there’s nothing for it but to smooth my hair down, shake out my vintage sundress, and stride
after her—ducking to avoid a low boom mic, and weaving past a rack of elaborate period costumes
being trundled past.
I try to play it cool, but inside, I’m already freaking out. Costumes… Props… Pieces of 19 th
Century England are just wheeling past me, and I’m wide-eyed, taking it all in. Anna leads me up the
wide front steps of the main house, and into the stunning open foyer, with a grand staircase and
polished marble floors. I barely have time to drool over the period portraits on the wall before she’s
ushering me down a hallway, and into the ballroom, which is packed with cast and crew, with Reeve
holding court in the middle of the vast room.
“… And it’s with those historic words of inspiration, let’s make this movie!”
Clearly, I’m late to the party.
I slide into an empty spot by the wall and look around as another efficient crew member steps up
and starts taking about schedules and fittings. Even with everyone dressed down in regular clothing,
it’s easy to see who’s crew, and who’s ‘the talent’—the actresses playing Jane and Elizabeth are
sitting together in the corner, already looking intimate as sisters as they whisper over something in the
schedule. They both have the glow of good genes, good makeup, and a good facialist. Our A-list hunk,
Hugo Chambers, stands behind them, dark and handsome in an almost unreal way, like a cardboard
cutout of himself. I’ve seen him in a few movies, glowering across crowded rooms and delivering the
perfect cutting barb, and I can see up close that he’s a perfect Darcy—elegant and strong-jawed, with
the perfect posture of an aristocrat. The rest of the cast are dotted around the room, fresh-faced and
gorgeous, and I feel a thrill at the buzz in the air.
It’s almost like the first day of summer camp: We’re all embarking on this adventure together.
I catch sight of Hazel across the room and send a wave. She’s Reeve’s older sister, and a genius
production designer in her own right. She waves back, then surreptitiously scoots around the outskirts
of the room until she can slide in next to me. “Finally, a familiar face,” she whispers, greeting me
with a hug. She’s wearing her usual uniform of black jeans and a T-shirt, her phone hanging from a
lanyard around her neck. “Good flight?”
“Fabulous. I’m ruined forever now, I can’t ever go back to coach,” I joke back, keeping my voice
low. “When did you arrive?”
“A couple of weeks ago—and I haven’t slept since,” Hazel pulls back the loose brown curls that
are already falling out of her messy bun. “You try sourcing enough carriages to outfit a crowd of two
hundred extras. Apparently, not just any will do,” she adds, giving me a look.
I wince. That was my note. “Sorry!” I whisper back. “But the difference between a barouche and
a two-horse chaise is very important.”
She grins. “I know, I know. Historical integrity, and all that jazz. But luckily, the new Bridgerton
spin-off just got pushed a couple of months, script issues, so we swooped in and grabbed some of
theirs.”
“Nice work. How’s Lottie?” I ask.
“Having a blast at sleepaway camp,” Hazel whispers with a grin. It’s hard to believe she’s only a
few years older than me, but already has a thirteen-year-old daughter. “I’ve only gotten one letter so
far, and, in it, she thanked me six times for letting her go. So, she’s great. I, on the other hand, am
checking the camp’s Instagram every few hours, desperate for a glimpse of my baby.”
“Aww, you’ll get used to it soon,” I squeeze her arm. “Think of it like a vacation.”
Hazel gives me a wry look. “You’ve clearly never worked on a movie before.”
I glance around, noting the grand scale. “They’re really going all out for this, huh?”
“That’s not always a good thing,” Hazel makes a face, but before I can ask what she means, the
meeting breaks up, and Reeve heads over. He’s every inch the tortured artist: Tall and slim in dark
jeans and a hoodie, with a pair of massive headphones looped around his neck, radiating a wiry,
intense energy.
“I was thinking, about the ball scene at Netherfield—” he begins, and Hazel snorts, and gives him
a good-natured smack on the arm.
“’Welcome, JJ, so glad you could make it,’” she says, exaggerated. “How was your trip? Is there
anything you need?”
“I was going to get to that,” Reeve grumbles. He’s already got shadows under his eyes, and his
dark hair is sticking out at wild angles. “But really, about this scene…”
“Give me the pages, and I’ll take a look,” I promise—and then let out a massive yawn. “Sorry,
guys, I thought I’d sleep on the flight, but… That didn’t happen.”
Because I was too busy quaffing champagne and watching movies from my fully reclining seat.
Whoops.
“Anna!” Reeve yells, and a second later, she materializes. “Can you take JJ back to the hotel for a
nap before rehearsal?”
“Please.” Both Hazel and I add at the same time.
Reeve sighs, running a hand through his hair. “The ‘Please’ is implied!”
We’re interrupted by one of the tech guys. “Can you come check the boards for tomorrow?” he
asks, and Reeve turns on his heel and leaves without another word.
“He seems… Stressed,” I note with a wince. “On day one?”
“Technically, it’s day eighty-five for him,” Anna corrects me, as I say goodbye to Hazel and
follow Anna through the maze of hallways, and back out of the house. “Pre-production has been a bit
of a battle with the movie studio bosses, they’re all still fighting over the budget.”
So that’s what Hazel meant about more money, more problems.
“But Reeve will win, right?” I ask. “You can’t do a period production on the cheap. It needs to be
lush, and lavish and… Expensive.”
“That’s what he keeps telling them,” Anna agrees. “But the suits have other ideas. They’re even
sending some corporate bean-counter down to set to look over his shoulder,” she adds grimly.
“Because that’ll help Reeve’s nerves,” I crack.
Anna stops by an electric golf cart. “Your chariot awaits,” she says, gesturing.
“No way!” I laugh, delighted.
“With the hotel so close, it’s the easiest way to get around,” she explains, hopping on behind the
wheel. I settle beside her, and we whoosh off with a whir. “Plus, since the speed of these things tops
out at fifteen miles an hour, there’s way less chance of a sleep-deprived late-night crash!”
The cart takes us back down the winding driveway, and then off a side road, until we reach a
sprawling country house-style hotel. “We bought out the whole place,” Anna explains. We reclaim my
baggage from the front desk and wrangle it up to my room. “Guy and the other stars are in the big
suites, and the rest of us… Well, the place has historic charm,” she warns me, “But also historic
plumbing.”
“How historic are we talking?” I cringe, remembering my study abroad experience and the ice-
cold morning showers.
“Your ensuite is having issues,” she clarifies. “But the front desk assured me their handyman has it
next on his list. In the meantime, the hall bath is nice and functional.”
I sigh with relief. “I’ll take functional any day.”
“You’re a peach,” Anna beams, leading me off the elevator and down a crooked attic hallway
with faded floral wallpaper. “You’re at the end there. Number fourteen. You’ve got my number if you
need anything. Read-through is at four. Remember those pages for Reeve!”
I turn the old-fashioned key in the lock and let out a sigh of pleasure as I take in the small,
charming space. My room is buried under the eaves, with a view over the countryside, and a clutter of
quirky antique furniture to go with the mismatched floral bedspread. I flop down on the bed, and let
out an almighty yawn…

RING. RING.
I lift my head, groggy, as the ringing sound echoes through my room. What the hell..?
The noise continues, until I realize it’s coming from the room phone. I fumble with the handset,
still half-asleep. What time is it?
“Hello?” I mumble. It’s still light outside. Or did I just sleep through until tomorrow morning? Or
is that, today?
“Miss Jameson?” a chirpy voice is on the other end. “This is your wakeup call. Anna says a cart
will collect you in thirty minutes for the afternoon read-through.”
“Thank you,” I manage with a sigh of relief. I drop the handset, and sit up, rubbing my eyes.
Apparently, I’ve just slept for the past two hours, but I feel like I’ve been dragged backwards through
a hedge, as the English like to say.
And, according to the mirror, I look like it, too.
I find a Diet Coke in the minibar fridge, and guzzle it down, before grabbing my bath stuff and
heading to the bathroom down the hall.
“Hello?” I call, politely tapping the door. There’s no reply, so I scoot inside, relieved to find it’s
a renovated shower with gleaming marble and plenty of hot water. Soon, I’m under the jets, letting the
water pummel my tired limbs and bring me back to life again before my first big work meeting.
I’ve got my work cut out for me; I can already tell. Reeve seems like he’s under pressure, and we
haven’t even started the cameras rolling yet. But his script is beautiful, a real faithful adaptation of the
book, and I like to think that my advice has had more than a little to do with that. I mean, the first time
we talked, he wondered if we even needed all the Bennett sisters, or if a few of them could be
combined! Not to mention his idea that Darcy and Wickham could have a dramatic duel, swords and
all.
You can bet I set him straight on that soon enough.
I’m just stepping out of the shower, reaching for my towel, when suddenly, the bathroom door
swings open.
I let out a shriek, stark naked and dripping wet in the middle of the room.
“Shit, sorry!” A looming, bearded man exclaims, as I dive for the nearest piece of fabric. Which
happens to be a hand towel. Dammit. I clutch it to me anyway, and just about cover my breasts and
crotch with the tiny square.
“What are you doing?” I yelp, realizing the towering stranger is still frozen there, getting an eyeful
of, well, pretty much everything. “Get out!”
“Aye, of course.” He mumbles. “Sorry Jolene.”
The door slams behind him, and I grab my robe, belting it tightly around me—
Jolene.
I stop dead, my brain finally catching up with my eyes—and ears. The glimpse of a tall, broad-
shouldered frame. Tawny hair. That familiar Scottish burr.
No way.
No fucking way.
But it is. The Hot Scot himself. Fraser MacKenzie.
The first—and only—man to break my heart.
2
 JJ

I SINK BACK against the vanity, my heart suddenly racing in my chest, every nerve in my body on
fire.
It’s impossible, I tell myself desperately, trying to picture the random stranger ten years younger,
and without the beard. I’m still half-asleep, I must be. Because out of all the country house hotels in
all the world… The fates wouldn’t be so cruel as to send him walking into mine.
But I already know, they have.
Because that man? I’d know him anywhere. At twenty feet in a snowstorm, or in a pitch-black
room. Already, I’m flooded with memories—the sound of his laugh, teasing and infectious… That
dark spark of intention in his blue eyes, so tempting, it made my pulse kick… The way his smile
would soften, brushing back my hair and reaching for me in the morning light…
The fucker’s etched on my damn heart.
And he’s outside this bathroom door, right now.
Fuck.
I eye the tiny window, briefly considering an ungraceful escape. But I’m too high up, and knowing
my luck, I’d wind up breaking both my legs with my robe up around my head. There’s only one way
out… And it’s through him.
It’s been ten years, I remind myself, peeling my body off the wall and trying to control my racing
heart. A whole decade! It’s all water under the bridge—or should be, by now. And since I’d rather
die than let Fraser know how much his ghosting act wrecked me, I’ll just be easy and breezy, like the
memories of that semester haven’t haunted literally every attempt at a meaningful relationship since.
Simple!
I take a deep breath, open the door—and find him standing there in the hallway, all six-foot-two
of him, leaning against the wall with an unreadable expression on his handsome face.
His handsome, bearded face. Since when did he grow a beard? I wonder, taking in the trimmed,
sexy facial hair. And, more to the point, what the hell is he doing wearing a button-down shirt and a
perfectly tailored suit?
I blink, stunned. The Fraser I knew lived in worn-out jeans and paint-stained T-shirts, with maybe
a moth-eaten cashmere sweater for good measure. All this time, I’ve been imagining him irresistibly
scruffy and disheveled, with charcoal under his nails and his tawny blonde hair falling - into his blue
eyes.
The artist. Playful and creative, his tempting smile full of adventure.
But this Fraser? He’s the opposite. Sauvé and sophisticated, in a suit and tie, not a hair out of
place—nor a smile to be seen. His jaw looks like it’s been carved from marble, and his body
language is just as cold and stiff. Even if he does look undeniably hot, all buttoned-up and stern, and
—
Get it together, Jolene!
“Hi!” I blurt loudly. Too loud. Fuck. “Fraser, wow, sorry about that. I wasn’t expecting to see
you. Or anyone, obviously. These old locks, huh?”
Fraser dips a nod, like he hasn’t noticed I’m chirping like a chipmunk here. So much for breezy.
“How have you been, Jolene?”
Well, I’m standing in front of my ex looking like a half-drowned rat, so not great!
“Great!” I force a smile. “Umm, what are you doing here?”
He’s rubbing the back of his head where—I am fairly certain—he recoiled so sharply from my
naked body that he smacked into the wall.
“I’m staying here for work,” he says politely. “What are you doing here?”
I pull myself up with as much dignity as possible when you have a sloppy bun and a too-small
robe. “I’m consulting for a movie,” I say—breezy!—like I do it all the time. “We’re filming nearby,
maybe you’ve seen it?”
“Oh, I’ve seen it.” Fraser presses his lips together, in clear disapproval. “I’m here from the
studio, to oversee the finance department.”
“Finance?” I snort with laughter at the idea of Fraser sitting at a desk, crunching numbers all day
—and then I realize he’s not smiling. He’s 100% serious. “Oh. Wow,” I mutter quietly.
“Congratulations, I guess?”
“For what?” Fraser replies coolly. “The budget on this project is a mess. The director has no
sense of economy, and as for the historical period expenses… I’m guessing I have you to thank for
those extravagances.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply faintly, my head spinning.
Did I just step through a portal into opposite-world? Or run into Fraser’s identical twin? The man
I knew would never go corporate, or flash a designer watch on his wrist, like this guy is wearing. I
blink again, but this not-Fraser doesn’t disappear, he just stands there, tall and broad-shouldered, and
glowering at me like I’m personally to blame for every inconvenience in his life.
I was right, ten years is a long time. Everything can change. Everything about him.
Disappointment stings, and I don’t have time to figure out why. I just paste on a big smile again.
“Well, in that case, I’m so glad I could break the ice by being straight-up naked! We can only go up
from here, right? So, see you around, I guess.”
I grab my towel and dart past him before he can get in another word, wrenching my hotel room
door open and then hurling myself inside. I slam it shut behind me, and put the chain on too, since
apparently, these locks aren’t worth a dime.
How in the world…?
The ghost of relationships past—who ghosted me—just showed up in a bathroom like a
freaking… ghost.
I sink down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor. I can’t help it. Fraser’s presence fills my mind,
and just like that, the memories I’ve been holding back flood in.

TEN YEARS AGO…

IT WAS my first weekend in London, and I was already having the time of my life. Nineteen, and
away from home for the first time, studying in old libraries packed with classic literature, the
whole city at my fingertips—and surrounded by a bunch of rowdy students looking for a good time.
And we found it, at the pub down the street from the student housing halls. They were hosting a
fancy dress party, and I managed to pull together a Jane Austen-inspired look from borrowed
pieces in the dorms: a floor-length linen nightgown, layered with a chemise and almost authentic
looking bonnet. Of course, when I showed up to find every other woman in a sexy cat/nurse/nun
outfit, it felt like the effort was wasted, but after a couple of pints of ale, I didn’t even care. The
pub windows were fogged from the heat inside against the frigid January weather, the cheesy
music was blasting, and I felt giddy with freedom and possibility by the time I get to the bar for
another round.
“What would you recommend?” I ask the brassy barmaid, who’s not only wearing leopard
print, but massive hoop earrings too, like she’s stepped out of those BBC soaps my grandma used
to watch. “I’ve tried the English ale,” I add, “and a Welsh beer, too.”
“You want to complete the set with an Irish red beer?” she asks. “Or, if you want something
harder, like a Scotch?”
“I’ve actually never tried a Scotch,” I admit, and the barmaid grins at someone next to me.
“You hear that, Fraser? This lass needs your help. I’ll let him take it from here,” She gives me
a wink, and moves off to serve someone else.
I turn, confused, and find myself staring into a pair of heart stopping gorgeous blue eyes.
Well, actually, I find myself staring directly at his chest, but when I crane my neck up a few
inches, I clock the eyes. And the jawline. And the tawny, rumpled hair.
Wow.
“Elsie’s just teasing,” the handsome stranger explains—in a sexy Scottish accent. “Scotch.
Scots.”
“Oh!” I blurt with a laugh, wishing I’d gone for some ‘sexy-insert profession here’ costume
after all. That is, until I realize that he’s in an outlandish historical costume, too. A nineteenth-
century outfit, with frock coat, cravat, and top hat. “Dickens?” I exclaim in delight, and he gives a
bashful grin.
“Almost. William Morris,” he explains, opening his jacket to show me the waistcoat he’s
wearing, printed with the classic motif of birds and trees. “I don’t think either of us got the memo
tonight,” he adds, as a guy in a soccer shirt stumbles past, his arm around a girl in a skintight
catsuit.
“Or, we’re the only ones dressed right, and everyone else fails at fancy dress,” I declare, and
he smiles wider.
“I like your version better. So, that Scotch… Did you want to try some?” he asks, raising an
eyebrow.
Yes, please.
My heart is already beating faster, that delicious shiver of anticipation in my veins. “Only if
you drink with me. And promise not to laugh if I can’t take it,” I add with a bold grin. He chuckles,
and easily reaches over the bar to grab a bottle and two glasses.
“You’re a regular, then?” I ask, as he pours a measure for us both.
He nods. “I work a shift here, from time to time. Me and Elsie go way back, to my first year,
pulling late nights.”
“You’re a student, too?”
 “Art school,” he replies. “St. Martins College. Printmaking, with a side of painting, too. I’m
Fraser MacKenzie,” he adds, raising his glass.
“JJ,” I reply, lifting mine to clink his in a toast. “Jolene Jameson.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Jolene.”
And even though I’m not wild about my full name—having drunken frat bros break into Dolly
Parton will do that to a girl—the sound of it rolling off his tongue in that sexy Scottish burr…
Well, let’s just say the scotch isn’t the only thing that makes me warm from the inside out.
Then I cough, smarting at the strength of the booze. Fraser chuckles. “Easy there,” he says,
amused. “This is the good stuff. You need to sip, not chug.”
I recover, blushing. “It’s good,” I venture, after a more cautious sip. “Kind of earthy.”
“That’s just the five-year version,” he says with a smile. “Wait until you taste one that’s been
barrel-aged for twenty, or thirty years, even. We like to say you can taste Scotland in every sip.”
“Are you secretly working for the tourist board?” I ask, teasing, and he laughs.
“No. Just a little homesick, I suppose. London’s a long way from Inverness.”
“And even further from Cape Cod,” I agree, the scotch warming my blood—or maybe that’s
just his smile. “But I like it. Being away from home, in a new city like this… You get to decide who
you really are. Not just who your family, or school, or everyone else assumes you are, but the
person you really feel like, deep down.”
“And who are you, Jolene Jameson?” Fraser asks, his eyes fixed on mine.
“I don’t know. That’s the fun part,” I add. “I guess I’m still figuring it out.”
“There you are!” We’re interrupted by his friends, a pack of boisterous guys ready to move the
party elsewhere. I bring my roommates along, and soon, we’re on an epic pub crawl of
Bloomsbury, trading jokes and drinks along the historic cobbled streets, until my head is spinning
—from the alcohol, and the feel of Fraser’s hand resting casually on the small of my back.
As the hours wear on, more of our classmates peel off, calling it a night or pairing off to hook
up, until we find ourselves alone on an old cobblestone street near the river.
“Looks like it’s just you and me.” Fraser says, pausing in the glow of a streetlight.
The words shimmer there between us, and I swear, I’ve never wanted anything so much.
So I kiss him. Right there in the street at two a.m., leaning up on my tiptoes and bracing myself
against his broad chest. His mouth is hot and sweet, and feels so right, it’s like I’ve crossed a
whole ocean just to come home to him—

A KNOCK at the door jolts me back to reality—ten years later, and a whole hell of a lot wiser.
I struggle to my feet, feeling the past slip away from me all over again. That night with Fraser is
ancient history now—and so is the rest of our ill-fated love affair.
So much for coming home. I left England after that semester with Fraser’s fervent ‘I love you’
ringing in my ears, and plans for us to stay together, no matter what. He’d fly out to Cape Cod for the
summer; I’d start looking for graduate programs back in London. We’d make it work; our hearts
wouldn’t have it any other way.
He returned my calls for all of five days, before cutting off all communication and never speaking
to me again.
Brutal, right? I couldn’t even call it a bad breakup, since technically, he didn’t even bother to
break up with me. I sent epic emails into the ether, begging him to at least talk to me, until it became
clear that I wouldn’t get a response. So I did what any scorned woman would do in my situation: I
wept, raged, and then embarked on a hot girl summer to try and get over him, posting wild parties and
beaming selfies all over my social media so that if he ever looked twice, he’d see just how un-broken
my heart really was.
Who knows if it worked? The bastard didn’t even have so much as an Instagram page that I could
secretly stalk.
The knock comes again. My first thought is that it’s Fraser. He’s here to apologize from the depths
of his very soul. He’s here to explain. He got hit in the head and experienced memory loss! He lost his
phone and access to his email address! Someone threatened his life if he continued to be in contact
with me!
“JJ? Hello?” a woman’s voice calls. “It’s Anna. I’m here to take you to rehearsal. Are you ready?
Or, you know, awake?”
“Yes!” I blurt, calling back through the door. “Just give me one minute!”
Time to face the awkward music. I tear through my suitcase, searching for an outfit that says:
“Remember that time you made me fall in love with you and then ditched me? That’s right, pal—
mistake of a lifetime.”
There’s got to be something, right?
3
 JJ

BACK AT THE country house location, Reeve is running a rehearsal in one of the stunning drawing
rooms. I slink in and take a seat next to some of the crew, as the actors run through one of the scenes,
pausing occasionally for questions and comments. It’s one of the scenes with Lizzy staying at
Netherfield while her sister, Jane, is sick. Lizzy is chatting in the drawing room with Bingley and his
sisters—and Darcy. I’ve already been through the scene a dozen times with Reeve while he was
writing it, and so it’s a relief to put all thoughts of Fraser and my romantic entanglements aside, and to
focus on the drama in front of me.
“Won’t you join me for a turn around the room…?”
I marvel as the cast—despite their modern hair and yoga pants—transforms into their characters:
Regal and witty, and full of subtext as they move through the scene, pacing out their positions in the
room.
“Excuse me,” the Lizzy actress says, flagging me down after they finish a run-through. Her name is
Sophia Briscoe, and she’s one of the hottest British actresses around right now, all cheekbones and
effortless elegance, even in a baggy sweater and ugly-fashionable jeans. “JJ, right?”
Reeve introduced me at the top of rehearsals, but I’m still surprised to be addressed. “Yes! Hello!
That’s me.”
“I’m wondering about my body language in this scene,” she says, brandishing the script pages. “I
know I’m bantering back and forth with Darcy, but would I be holding eye contact while we spar?
Looking directly at him? In this period, wasn’t it rather scandalous?”
“That’s such a good question,” I enthuse, sitting up eagerly. “The standards for greetings and
politeness really differed by class. In a scene like this, Lizzy is actually breaking the rules by being so
direct with Darcy, she should really be much more submissive, since he’s above her in society. She
would be expected to be seen but not heard.”
“So it’s part of her character to be breaking the rules like this…” Sophia nods.
“Not breaking, so much as pushing the limits on polite behavior,” I explain. “That’s part of her
wit, she’s baiting Darcy in this scene, but doing it very properly, so nobody can take offense. She’s
technically talking to Caroline, not directing much at him.”
“That’s why I’m so intrigued, right?” Our dashing Darcy, Hugo Chambers, jumps in. He’s wearing
a T-shirt and sweatpants, but he still has that aristocratic air; the noble jaw that launched a thousand
fan-pages. “Because he’s never had anyone talk back to him like this before.”
“And definitely not any woman,” I agree, smiling.
They both make notes, nodding, and I settle back in my chair, pleased to be useful. The good
feeling lasts all of ten minutes… Until Fraser walks in. Our eyes meet across the room, but I snatch
my gaze away, and stare at my script instead.
Like I couldn’t care less about his presence. Like he’s not suddenly the only thing I can focus on.
Like my traitorous body isn’t suddenly a few degrees hotter, remembering the way his ink-stained
hands would slide over my bare skin; his Scottish burr murmuring wicked things in my ear, making me
moan…
“OK, let’s run that again,” Reeve announces, as they move back into position again. “This time,
Hugo, try keeping more still. Radiating your tension, rather than pacing.”
“Got it.”
Tension? That isn’t a problem for me right now. The actors launch into the scene again, and I
finally let myself steal a glance over at Fraser. He’s posted on a folding chair in the corner of the
room now, ignoring the actors as he briskly taps away at his laptop.
Who is this man? The Fraser I knew was creative, playful, and spontaneously sexy. This man
before me? He looks boring, joyless, and… Unfortunately for me, still sexy.
I feel a wave of lustful resentment. It’s Day One of my amazing opportunity, the most exciting thing
to happen in my life since—well, ever, and he has to come strolling back in and ruin everything!
What happened in the past ten years? I can’t help studying him, looking for some clues in his
inscrutable expression. How did Fraser, my Fraser, become a stuffed suit from the finance
department? He was an artist—an incredible one—full of inspiration and passion for his work.
And not just his work, either. God, when we were together, I lost whole hours to his touch;
weekends passing in a naked, ravenous blur, discovering every inch of each other’s bodies,
breathlessly gasping for more. Sex with him was intoxicating, like a craving, a spiritual experience;
intimate and wild in turn. It had never been like that before for me.
If I’m honest, it’s never been like that since.
Dammit.
Fraser glances up, catching my gaze. I look away instantly, feeling a riot of unwelcome emotions
storming in my chest.
I loved him so hard.
He hurt me so much.
“JJ?” Fortunately, one of the actresses interrupts my thoughts with a question about historical
authenticity on a purse she’ll need as a prop. I dive into the wild world of reticules, angling my chair
away from Fraser—and keeping it that way until rehearsal finally wraps.
“Great work, everyone.” Reeve claps his hands, dismissing up. “Sophia and Hugo, you’re in
wardrobe next. “Everyone else, take a break.”
The cast disperses, and I get up, stretching with a yawn. Have I only been in England for a few
hours? It feels like a lifetime already.
“Jolene.”
Fraser’s voice cuts through the crowd. Shit. I quickly turn on my heel, and bolt in the opposite
direction, down the hallway and out a side door. I’m still way too off-balance and emotional to face
the man for a real conversation, so if it’s fight or flight, I’m choosing flight.
Luckily, this place is a madhouse. I weave through some stacks of equipment and break away.
There, lost him!
“Wait up!”
Hazel catches up with me, panting. “Where’s the fire?” she asks. “You bolted out of there so fast,
you left tracks!”
 “Sorry. I just needed… some air!” I exclaim, glancing around. I loop my arm through hers and
drag her over towards base camp before Fraser can spot us. “I’m so jet-lagged, I can’t see straight.”
“I think that’s a wrap for your day, if you want to go get some sleep,” she offers.
Sleep? I’m too wired right now to close my eyes for a second—or risk more memories of Jolene
and Fraser: I Glory Years. “I’m fine,” I blurt instead. “Just hungry.”
“Well, if there’s one thing Reeve does right, it’s craft services,” Hazel grins, naming the on-set
catering. “Come on, this way.”
She steers us across the lawn, shooting me a side glance as we go. “So… I noticed you were
distracted during rehearsal.”
“What? No!” I protest, flushing.
She laughs. “There’s no shame in looking. Mr. Moneybags is hot, even if he is the bane of all our
existences with his stupid budget cuts.”
I blush deeper. “Really, it’s not like that. We, um, go way back.”
Hazel stops. “How far back?”
“All the way back,” I admit, and give her the edited version of events—minus a whole lot of
weeping and cursing his name.
“Well. Well…” Hazel blinks.
“Yep,” I sigh. “So you can imagine how I feel now he’s going to be hanging around set for the rest
of the shoot.”
“I’m sorry,” she squeezes my shoulder. “That sucks. But, I have to ask, is he…?” she begins,
lifting her eyebrows.
“As hot as you think under the suit? Incredibly good in bed? Capable of making a grown woman
lose ten pounds in grief weight weeping for the whole summer? Yes.”
“Damn.” Hazel sighs. “Well, in that case, you two need at least one round of hate sex.”
“What?”
“For closure!” she exclaims. “To get him out of your system, and to show him what he’s been
missing all this time.”
I snort. “Yeah, somehow that only works in romance novels, and even then, it’s never closure, just
a recipe for more shenanigans. Which are not happening for me,” I add, giving her a warning look.
“Seriously, think of the most soul-destroying heartbreak you ever had, and imagine coming face-to-
face with it again. Would you really want to hop aboard that train?”
Hazel winces. “Good point. Well, you should be able to keep your distance. He’s only interested
in crunching the numbers, and no offense, but that’s way above your pay grade.”
I exhale in relief. “I’ve never been more pleased to be totally powerless and irrelevant,” I quip,
and she laughs.
“Ooh, look, they just restocked the snack table. Go crazy.”
Hazel points me to the craft service tent, then gets called away by an eager PA. Luckily for me, the
buffet table is a thing of beauty. I pile my plate with an oat scone, a slice of Welsh tea bread, and two
flaky kinds of popovers. As first jobs go, having on-site food and regionally specific carbohydrates?
Not bad.
I grab some sweet biscuits too, for good measure, and shove one in my mouth as I make my way to
a picnic table set up nearby.
“Jolene?”
I startle, choking on the Jammy Dodger. Fraser is approaching, looking cool and collected, of
course. And, perfect, he’s caught me at another least graceful moment. Crumbs lodge in my throat, and
I cough, spraying biscuit crumbs everywhere as I struggle to breathe.
Fraser looks me up and down as I huff, then calmly plucks a bottle of mineral water from a nearby
table, opens it, and silently offers it to me.
Chivalrous, and cool. Damn him.
I gulp the water, finally recovering. “Hi,” I say brightly, as if I don’t have streaming eyes and
crumbs scattered down my shirt. “What’s up?”
Fraser clears his throat. “I wanted to apologize for earlier.”
Earlier. Are we talking back at the hotel, or, you know, the whole ‘devastating heartbreak’ affair
back in college?
“I didn’t mean to walk in like that,” he clarifies, because of course, he wouldn’t acknowledge
being a total asshole ten years ago. “Seeing you was… Unexpected.” He says it flatly, like he has
prepared remarks on a crisp piece of paper. “I think we were both a wee bit thrown off.”
“A wee bit,” I repeat, with a snort. “Yes.”
He nods, still all business. “But of course, it won’t affect anything here. We both have jobs to do,
and there’s no reason we can’t be professional with each other. What happened between us… Well,
it’s a long time ago now. Ancient history.”
Is it?
I narrow my eyes at him. Then why do I remember that, beneath his pressed suit pants, there’s a
scar on his knee from a fall at age seven? I’ve kissed that spot on his body. And every spot on his
body. Why do I know that his accent gets thicker when he’s pissed off or turned on? Why can I recall
the feeling of his lips tracing down my spine?
No—no.
“Yes, ancient history,” I snap, aching inside. “Practically a relic. To be honest, I’m flattered you
even recognized me.”
Fraser narrows his eyes, like he wants to argue. But instead, he just gives a bland nod.
“Good. On that note, I wanted to circle back to something from rehearsal.”
I blink, surprised. That’s it? Our entire fraught history dismissed in just a couple of sentences?
Apparently so.
Fraser continues, his voice even. “While I’m sure the purses you mentioned are historically
accurate, the studio doesn’t have the budget for custom work like that. So I’d prefer that you don’t
distract the cast with those minor details, and keep them focused on the wardrobe and props we
already have.”
I narrow my eyes. “Well, like you said, I’m here to do a job,” I reply, keeping my voice just the
right side of scathing. “And if I’m asked a question, then I’ll answer it, in my professional capacity.
Was there anything else?” I snap.
“No.” He scowls back at me, and for a moment, I almost think I see a flash of familiar heat in his
eyes. The passion of the man I used to know.
Then it’s replaced with cool detachment again. “Enjoy your Jammy Dodger,” he says with a
smirk, and walks off, leaving me with a plate of baked carbs, and a fire burning in my chest.
Looks like the fun-loving, creative man I used to love is gone, replaced with this stick-up-his-ass
penny-pincher.
“Ugh!” I exclaim in frustration—and go find another biscuit to eat.
4
 JJ

I WAKE the next morning groggy and disoriented. The alarm on my phone is chirping in its familiar,
annoying way, but why is this room so small? Why am I so tired that my face hurts? Why can I hear
creaky old pipes and the pat-pat of feet outside my room?
Oh. Right. Jolly old England. Lizzy and Darcy. A hotel with faulty plumbing. And a ghost from my
past wandering in, solid as day….
Fraser.
Did I dream that? It’s hard to unstick my thoughts from the jet-lag quicksand, but slowly, it all
comes back to me. The nakedness. The hand towel. The near-death by Jammy Dodger.
Nope, that was all real. Mortifyingly, horrifyingly real.
I groan as I pull myself upright. My time in England was supposed to be bigger and better than
ever, especially now I’m a grown woman who knows her limits when it comes to alcohol and
emotional attachment to men. The last thing I need is Fraser striding about, all tall and broad and
handsome, reminding me of everything we had.
Scratch that. Everything I thought we had. That’s the mortifying part. For me, Fraser changed
everything. Our connection made the whole world seem bigger and more alive to me—the colors
brighter, the possibilities endless. It felt like I’d finally discovered the kind of love I’d only ever read
about in my novels or seen illuminated on the movie screen; that soul-deep connection that was equal
parts friendship and passion; adventure and steady, solid ground.
Until he yanked that solid ground right out from under me.
I sigh, climbing out of bed, and stretching with a yawn. Fraser’s clearly put the past behind him,
so I need to as well. And if he wants professional? I’ll damn well give him professional, I decide
with a surge of determination. In fact, I’m going to act like we met for the first time yesterday.
Because, as far as I can tell, we did. Fraser is a stranger now. I’d always thought of him as the one
who got away. But that stuffed suit, with his too-neat beard and recitation of budget considerations?
He’s clearly a bullet I dodged.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going to show up to set in jeans and a ratty sweatshirt. I tear through my
suitcase, looking for the perfect ‘Bet you wish you hadn’t dumped me’ outfit. Leather pants? Too
much. Ultra-high cutoffs? Way too little….
After discarding pretty much everything I brought, and turning my hotel room into a hurricane site,
I finally land on a cute sundress with poppies printed on it, with a vintage-style halter strap. I put on
my lucky purple silk lingerie, and style my hair into the perfect polished-but-tousled look. Hopefully
he’ll think of my hair in the morning, after he’d had his hands in it through the night. The things he
could do with his hands… And mouth… And tongue…
Down girl.
I use my favorite, subtle red lip color and a sheen of gloss. I make a kiss face in the mirror and
tousle my hair some more. There, perfect. Ready for revenge.
I mean, work.

I CATCH a golf cart over to the set with some of the crew and find them all setting up to shoot one of
the first scenes, outside the imposing front steps. I hang back, drinking in the lights, the cameras, and
all the action once Reeve calls to roll cameras. He’s in his element, studying the scene through a
video playback monitor, then jumping in to chat with the actors so they can adjust their performances
for the next take. I’ve seen a glimpse of him in director-mode, back when he was shooting a movie in
my hometown on Cape Cod, but somehow, this all seems bigger and more exciting than ever, and it’s
fun watching him rise to the occasion.
“OK, print that one, great job!” Reeve calls, after Lizzy and Jane climb into a carriage for the
fifteenth time—as the Bingley sisters watch, smirking from the doorway. “Let’s take twenty and reset
for the carriage exit.”
There’s a hum of voices and activity as the actresses carefully disembark in their full skirts, and
the animal handlers jump in to tend to the horses, which are polished and braided and gleaming in
new livery that, I’m pleased to note, is perfectly accurate. Which reminds me…
“Hazel!” I call, spotting her over by the doorway. “Where can I find—OOF.”
I walk straight into a brick wall and stumble hard.
“Easy there,” a Scottish voice sounds, and then a pair of large, strong hands are holding me firmly
by the shoulders, keeping me from falling flat on my ass.
Correction: Not a brick wall. Just six-foot-two of tall, brawny muscle, hidden behind another
crisp designer suit.
Fraser.
Shit. I look up into his eyes at about the same time they flash with surprise and recognition.
“Sorry!” I blurt, overwhelmed by the sudden feel of him, achingly familiar. I’m cradled in his
arms for a moment, so close I can feel the heat of him, the solid power—
Fraser releases me, snatching away as if he’s been burned. “Watch where you’re going,” he says
curtly, a tense look on his handsome face. “There’s expensive equipment here.”
“You’re the one who got in my way.” I glare, and he gives me a look.
“It’s not a contest, Jolene.”
There it is again, the sound of my name rolling off his tongue, the way only he could say it. My
skin prickles hotly. Dammit.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say primly. “I have to go. I’m needed. Urgently. Over there.” With a vague
gesture, I barrel past him, across the lawn, and up the stairs to the nearest trailer. I fling open the door
and hurtle inside the dim space as I slam it shut behind me and try to catch my breath.
“Real professional, JJ,” I mutter to myself, closing my eyes. “Running away. That’ll show him.”
“Show who?”
My eyes fly open. Our Mr. Darcy, aka Hugo Chambers, is sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat in the
middle of the floor, dressed in a lurid neon sweatsuit with gold gel patches under his eyes.
 “Shit, I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I thought this was hair and makeup, or storage, or someplace I could
hide.”
Looking around now, it’s clear that this is star territory: A plush couch occupies one wall, there’s
a lavish minibar situation with fruit baskets aplenty, and all kinds of swag bags and samples.
“Help yourself,” Hugo says cheerfully, clocking me checking out the spread. “My assistant brings
new packages every day, and there’s a limit to how much moisturizer a man can use without breaking
out.”
“Umm, thanks.” I blink. “But I’ll get out of your hair. I don’t want to interrupt… Whatever it is
you’re doing.”
“It’s like a meditation-slash-pump-up session.” Hugo untwists himself from the pretzel and gets
up, stretching. “I like to take a moment to get into character before my scenes. Think brooding,
emotionally constipated thoughts, and all that.”
I laugh, relaxing. I’ve been a little starstruck by Hugo’s aristocratic good looks and poise on set,
but it’s hard to be intimidated by a man with Korean skincare products plastered to his face. “You
were brooding great in rehearsals,” I offer. “And you managed to convey a really fun playfulness in
Darcy’s tone. So many actors play him all straitlaced, but it’s fun to see the glimpse of him more at
ease, and how Lizzy brings it out of him.”
“Yes, exactly!” Hugo’s face lights up with a smile. “That’s what I thought when I read the script.
It’s not all stiff and stoic. He has a fun side, too.” He opens one of the fruit baskets, and offers me
some designer strawberries. “So, who were you escaping from just now?”
“Oh, nobody. Just movie stuff,” I say quickly. I know I should probably leave him to his A-list
splendor, but Fraser might still be lurking out there, so I take Hugo up on his invitation, and join him
on the couch for a snack. “I loved you in Brothers of Mercy, by the way,” I tell him, naming the
prestigious WWII miniseries that catapulted him to fame.
“Thank you,” Hugo smiles. “Although, to be honest, spending three months crawling through the
mud for that show was far less intimidating than trying to step into Darcy’s breeches.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because he’s an icon,” Hugo explains. “And Austen fans have some very particular ideas about
how he should be portrayed.”
I shake my head. “You can’t think about that. I mean, yes, there are some very opinionated people
in certain corners of the internet, but Darcy is more of a vibe than a person.”
“A vibe?” Hugo repeats, looking amused.
“A vibe. What matters most is your chemistry with Sophia,” I add, “And the way you look at her
from across the room. Austen is all about secret, longing looks from across the room. It’s all in the
eyes,” I add, remembering the way Fraser used to look at me. “You have to stare at her differently to
how you look at anyone else, like she’s the center of your whole world and you’re helpless to resist
her…”
I stop, wondering if I’ve overstepped. After all, this man is an award-winning actor, I don’t need
to tell him how to do his job!
But Hugo is nodding along, looking interested. “Like this?” he says, fixing his brown eyes on me.
His brow furrows slightly, and it’s suddenly like he’s staring into my soul; the gaze laced with
longing, and passion, and…
“Wow, yes,” I blink, startled. “Just like that.”
As quickly as he turned it on, the gaze is replaced with Hugo’s regular bashful smile. “Excellent,”
he exclaims. “I’ve been working on that one. I was aiming for a mix of brooding sincerity and
helpless devotion.”
I have to laugh. “Then Darcy is in safe hands,” I reassure him.
There’s a tap on the door, and then a PA pokes his head around. “They’re ready for you in
wardrobe.”
Hugo gets up, and then gallantly gestures for me to go first. “After you.”
I exit the trailer—and see Fraser loitering nearby, talking to some other crew. His head snaps
around, and I see him look back and forth between me and Hugo, his expression unreadable.
“Wait,” I find myself saying to Hugo. “You’re forgetting something.” I reach up, and peel off his
gel patches, making sure to smile and bat my lashes at him a little.
“Thanks,” Hugo replies easily. “And thanks for the advice. Vibes. I’ll remember that.” He gives a
wink, and heads off to wardrobe, while I peek to see Fraser’s reaction to my little flirt session.
He’s nowhere to be seen.
I deflate. Well, OK.
The irony of wanting to avoid him, but also being annoyed when he leaves me alone, isn’t lost on
me. I obviously need to clear my head, and when I check my schedule, I find there’s nothing that needs
my attention on set for the next couple of hours.
Perfect.
I decide to make like Lizzy Bennet and take a bracing stroll through the countryside, so after
stopping by craft services to grab some snacks, I head out, leaving the main house behind as I follow
a trail that winds up the hill, towards some pretty woodlands.
Ah…
I take a deep breath of country air, feeling better already, the further I get out into nature. It’s a
glorious, blue-skied summer day, and the views over the nearby fields and hills are lush and
quintessentially English, like a picture postcard. No wonder Austen heroines were always tramping
through the fields when they needed an escape; with scenery like this, it’s an instant boost to my
mood.
I follow the trail further, our base camp getting smaller behind me as I enjoy the grasses and
wildflowers dotted all around. There are even some cows basking lazily in the next field, and I can’t
resist whipping out my phone to snap some photos. I text them to Tessa.
See? It’s like Jane herself walked these hills!
A moment later, my FaceTime call sounds. It’s Tessa, on video from her back porch at the B&B.
“Are you kidding me?” she asks. “Am I looking at a postcard right now? Or your actual life?”
I settle in, sitting on the ground against an old oak tree, and showing her the whole vista. “Isn’t it
beautiful? Almost enough to make up for the ex that’s skulking around set, trying to humiliate me.”
“Fraser skulks?” Tessa asks. Of course, I filled her in with all the humiliating details last night in
a stream-of-consciousness text thread that turned to an ALL-CAPS rant session. “I thought he was too
tall and strapping to skulk.”
“Metaphorically!” I protest, and bring her up to date with the latest curt run-in. “I feel like I can’t
go anywhere on set without finding him waiting around the next corner.” I sigh. “Tell me it’ll get
easier, and this is just early shock that will wear off, leaving me utterly indifferent to his good looks
and charm.”
“I mean, sure,” she replies, sounding dubious. “Whatever you think.”
“You’re supposed to be giving me the BFF pep talk,” I wail, and she laughs.
“I’m sorry, you’re right. All this awkwardness will be like the twenty-four-hour flu: Terrible, and
then gone forever, leaving nothing but that utter indifference behind!”
 “That’s more like it, thank you,” I say. “I don’t believe you for a second, but boy, wouldn’t it be
nice?”
“I can’t believe he’s a corporate suit now,” Tessa says, munching on some delicious looking pie.
“He was like the ultimate art-boy crush. All those gorgeous ink drawings he did for you? And those
Polaroids you took, with him all soulful and moody…”
“Don’t remind me,” I say grimly. I couldn’t bring myself to burn them all.
“Maybe he got snatched by aliens back then, and it’s why he never called,” Tessa suggests. “They
gave him a full lobotomy, and put him in the suit, and he never looked back.”
“That makes more sense than anything else,” I agree. “But of course, he still looks incredible.
Tessa, it’s not fair for the man to still have this effect on me! My brain remembers what he did, but my
body is like… Take me now.”
Tessa gives a sympathetic laugh. “Be strong,” she urges me. “And also, find out more about this
Hugo guy, he could have potential.”
“You mean, the potential to make my life even more complicated?” I counter, as someone calls to
her off-camera.
“I gotta go. Love you,” Tessa blows me a kiss, and hangs up.
I lower my phone, feeling marginally better. A good bestie pep talk can always turn things around,
and it’s validating that she’s just as outraged by Fraser’s cool professionalism as I am.
Twenty-four-hour flu. Raging, gross, and devastating… and then, gone. Surely that’s what’s
happening here?
The sound of a twig snapping makes me turn, and I blink. It’s Fraser, of course it is, standing about
twenty feet away by the tree line, giving me an awkward wave.
“Don’t let me disturb you,” he says quickly. “I was just taking a walk. Clearing my head.”
Oh God. How long has he been standing there? Did he hear that last bit about his kryptonite-to-me
hotness?
My cheeks burn. “Me too,” I yelp. “And then I had to FaceTime Tessa, to show her the view.”
“How is she these days?” he asks politely, like he actually cares about the BFF of a girl he
dumped a decade ago.
“Fine,” I reply, just as polite.
“Good.”
There’s a pause, and I scramble inelegantly to my feet. “Well, I should be heading back,” I say,
already backing away.
“Right. Me too. Goodbye.”
I set off the way I came, walking fast through the meadow. But soon enough, I hear footsteps
behind me.
I turn, annoyed. “Are you following me?”
Fraser looks at me like I’m an idiot. “I can’t help it if we’re walking in the same direction. Do
you need the whole field to yourself?”
“Can you at least stop brooding several paces behind me?” I ask.
“I’m hardly brooding,” he says, amusement tugging on the edge of his lips. “Besides, you couldn’t
even see my expression.”
“I could hear your footsteps,” I mumble. “They were brooding footsteps.”
“Really? And how does that sound?”
I narrow my eyes. “I can’t describe it.”
Fraser smirks. “Since apparently, I can’t walk behind you, and I’m sure my footsteps would find
some way to annoy you if I went ahead… Would it be the end of the world if we walked together?”
Yes.
“Not at all,” I reply, mustering my most perky, unaffected tone and a big fake smile. “Be my
guest.”
He finally falls into step beside me, and I take a deep breath. The more stilted he is, the breezier
I’m going to be, I decide. So breezy, I could damn well take flight. I wrack my brains for safe
conversation. You know, aside from ‘how have you been since you ripped out my heart?’ “So…” I
finally land on: “How is your family these days? Your siblings must be all grown up and out of the
house by now.”
Fraser comes from a big family; he’s the eldest of four and would always tell me stories about the
kids’ mischievous exploits.
“They’re… Good,” he replies slowly. “Older, for sure, although I wouldn’t say they’re grown
up,” he adds with a brief smile. “Eddie’s married, two kids, if you’d believe it,” he continues. “Kyle
trained as a sparkie. An electrician,” he translates. “Although he spends most of his time welding
wild sculptures. And Kittie’s a hair stylist now, in a beauty salon in Inverness,” he continues. “And
she designs clothes, too. Ridiculous punk-rock ripped things, that are apparently the height of
fashion,” he adds, a fond note in his voice.
She was ten when I saw him last. That’s how long ago it was: Elementary school kids are now
fully-fledged adults.
“Now I just feel old,” I mutter, and he gives a wry chuckle.
“You’re telling me. Used to be, I was the one dropping them at the school gates, now Kyle’s
roaring around town on a new Harley, and Eddie’s bairns are clamoring for a ride.”
“When did it happen?” I despair. “You know, I got ma’amed the other day for the first time by
some spotty kid in the convenience store. I felt like yelling at him, ‘Ma’am is my mother, I’m still a
miss!’”
Fraser laughs again, warm and rich. “Just wait until you’ve got grandnieces and nephews running
around, asking what life was like in the ancient times of the late 1990s.”
“Noo,” I laugh. “I swear, that was just a couple of years ago.”
“No time at all,” he agrees.
Our eyes lock, and in a moment, the time melts away. I’m nineteen again, breathless and bold, and
ready to take on the world—and him.
I drag my gaze away before I can tumble into a ditch.
“I heard someone say you’d got your doctorate,” Fraser remarks. “Congratulations. That’s a big
achievement."
“It would be, if I could actually finish the damn thing,” I sigh. “I’ve been working on my PhD
dissertation for a year now but… I can’t seem to finish.”
“What’s the hold-up?” he asks, looking interested. “I can’t say I ever pictured you as a professor.”
I don’t want to think about if, and how, Fraser may have pictured me. “That’s the issue,” I say
brightly instead. “I sort of stumbled into academia to avoid the real world, but now, well, I have zero
interest in teaching, or spending the rest of my life stuck in a library. So I have no motivation to finish,
but also, I’ve invested way too much time to officially give up…”
“Ah,” he nods. “Sunk cost fallacy. That’s when you’ve put in so many resources, you think you
have to continue—”
“You don’t need to tell me about sunk costs, mister.” I cut him off with a smirk. “You’re talking to
a woman who still watches Heartbreak Hospital.” I name the long-running TV show I’ve been
watching since I was a teenager.
“Still?” he asks, disbelieving.
“Still.” I confirm, smiling. I sneak another look at him. Even trampling through the country, he’s
still crisp in a perfectly tailored suit. “What happened with your art?” I find myself blurting, my
curiosity too much to hold back. “I thought you would be off in a studio somewhere by now, not
working an office job. Do you still paint?”
As quickly as he softened when talking about his family, Fraser’s expression shutters. “No. It was
fine hobby for a lad, but there was never any future in it. The life of a starving artist is a fool’s game,”
he adds briskly. Then his phone buzzes, and he glances at his screen. “I need to take this,” he says,
without any further explanation, and then strides away, speeding back towards the set.
I watch him go, feeling an odd ache of disappointment. Not for me, but for the guy I used to know,
who was so full of ambition and creativity, determined to carve out a life doing something that he
loved. To know that he abandoned that dream, along with me… Well, it just confirms, he’s not the man
I thought he was.
He really has changed.
5
 FRASER

IT’S OFFICIAL: I’m trapped in my own private version of hell. Also known as this damn hotel room.
I’ve been ready to leave for ten minutes, and I hate to be late, but here I am, stuck pacing the floral-
print carpet, and all because JJ is out there in the hallway, talking to someone.
I can’t hear what she’s saying, just the laughing tone of her voice. So, she is capable of happiness
these days, at least.
Just not around me.
I shouldn’t be surprised. She was the last person I was expecting to see again, and when I walked
into that bathroom, and caught an eyeful, it felt like someone just punched a hole clear through my
chest. Jolene Jameson, all five-foot-seven of her: lush curves and untamed brunette curls, wet and
naked and right there in front of me.
And I mean, all of her.
Fuck, as if the woman hasn’t haunted my dreams, and a fair number of my private fantasies for the
last ten years. I thought for a moment that I’d hit my head and drifted off into one of my favorite
daydreams about the woman.
Now it’s safe to say, I’ve got another decade of lusting after her ahead of me, too.
“He still looks incredible. Tessa, it’s not fair for the man to still have this effect on me!”
I pace some more, frustrated. Overhearing the tail end of her conversation didn’t help, now I just
know I’m not alone in my inconvenient attraction. But she said it herself: This isn’t rational. It’s just
muscle memory talking, nostalgia getting stirred up after all these years.
But I can’t trust myself around her. Not when she’s showing up to set every day in those adorable
sundresses, beaming at literally every other crew member, overflowing with happiness to be working
on this film—and shooting daggers at me every chance she gets.
I tried to be polite, but since simple professionalism clearly isn’t going to cut it, I’ve been
avoiding her instead. But after five days turning in the other direction when she enters a room, my
patience is wearing thin.
My patience, and my self-control.
Her laugh filters through the door again, that warm, infectious giggle that takes me back to
springtime in London, walking hand-in-hand by the Thames, cozying up together on a bench in the
pub.
Peeling her clothes off, one by one, laid out in front of the fireplace in my icy attic rooms, that
giggle turning into a breathy moan...
Dammit.
 I pace some more, scowling, feeling like a caged animal trapped here in this chintzy hell. Is this
really what’s become of me? A grown man, hiding from his university ex?
She’s the one who moved on without pausing for breath, like we never even mattered. Like she’d
never loved me at all. A new boy every week, that’s what it had looked like splashed all over her
social media that terrible summer. She was partying her way across the East Coast, while I was up in
Scotland, out of my mind with missing her and trying to keep my whole world from falling apart.
And now she has the nerve to glare at me like I’m the villain in this story?
You’re better than this.
Fuck it.
I open the door purposefully and stride out. “Morning,” I give her a brief nod, and walk past them,
before she can even reply. There. I hit the elevator button hard and keep staring straight ahead until
the doors shut behind me.
I need to get a grip. We’ve got another month of this shoot ahead of us, and I refuse to be held
hostage by her smile. However tempting it is.
It’s time to act like a bloody adult.

OVER AT THE LOCATION, I weave purposefully through the bustle, heading for my makeshift
office and another day spent arguing with Reeve and his producers over line budget items. But despite
the daily battle that’s shaping up over my presence here, I like the buzz of activity, how the film
production is a complex machine made up of a hundred moving parts. It’s why I took the job, after
years working in a more formal, corporate setting. I’m still pushing numbers around, but this way, I’m
adjacent to something more creative, even if I’m not the one taking part.
My phone buzzes with a call. It’s Bradley, my new boss at the production studio in L.A. that’s
funding the film, a real bastard who just took the reins, and seems determined to ride roughshod over
every previous decision.
“Talk to me, MacKenzie,” the man barks. “Tell me The Barber is earning his nickname.”
“The what?” I keep my voice neutral, even though I already loathe the guy. He asked on Day One
if I thought Sophia Briscoe was fuckable enough to be the lead actress, and it’s all been downhill
from there.
“Barber. Because you’re guaranteed to shave every dime off the budget, geddit?” he chortles a
laugh, every inch the corporate fat-cat. “Because these numbers don’t make any sense to me. Fifty-
million dollars? It’s a fucking romance movie, not the next Avatar!”
“A period romance,” I remind him carefully. “And I’m doing my best. The budget had already
been approved when I was brought on. It’s late in the day to be scaling things back. We’ve literally
started shooting already.”
“Yeah, well slash and burn, baby, you hear me? Not another pence, or whatever the fuck it is. And
don’t let those creatives talk you around, this is just content, plug and play. Let’s keep those profits
where they belong: in our shareholder’s pockets!”
Christ, what a wanker. I’m tempted to ask if the slashing and burning extends to his twenty-million
dollar pay package, but I would hazard that wouldn’t be productive. “Heard,” I say briskly instead.
“I’ll keep you updated.”
He hangs up, and I brace myself for another day fighting over the carriage budget. My directive
here is clear: I need to curb spending as much as possible, however late we are in the game. It’s no
easy task. Every person on this production is approaching their job with meticulous excellence,
aiming for quality, not economy. But my bosses in L.A. don’t care about the quality of the film. If
anything, Bradley resents inheriting the movie full stop, and he’ll do anything to cut corners. I can tell,
he’s just itching to cancel the whole production, and claim the entire thing as a tax write-off.
I won’t let that happen. Not with so many people working around the clock to bring their vision to
reality.
Not with Jolene so passionately invested in every scene.
I make my way inside the house and find Reeve reviewing footage from the dawn shoot. “Good
morning,” I greet him.
Reeve looks at me warily. “Is it?”
Fair enough.
“Listen,” I begin. “I took a look at the shooting schedule for next week, and I have some thoughts.”
“Do you now?” Reeve folds his arms. “Remind me again, what’s your experience shooting a big-
budget movie? That’s right, you have none.”
I hold my ground. “I’m not trying to cramp your style, there are just some concerns coming from
upstairs, and I think we can work together to—”
“The only work you need to do is staying the hell out of my way.” Reeve interrupts, glaring.
“I’m on your side,” I try to appeal to his reason. “And if I can just show them how you’ll come in
under budget, they’ll leave you alone for the rest of the shoot.”
“Really?” Reeve scowls. “Because my producer and I have been through this budget a hundred
times already, and I’m telling you, it’s leaner than my buddy Jackson on a cut. So where exactly do
you propose we save this money? You want Darcy to live in a little cottage somewhere? Feel like
shaving off a week of shoot days? I’m sure it wouldn’t fuck with the plot too much. Oh wait, it will.”
I take a measured breath. He’s an artist, and I can respect that. Fuck, I’m more than a little jealous
he gets to bring his vision to life on such an epic scale. But that doesn’t mean I won’t do my job. A
hundred grand here, a few more there… It might add up to enough to keep Bradley off their backs.
“The carriages,” I start, producing my notes. “Explain to me why you need five—no, six different
models. They cost a fortune, and they’re not even in the same scenes together. Can’t you just re-dress
one with new livery and insignias? And why is the costuming budget so high for characters we barely
see?” I continue. “Georgiana Darcy, Anne de Bourgh… They barely appear in a single scene in the
script, but their wardrobe costs are triple the entire budget for the Bennett family. This silk bill alone
is astronomical.”
“Because they’re rich, titled women,” a familiar voice answers from the doorway.
I turn. Jolene is standing there, eying me with clear disdain.
“Anne de Bourgh is an heiress, with a snob of a mother, and a vast fortune at her disposal,” Jolene
continues, icy. “She would never be seen dead in the simple muslins that the Bennetts can afford. And
as for the carriages… I wouldn’t expect you to know the difference between a chaise, a curricle, and
a barouche, but let me assure you, they all have very different meanings in Regency society. Saying
we could slap some new paint on one and reuse it is like saying James Bond could pull up to a casino
in a Honda Civic, as long as it had an Aston Martin wingtip slapped on the front. The idea is fucking
ridiculous.” She gives me a withering stare. Which of course only turns me on.
Fuck, she’s magnificent when she’s passionate about something.
I exhale. “Fine,” I admit grudgingly. “But if it’s not the carriages, you need to cut somewhere else.
Have your line producer go through the budget again,” I tell Reeve, warning. “Otherwise, I’ll go
looking for savings myself.”
I leave before he can start throwing things. Clearly, this is a losing battle – for now. But I’ve been
in the finance business long enough to know when the higher ups start viewing a project as a money
pit, things go south fast—and unfortunately, that day came and went the minute Bradley took over at
the studio.
If I can’t get Reeve to come around, there’ll be no movie left to save.

I RETREAT out to the back terrace, where they’re setting up for a shot nearby. It’s quiet enough to
settle in with my laptop and work, but before long, a group of crew hauls out some boxes, and then
loiters, eating breakfast sandwiches and shooting the shit in the morning sun.
“Whatshername, the Jane girl, is already at it,” one of them is saying. “Saw Rudy the lighting grip
sneaking out of her room the other night.”
There’s laughter. “Can’t really blame her,” one of the women says cheerfully. “Two months on
location, got to get that dick locked down ASAP.”
“Speaking for yourself, are we?” one of the older guys says with a smirk.
She laughs. “Why, you volunteering? I need someone to keep up, that gammy leg of yours might
slow you down.”
“There ain’t nothing wrong with my leg. Not when I’m on my back, anyway.”
There’s more laughter, as they toss around more predictions for on-set hookups. “That Hugo
Chambers is a right ladies’ man, mark my words, there’ll be some broken hearts around here soon
enough.”
“Broken hearts, or ripped panties?”
“And what about the Austen girl, the American? She seems like she’d be up for a laugh.”
I tense at the mention. Jolene?
“She’s hot. And single,” the woman reports, to whistles. “Aww, come off it, Rob, she’s out of
your league.”
“How do you know what my league is?”
“Oh, I know. You think the makeup girls don’t talk?”
They’re laughing, and I’m fuming over the thought of her hooking up with any of these guys, when
I see Jolene herself come into view, strolling around the side of the house with that production
designer, Hazel. She’s gesturing wildly about something, looking fired up. Probably relating our
carriage fight, I realize, if the scowl on her face is anything to go by.
“Hey, Suit Guy.”
I look over. One of the lighting techs is gesturing me down the terrace. I go, wincing at the
nickname. I’m a Suit Guy, fuck.
“What do you need?” I ask, glad of the distraction from Jolene and her potential filming hookups.
“Stand here a minute, will you?” She gestures to a taped X on the ground. “You’re about Hugo’s
height, and we need a stand-in for the lights.”
I do as she says, loitering awkwardly as they take readings by my face, and adjust a spotlight
overhead. “Cool… Cool… Thanks,” the tech mutters, peering at her readings. “Shit, where’s
Sophia’s stand-in?”
“I haven’t seen her,” a passing PA shrugs.
The tech sighs. “Where’s another body?” she calls.
 “JJ can do it,” Hazel calls over to us, and gives her a firm shove in my direction. Jolene looks
like she’s about to fight her on it, but the lighting tech is already hustling her over, and thrusting her
into position beside me.
“Won’t take a minute. Thanks, you’re a lifesaver!”
They all retreat to study their screens, leaving Jolene and I alone. At least, it feels that way to me,
standing there awkwardly on the terrace just a few inches away, trying not to stare.
Fuck, she’s beautiful—and the past ten years have only made her settle into her beauty. Back then,
she was fresh-faced and innocent, even if she hid it behind her bold quips and sassy smirks. Now,
there’s a new vitality in her eyes. Call it age, or wisdom, or just getting comfortable with who she
really is. She’s somehow more herself than she was before, and damn, if it doesn’t slay me all over
again.
“Ready for your close-up?” Jolene finally says, looking just about as uncomfortable as I feel.
“This is about as close as I’ll get to being on-screen,” I say immediately, and she grins.
“Me too. My god, have you seen what those actors go through just to be camera-ready? Sophia
hasn’t touched a carb all week, and Hugo is in the gym at five a.m. every day.”
How does she know that? I remember her exiting his trailer with him, looking awfully friendly,
and feel an unwelcome surge of jealousy.
“Can you move in closer?” one of the tech calls. “Second position, it’s marked on the ground.”
We both look down. The taped Xs are barely inches apart.
Reluctantly, we move closer.
We get a thumbs-up. “OK, now chin up, if you please, Lizzy stand-in. Eyes on him.”
Jolene lifts her eyes to mine, still guarded in a defiant stare, like she can’t wait to get away from
me.
The feeling is entirely mutual. Because standing here, close enough to touch, close enough to
smell her, the light, fruity scent of her shampoo?
It’s just about torture. Memories crash through me, of the hours we spent tangled up in each
other’s arms. The weight of her body above me.
The way she looked, flushed and breathless, right before she came.
Fuck.
Jolene’s eyes are still locked on mine, but they’re wider now, and I swear her cheeks are flushing
pink under the lights. Is she taking the same X-rated trip down memory lane? Does she still make that
breathy moan if you kiss the nape of her neck? Does she still shudder with desire when you pin her
wrists above her head, and make her beg for it—?
Stop.
I drag my gaze away. The lighting techs are still bustling around, adjusting rigs and lenses, so
there's nothing for me to do but employ every ounce of self-control, and stay frozen there in place,
waiting for this nightmare to be over.
“Suit Guy, can you shift ninety degrees? No, the other way.”
“Suit Guy?” Jolene echoes quietly, looking amused.
I follow the instructions, giving her a warning look. “That is not my new nickname.”
“No, I think it is.” Jolene beams wider. “I think from now on, you’ll be known to everyone as Suit
Guy.”
“What’s wrong with looking professional?” I grumble. Dressing smartly reminds me of my role
and boundaries. It says, I have a job to do.
She smirks. “Look around, Suit Guy. Formal isn’t exactly the dress code around here.”
 “I’m looking…” I answer without thinking, my gaze drifting down to her clothing for the day:
another mismatched outfit of an old Eagles T-shirt and a pair of distractingly short cut-off jeans.
Jolene flushes again. “Well, stop,” she protests.
I arch an eyebrow. “I’m just following instructions, sweetheart. I’m a stickler for the rules,” I add.
“Says the man who jumped every subway turnstile and sneaked us into every private gallery room
at the British Museum,” Jolene counters, rolling her eyes.
Shit, I’d forgotten about that. About him. The guy I was with her, reckless and impulsive, and
always ready for a new adventure.
The guy I was before the world got in the way.
A lock of hair has fallen into her eyes, and without thinking, I reach out and brush it aside.
Jolene freezes. My hand lingers on her cheek as her eyes find mine, her mouth falling open slightly
in surprise; lips soft, and wet, and just begging for me to lean in and—
“Alright, we’re set. Thanks for your time!”
The tech’s voice breaks through our charged moment. Jolene recoils, backing away so fast, she
stumbles straight into a stack of amps. “Are you alright—” I start to move to help, but she just
scrambles away, like she’s physically repelled from my touch.
“Yes! Fine! Peachy!” she yelps, then turns on her heel, and bolts so fast, she almost takes out a
wardrobe rack and two extras on her way out of range.
So much for ancient history.
I thought I’d fucked things up between us thoroughly enough when I was twenty-two, but it turns
out, there’s still some fuck up left in me yet.
I grab a passing PA. “Tell me, where on God’s green earth can a man get a drink around here?”
6
 JJ

I WAS DOING SO WELL. Five whole days of pretending as if Fraser is just another colleague.
Obviously, I stole glances. Of course I fell asleep playing out imaginary scenarios. (A fifty-fifty split
on dressing him down and undressing him.) But I managed to stay clearheaded on set and do my job,
sharp and focused and girlbossing my way through the day, 1812-style.
And then the bastard brushes my hair aside as if it was ten years ago, and all that poised self-
control flies right out the window, leaving me a panting, flustered, horny woman who melts at a single
touch.
I’m just lucky I didn’t climb him like a tree, right there in the middle of the terrace.
Lucky… Or stupid. I haven’t decided just yet.
That’s why I’m camped out in my room on Friday, hiding from the world—and a certain Hot Scot.
I took Hugo up on his offer for free skincare samples, and now I’m settled in with my sweatpants on,
a tray of plumping, moisturizing products, and the room service menu. It’s about to be a wild Friday
night up in here, when there’s a knock on my door.
“Are you ready yet?” It’s Hazel. “C’mon, I don’t want to be late.”
I fling open the door, displaying my vintage robe and the scarf holding back my hair. “Absolutely.
Almost ready for my bath and then my bedtime routine.”
She gives me a look. “Everyone’s going to the pub tonight.”
“Not me,” I say cheerfully. If 'everyone’ includes Fraser, then I’m better off staying far, far away.
“Have fun. Snog a townie for me.” I start to close the door, but she sticks a boot in it, forcing it open.
“You’re not staying in, alone. This is old lady behavior. And not even fun, tipsy-at-bridge-club
old lady behavior.”
I laugh, unmoved. “Then pass me the chamomile and call me Blanche.”
Hazel smirks. “Blanche would be out here in a heartbeat. Come on, it’s tradition. Everyone blows
off steam after the first week. We go, we drink, we bond.”
“You go, you drink, you bond,” I reply.
“Don’t make me do it alone,” Hazel bats her eyes at me. “It’s already weird enough, being the
boss’s sister. I’ll be stuck sitting in the corner, drowning my sorrows…”
“With a tiny violin playing?” I tease. “I wish I could, I really do, but… I need some space.”
Especially after today.
Hazel reads my face. “Ohhh. I get it. Fraser. Why didn’t you say? He blew off the guys when they
invited him, I heard them in the lobby. So, you can come out with zero threat of awkward ex
mingling.”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 CAPITOLO XVI.
LA FINE.

Quando giunse il momento, per Ernesto e per me, di recarci a

Washington, il papà non volle accompagnarci: si era appassionato
alla vita proletaria. Egli considerava il nostro misero rione come un
vasto laboratorio sociologico, e sembrava travolto in una
interminabile orgia di ricerche. Fraternizzava con gli operai, ed era
ammesso con intimità in numerose famiglie; inoltre faceva dei lavori
in pelle, essendo il lavoro manuale, per lui, una distrazione e, nello
stesso tempo, oggetto di osservazioni scientifiche. Vi prendeva
gusto e rincasava con le tasche piene di appunti, sempre pronto a
raccontare qualche nuova avventura. Era il tipo perfetto dello
scienziato.
Non era obbligato a lavorare, perchè Ernesto guadagnava, con le
sue traduzioni, tanto da mantenere tutti e tre; ma papà si ostinava a
voler conquistare il suo tipo d’ideale preferito che, a giudicare dalla
varietà delle metamorfosi professionali, doveva essere Proteo.
Non dimenticherò mai la sera in cui ci portò il suo inventario di
merciaio ambulante, venditore di lacci e bretelle, nè il giorno in cui
entrai per comperare della roba nella drogheria d’angolo e fui servita
da lui. Dopo ciò, seppi, senza troppa sorpresa, che era stato per
tutta una settimana, garzone nel bar di fronte a noi. Fu,
successivamente, guardia notturna, rivenditore ambulante di patate,
incollatore di cartellini in un negozio d’imballaggio, facchino in una
fabbrica di scatole di cartone, portatore d’acqua in una squadra
impiegata nella costruzione di una linea tranviaria; e seppi pure che
si era fatto accogliere nel Sindacato dei lavoratori di vasellame, poco
tempo prima che questo fosse sciolto.
Credo che fosse affascinato dall’esempio del vescovo, o, perlomeno,
dall’abito di lavoro di quello, perchè usava anch’egli un camiciotto di
cotone di poco prezzo, e un vestito di tela con una stretta cintura sui
fianchi. Della sua vita antica, conservò solo l’abitudine di cambiarsi
l’abito pel pranzo, o, meglio, per la cena.
Io ero felice, in qualunque luogo, con Ernesto; e la felicità di mio
padre, in quelle condizioni, aumentava la mia.
— Da piccolo, — diceva, — ero molto curioso. Volevo sapere tutti i
perchè e i come. In questo modo, del resto, divenni uno scienziato.
Oggi, la vita mi sembra degna di osservazione, come nella mia
infanzia; e in fondo, è la nostra curiosità che la rende degna d’essere
vissuta.
Talvolta, si spingeva a nord di Market Street, nel quartiere dei negozi
e dei teatri, e là vendeva giornali, faceva commissioni, il portiere. Un
giorno, chiudendo lo sportello di una vettura, si trovò a faccia a
faccia con il signor Wickson. E con gran giubilo ci raccontò di
quell’incidente, la sera stessa.
— Wickson mi ha guardato attentamente, mentre chiudevo lo
sportello, e ha mormorato: — Oh! che il diavolo mi porti! — Proprio
così si è espresso: — Oh! il diavolo mi porti! Era arrossito, così
confuso, che ha dimenticato di darmi la mancia. Ma riacquistò il suo
spirito ben presto, giacchè, dopo pochi giri di ruota, la vettura ritornò
al punto di partenza, e Wickson si sporse dal finestrino e si rivolse a
me:
— Voi, professore, come mai? Oh! è troppo! Che cosa posso fare
per voi?
— Ho chiuso il vostro sportello, — risposi. — Secondo l’uso, potreste
darmi una piccola mancia.
— Non si tratta di questo, — borbottò. — Voglio dire fare qualche
cosa che vi possa giovare.
— Parlava seriamente; provava senza dubbio, un dolore lancinante,
nella sua coscienza indurita. Indugiai un po’ prima di rispondere:
quando apersi la bocca, egli mi ascoltò attentamente: ma avreste
dovuto vederlo quando ebbi finito.
— Ebbene, — dissi, — potreste forse rendermi la casa e le mie
azioni delle Filande della Sierra.
Papà s’interruppe.
— Che cosa rispose? — chiesi con impazienza.
— Nulla: che cosa poteva rispondere? Ma io ripresi la parola: —
Spero che siate felice. — Egli mi guardava con curiosità e sorpresa.
Insistetti: — Ditemi, siete felice? — Immediatamente, diede ordine al
cocchiere di partire, e lo udii che bestemmiava furiosamente. Quel
malnato non mi aveva dato la mancia e tanto meno restituito la mia
casa e i miei poderi. Vedi, dunque, cara, che la carriera di tuo padre,
come factotum di strada, è cosparsa di delusioni.
Per questo amore all’osservazione, papà rimase nel nostro
appartamento di Pell Street, mentre Ernesto ed io andavamo a
Washington. L’antico ordine delle cose era virtualmente morto, e il
colpo di grazia stava per giungere prima di quanto immaginassi.
Contrariamente alla nostra aspettativa, non fu fatto nessun
ostruzionismo per impedire ai socialisti eletti di prendere possesso
dei loro seggi al Congresso. Sembrava che tutto camminasse su
delle ruote, e io ridevo di Ernesto che vedeva perfino in questa
facilità come un sinistro presagio. Trovammo i nostri compagni
socialisti pieni di fiducia nelle loro forze, e pieni di disegni ottimisti.
Alcuni fittavoli eletti al Congresso avevano accresciuto la nostra
potenza; così che elaborammo con loro un programma
particolareggiato di ciò che v’era da fare. Ernesto partecipava
lealmente ed energicamente a questi lavori, quantunque non
potesse fare a meno di ripetere, ogni tanto, e apparentemente fuori
di proposito: «Quanto alla polvere, le combinazioni chimiche valgono
meglio dei miscugli meccanici, credetemi!».
Le cose cominciarono a guastarsi, per i fittavoli, negli Stati di cui si
erano impadroniti con le elezioni: non fu permesso ai nuovi eletti di
prendere possesso della loro carica. I predecessori si rifiutavano di
cedere loro il posto, e, col semplice pretesto di irregolarità elettorali
imbrogliarono le cose in un dedalo di procedura burocratica.
I fittavoli furono ridotti all’impotenza: i tribunali, loro ultima speme,
erano nelle mani dei nemici. Il momento era difficilissimo: tutto
sarebbe stato perduto se i contadini, così ingannati, avessero fatto
appello alla violenza. Noi socialisti impiegavamo tutte le nostre forze
per trattenerli.
Ernesto passò giorni e notti senza chiudere occhio. I grandi capi dei
fittavoli vedevano il pericolo e operavano in perfetto accordo con noi.
Ma tutto questo non servì a nulla: l’oligarchia voleva la violenza, e
mise in azione i suoi agenti provocatori, i quali, indiscutibilmente,
provocarono la rivolta dei contadini.
Questa scoppiò nei dodici Stati. I fittavoli espropriati si
impadronirono, a forza, dei loro Governi. Essendo questo modo di
procedere incostituzionale, gli Stati Uniti misero in moto l’esercito; gli
agenti del Tallone di Ferro eccitavano ovunque la popolazione,
travestiti da artigiani, fittavoli o contadini. A Sacramento, capitale
della California, i padroni erano riusciti a mantenere l’ordine, quando
un nuvolo di poliziotti segreti si rovesciò sulla città condannata. Dei
gruppi composti esclusivamente di spie incendiarono e
saccheggiarono diversi fabbricati e officine, e infiammarono le menti
del popolo a tal punto, che esso si unì con loro nel saccheggio. Per
alimentare questo incendio, fu distribuito l’alcool a flutti nei quartieri
poveri. Poi, quando tutto fu pronto, entrarono in iscena le truppe
degli Stati Uniti, che erano in realtà i soldati del Tallone di Ferro.
Undicimila uomini, donne e bambini, furono fucilati per le strade di
Sacramento, o assassinati nelle case. Il Governo nazionale prese il
posto del Governo di Stato, e tutto fu perduto per la California.
Anche altrove le cose andarono in modo analogo. Tutti gli Stati
dell’Unione delle Fattorie, furono domati con la violenza e affogati
nel sangue. Come sempre, dapprima il disordine era scatenato dagli
agenti segreti e dalle Centurie Nere, poi, immediatamente le truppe
regolari erano chiamate in soccorso. La sommossa e il terrore
regnavano in tutti i distretti.
Giorno e notte fumigavano gl’incendî delle fattorie e dei negozi, delle
città e dei villaggi. Si ricorse all’uso della dinamite: si fecero saltare
ponti, gallerie, deragliare i treni. I poveri fittavoli furono fucilati e
impiccati in massa. Le rappresaglie furono terribili: numerosi
plutocrati e ufficiali furono massacrati. I cuori erano assetati di
sangue e di vendetta. L’esercito regolare combatteva i possidenti
con l’accanimento che avrebbero usato contro i pellirosse, nè
mancavano le scuse per questo. Duemilaottocento soldati etano stati
annientati nell’Oregon da una spaventosa serie di esplosioni di
dinamite, e numerosi treni militari erano stati distrutti nello stesso
modo, così che i soldati difendevano la loro pelle, proprio come i
fittavoli.
Circa la milizia, la legge del 1903 venne applicata, e i lavoratori di
ogni Stato furono obbligati, pena la morte, a fucilare i loro compagni
degli altri Stati. Naturalmente le cose non andarono lisce in principio:
molti ufficiali furono uccisi, e molti cittadini condannati dal Consiglio
di guerra. La profezia di Ernesto si avverò con spaventosa
precisione, circa il signor M. Kowalt e il signor Asmunsen. Tutti e
due, dichiarati idonei per la milizia, furono arruolati in California per
la spedizione di repressione contro i fittavoli del Missuri. Tutti e due
rifiutarono di prestar servizio; ma non fu loro concesso neppure il
tempo di confessarsi: sottoposti a un Consiglio di guerra
improvvisato, furono subito bell’e spacciati. Morirono tutti e due con
la schiena rivolta al plotone di esecuzione.
Molti giovanotti, per non servire nella milizia, si rifugiarono sulle
montagne e diventarono disertori, ma vennero in seguito puniti, in
tempi migliori. Non avevano guadagnato nulla aspettando, perchè il
Governo fece un proclama invitante i cittadini abili ad abbandonare
le montagne entro il termine massimo di tre mesi. Alla scadenza del
termine, mezzo milione di soldati furono mandati ovunque nelle
regioni montuose; e non ci fu nè processo, nè giudizio: ogni uomo
che incontravano era ucciso sul posto. La truppa agiva secondo il
criterio che solo i proscritti erano restati in montagna. Qualche
gruppo, trincerato in forti posizioni, resistette valorosamente, ma alla
fine tutti i disertori dalla milizia furono sterminati.
Nello stesso tempo, nella mente del popolo era impressa una
lezione più immediata, col castigo inflitto alla milizia ribelle del
Kansas. Questa rivolta importantissima avvenne proprio al principio
delle operazioni militari contro i fittavoli. Seimila uomini della milizia
si sollevarono: da parecchie settimane erano turbolenti e
malcontenti, ed erano tenuti prigionieri per questo motivo. È fuori
dubbio, però, che la prima rivolta fu precipitata da agenti provocatori.
Nella notte del 22 aprile, gli uomini di truppa si ammutinarono ed
uccisero gli ufficiali, di cui solo pochi poterono sfuggire al massacro.
Questo oltrepassava il programma del Tallone di Ferro, i cui agenti
avevano lavorato sin troppo bene. Ma tutto era grano buono da
macinare per la plutocrazia, ormai preparata all’esplosione:
l’uccisione di tanti ufficiali avrebbe fornito una giustificazione per
quanto sarebbe accaduto dopo.
Come in sogno, quarantamila uomini dell’esercito regolare
circondarono l’accampamento, o, meglio, la trappola. Gl’infelici militi
si accorsero che le cartucce prese al deposito non erano del calibro
dei loro fucili, ed innalzarono la bandiera bianca per arrendersi, ma
fu vano: nessuno di essi sopravvisse. I seimila furono sterminati.
Dapprima bombardati da lungi con scariche di obici e di shrapnels,
furono poi falciati, a colpi di mitragliatrice, mentre si lanciavano
disperatamente contro le linee che li attorniavano. Ho parlato con un
testimonio oculare: egli mi ha detto che neppure un milite potè
avvicinarsi a meno di cinquanta metri da quella macchina micidiale.
Il suolo era cosparso di cadaveri. In una carica finale di cavalleria, i
feriti furono massacrati a colpi di sciabola e di rivoltella e schiacciati
sotto gli zoccoli dei cavalli.
Mentre avveniva la distruzione dei contadini, accadeva la rivolta dei
minatori, ultimo rantolo d’agonia del lavoro organizzato. Dichiararono
sciopero in centocinquantamila. Ma erano troppo sparsi in tanti
paesi, per poter avere vantaggio della loro forza numerica. Furono
isolati nei loro rispettivi distretti, battuti e obbligati a sottomettersi. Fu
la prima operazione di reclutamento di schiavi, in massa. Pocock vi
guadagnò i galloni di capociurma supremo, e nello stesso tempo un
odio inestinguibile da parte del proletariato [89]. La sua vita fu
soggetta a numerosi attentati; ma sembrava che possedesse un
talismano contro la morte. I minatori devono a lui l’introduzione di un
sistema di passaporto alla russa, che tolse loro la libertà di andare
da una parte all’altra del Paese.
Pure, i socialisti resistevano. Mentre i contadini spiravano fra le
fiamme e il sangue, mentre il sindacalismo era smantellato, noi
rimanevamo compatti e perfezionavamo le nostre organizzazioni
segrete. Inutilmente i fittavoli ci facevano rimostranze: noi
rispondevamo, e con ragione, che qualunque rivolta da parte nostra
sarebbe stata la fine di ogni rivoluzione, per sempre. Il Tallone di
Ferro, dapprima titubante circa il modo di agire con l’insieme del
proletariato, avrebbe trovato le cose più semplici e lisce che non si
aspettasse, e non avrebbe desiderato altro, per finirla una buona
volta, che una sollevazione da parte nostra. Ma noi sventammo
questo, a dispetto degli agenti provocatori che brulicavano nelle
nostre file, e usavano sistemi molto grossolani, in quei tempi, e
avevano molto da imparare. Costoro furono dai nostri gruppi di
combattimento soppiantati a poco a poco.
Fu un compito arduo e sanguinoso, ma lottavamo per la nostra vita e
per la Rivoluzione, ed eravamo obbligati a combattere il nemico colle
sue stesse armi. Però noi combattevamo con lealtà. Nessun agente
del Tallone di Ferro fu giustiziato senza processo. Può darsi che si
siano commessi errori, ma se vi furono, furono molto rari. I nostri
Gruppi di Combattimento erano formati dai migliori nostri compagni,
dai più arditi, dai più disposti al sacrificio di se stessi.
Un giorno, dopo dieci anni, Ernesto fece un calcolo: servendosi dei
dati forniti dai capi di questi Gruppi, calcolò che la durata media della
vita degli iscritti, uomini e donne, non oltrepassasse i cinque anni.
Tutti i Compagni dei Gruppi di Combattimento erano degli eroi; e il
più strano è che a tutti essi ripugnava attentare alla vita umana.
Quegli amanti della libertà, facevano violenza alla loro natura,
pensando che nessun sacrificio era troppo grande per una causa
così nobile. [90]
Lo scopo che ci eravamo imposti era triplo. Volevamo, per primo,
purgare le nostre file dagli agenti provocatori; in seguito, organizzare
i Gruppi di Combattimento all’infuori dell’organizzazione segreta e
generale della Rivoluzione; in ultimo, introdurre i nostri agenti scelti,
in tutti i rami dell’Oligarchia, nelle caste operaie, specialmente fra i
telegrafisti, segretari e commessi, nell’Esercito, fra le spie e i
guardiaciurme. Era un’opera lenta e pericolosa, e spesso i nostri
sforzi fallivamo.
Il Tallone di Ferro aveva trionfato nella guerra aperta: ma noi
stavamo all’erta, nell’altra guerra, sotterranea, sconcertante e
terribile che avevamo intrapresa. In questa lotta tutto era invisibile,
quasi tutto imprevisto: come una lotta fra ciechi, ma fatta con molto
ordine, secondo uno scopo e una direttiva. I nostri agenti
s’insinuavano fra gli ingranaggi di tutta l’organizzazione del Tallone
di Ferro mentre la nostra era permeata dagli agenti avversarî;
secondo una tattica tortuosa ed oscura, piena di intrighi e
cospirazioni, di mine e contromine. E dietro tutto questo, sempre
minacciosa, stava la morte, la morte violenta e terribile. Uomini e
donne sparivano, i nostri migliori, i nostri più cari compagni. Si
vedevano oggi, domani erano svaniti, e non si rivedevano mai più, e
sapevamo che erano morti.
Non c’erano più, in nessun luogo, nè sicurezza nè fiducia. L’uomo
che complottava con noi poteva essere un agente del Tallone di
Ferro. Ma era lo stesso dalle due parti; eppure eravamo costretti a
lavorare con fiducia e certezza. Fummo spesso traditi; la natura
umana è debole. Il Tallone di Ferro poteva dare denaro e
divertimenti nelle sue meravigliose città di piacere e di riposo; noi
non avevamo altre attrattive che la soddisfazione di essere fedeli a
un nobile ideale; e questa lealtà non aspettava altra ricompensa che
il continuo pericolo, la tortura e la morte.
La morte costituiva l’unico mezzo di cui disponevamo per punire
quella debolezza umana; ed era una necessità per noi castigare i
traditori. Quando accadeva che uno dei nostri ci tradisse, uno o più
vendicatori fedeli erano lanciati alle sue calcagna. Poteva accadere
di fallire nell’esecuzione dei nostri decreti contro i nostri nemici,
come nel caso di Pocock, ma la punizione era infallibile quando si
trattava di castigare i falsi fratelli. Alcuni compagni si lasciarono
corrompere col nostro permesso, per avere accesso nelle città
meravigliose, ed eseguirvi le nostre sentenze contro i veri venduti.
Ma, in fondo, esercitavamo un tale timore, che era più pericoloso
tradirci, che restarci fedeli.
La Rivoluzione assumeva un carattere profondamente religioso. Noi
adoravamo il suo altare che era quello della Libertà. Il suo spirito
divino ci rischiarava. Uomini e donne si consacravano alla Causa e
ad essa votavano i loro nati, come un tempo al servizio di Dio.
Eravamo gli adoratori dell’Umanità.
 CAPITOLO XVII.
LA LIVREA ROSSA.

Durante la devastazione degli Stati appartenenti ai Fittavoli, i

rappresentanti di questo partito sparirono dal Congresso. Furono
istruiti processi per alto tradimento e il posto di essi fu occupato da
creature del Tallone di Ferro. I socialisti formavano la minoranza e
sentivano avvicinarsi la fine.
Il Congresso e il Senato erano ormai soltanto vani fantocci. Le
questioni pubbliche vi erano gravemente dibattute e votate secondo
le forme tradizionali, ma servivano solo a convalidare con una
procedura costituzionale, gli atti della Oligarchia.
Ernesto era nel fitto della mischia quando sopraggiunse la fine;
avvenne durante la discussione di un disegno di legge per
l’assistenza agli scioperanti. La crisi dell’anno precedente aveva
abbassato numerose masse del proletariato a un livello inferiore a
quello della carestia, e il propagarsi e il prolungarsi dei disordini ve le
tenevano sempre più. Milioni di persone morivano di fame, mentre
gli oligarchi e loro sostenitori si rimpinzavano a dismisura [91].
Chiamavamo quegli infelici, il popolo dell’abisso [92]: e per alleviare le
loro sofferenze, i socialisti avevano presentato quel disegno di legge,
che al Tallone di Ferro non piacque. Esso aveva il suo modo di
vedere, per la sistemazione del lavoro di milioni di esseri, e siccome
questo modo di vedere non era il nostro, così aveva dato ordini
affinchè il nostro disegno fosse respinto.
Ernesto ed i suoi compagni sapevano che il loro sforzo sarebbe
stato vano, ma, stanchi di essere tenuti nell’incertezza, desideravano
una decisione qualunque. Non potendo ottener nulla, speravano
almeno di porre termine a quella farsa legislativa in cui erano
costretti a rappresentare una parte passiva. Ignoravamo quale
aspetto avrebbe assunto la scena finale; ma non l’avremmo mai
immaginata più drammatica di quale avvenne in realtà.
Quel giorno, mi trovavo nella tribuna riservata al pubblico.
Sapevamo tutti che sarebbe accaduto qualche cosa di terribile. Un
pericolo incombeva, e la sua presenza era là, visibile
nell’atteggiamento delle truppe allineate nei corridoi e degli ufficiali
raggruppati alle porte della sala. L’oligarchia stava evidentemente
per isferrare un gran colpo.
Ernesto aveva preso la parola, e descriveva le sofferenze dei
disoccupati, come se accarezzasse la folle speranza di intenerire
quei cuori e quelle coscienze; ma i membri repubblicani e
democratici sogghignavano e si burlavano di lui, interrompendolo
con esclamazioni e rumori.
Ernesto mutò tattica improvvisamente.
— So benissimo che nulla di quanto dico potrà influire su voi, —
esclamò —: non avete anima. Siete degl’invertebrati, dei rammolliti.
Vi chiamate pomposamente repubblicani e democratici, ma non
esiste un partito di questo nome: in questa Camera non ci sono nè
repubblicani, nè democratici. Non siete altro che adulatori e mezzani
delle creature della plutocrazia. Parlate all’antica del vostro amore
per la libertà, voi che portate sulle spalle il marchio rosso del Tallone
di Ferro.
La sua voce fu coperta dalle grida: «Abbasso! abbasso!», ed egli
aspettò, sdegnosamente, che il chiasso si fosse calmato. Allora,
aprendo le braccia, come per abbracciarli tutti, volgendosi verso i
suoi compagni, gridò:
— Ascoltate il muggito delle bestie ben pasciute!
Il rumore riprese più forte: il presidente batteva sul tavolo per
ottenere il silenzio, e guardava di sottecchi verso gli ufficiali
ammucchiati alle porte. Ci furono delle grida di: «Sedizione!», e un
membro di New York, noto per la sua rotondità, lanciò l’epiteto di:
«Anarchico!».
L’aspetto di Ernesto non era dei più rassicuranti: tutto il suo spirito
combattivo vibrava; la sua espressione era quella di un animale
aggressivo. Pure, rimaneva calmo e padrone di sè.
— Ricordate, — gridò con una voce che dominò il tumulto, — voi
che non mostrate alcuna pietà per il Proletariato, ricordate che verrà
giorno in cui il Proletariato non avrà pietà di voi.
Le grida di: «Sedizioso! Anarchico!» raddoppiarono.
— So che non voterete questo disegno di legge, — continuò
Ernesto. — Avete avuto dai vostri padroni l’ordine di votare contro. E
osate trattarmi da anarchico, voi che avete distrutto il governo del
popolo, voi che apparite in pubblico con la vostra vergognosa livrea
rossa! Non credo nel fuoco dell’inferno, ma a volte mi spiace, e sono
tentato di crederci, in questo momento, perchè lo zolfo e la pece non
sarebbero di troppo per punire i vostri delitti, come meriterebbero.
Finchè esisteranno i vostri simili, l’inferno sarà una necessità
cosmica.
Ci fu un movimento alle porte. Ernesto, il presidente e tutti i deputati
guardarono in quella direzione.
— Perchè non ordinate ai vostri soldati di entrare, di adempiere al
loro compito, signor presidente? — chiese Ernesto. — Essi vi
servirebbero e accontenterebbero subito.
— Ci sono altri piani in vista, — fu la risposta —: per questo sono qui
i soldati.
— Piani contro di noi, suppongo, — schernì Ernesto. — Assassinio o
roba del genere.
Alla parola «assassinio» il tumulto ricominciò. Ernesto non poteva
più farsi sentire, ma rimaneva in piedi, aspettando la calma. In
questo momento avvenne ciò che avvenne. Dal mio posto, sulla
tribuna, non vidi altro che il lampo di un’esplosione, e il suo rumore
mi stordì: vidi Ernesto vacillare e cadere fra una nuvola di fumo,
mentre i soldati si precipitavano in tutti gli spazi liberi. I suoi
compagni in piedi, inferociti, erano pronti a qualsiasi violenza, ma
Ernesto li calmò in un attimo, ed agitò le braccia per imporre loro
silenzio.
— È un complotto, state attenti! — gridò loro con ansia. — Non vi
movete, o sarete tutti uccisi.
Detto questo, si abbandonò lentamente, proprio quando i soldati
giungevano sino a lui. Un istante dopo, fecero sgombrare le tribune
e non vidi più nulla. Non mi permisero di avvicinarlo, sebbene fosse
mio marito; anzi, appena ebbi detto il mio nome, fui arrestata.
Contemporaneamente furono arrestati tutti i membri socialisti del
Congresso, presenti a Washington, compreso l’infelice Simpton,
obbligato a letto da una febbre tifoidea.
Il processo fu rapido: tutti erano già condannati. Quanto a Ernesto,
come per miracolo, non fu giustiziato. Fu uno sbaglio dell’oligarchia,
che le costò caro. In quel tempo, essa era troppo sicura di sè:
inebriata del successo, non credeva che un manipolo di eroi potesse
avere la forza di minare la sua solida base. Domani, quando
scoppierà la grande rivolta, e tutto il mondo acclamerà al passo delle
folle in marcia, l’oligarchia capirà, ma troppo tardi, fino a qual punto
si sia ingigantita l’eroica banda. [93]
Essendo io stessa rivoluzionaria e fiduciaria delle speranze, dei
timori e dei disegni segreti, posso meglio d’ogni altro rispondere
all’accusa lanciata contro di loro, di aver fatto esplodere quella
bomba al Congresso. E posso affermare sicuramente, senza riserva
nè dubbio, che i socialisti, sia quelli del Congresso, sia quelli di fuori,
erano estranei all’esplosione. Non sappiamo chi abbia lanciato
l’ordigno, ma siamo sicuri che non fu lanciato da nessuno dei nostri.
D’altra parte, diversi indizî tendono a dimostrare che il Tallone di
Ferro sia il responsabile di quell’atto. Naturalmente, non possiamo
provarlo, e la nostra conclusione è solo fondata su presupposti.
Ecco i fatti, quali li conosciamo. Era stato indirizzato al Presidente
della camera, dagli agenti segreti del Governo, un messaggio per
prevenirlo che i membri socialisti del Congresso avrebbero usato
una tattica terroristica, e che avevano già fissato il giorno per
eseguirlo. Quel giorno, era precisamente quello dell’esplosione. Per
precauzione, il Campidoglio era stato circondato dalla truppa. Ma
siccome noi non sapevamo nulla della faccenda della bomba, e che
una bomba era scoppiata realmente, e che le autorità avevano
provveduto alla difesa in previsione dell’esplosione, è naturale
concludere che il Tallone di Ferro ne sapesse qualche cosa.
Affermiamo inoltre che il Tallone di Ferro fu colpevole di
quell’attentato, che preparò ed eseguì con lo scopo di accollarcene
la responsabilità, e di causare con ciò la nostra rovina.
Dal Presidente, l’avvertimento passò a tutti i membri della Camera
che indossavano la livrea rossa. Durante il discorso di Ernesto, essi
sapevano che un atto di violenza sarebbe stato commesso; e
bisogna render loro questa giustizia: essi credevano sinceramente
che sarebbe stato commesso dai socialisti. Al processo, sempre in
buona fede, molti testimoniarono che avevano veduto Ernesto
prepararsi per lanciare la bomba, scoppiata prima del tempo.
Naturalmente non avevano veduto nulla di ciò, ma, nella loro
fantasia eccitata dalla paura, credevano di aver veduto.
In tribunale. Ernesto fece la seguente dichiarazione:
«È ragionevole ammettere che se avessi avuto l’intenzione di
lanciare una bomba avrei scelto una così piccola bomba,
inoffensiva? Non c’era neppure dentro polvere bastante. Ha fatto
molto fumo, ma non ha ferito alcuno tranne me. È scoppiata proprio
ai miei piedi e non mi ha ucciso. Credetemi, quando mi immischierò
in simili faccende e vorrò adoperare macchine infernali, farò danni
maggiori. Non ci sarà solo fumo ne’ miei petardi».
Il pubblico ministero replicò che la debolezza dell’ordigno era dovuta
a errore dei socialisti, e così l’esplosione intempestiva, avendo
Ernesto lasciato cadere l’ordigno, per nervosismo. E
quest’argomentazione era rafforzata dalla testimonianza di coloro
che pretendevano di aver visto Ernesto maneggiare la bomba e
lasciarla cadere.
Dal canto nostro, nessuno sapeva come fosse stata lanciata.
Ernesto mi disse che un attimo prima dell’esplosione aveva sentito e
veduto battere il pavimento vicino a lui. Lo affermò pure al processo,
ma nessuno credette. D’altronde, la cosa era «cucinata», secondo
l’espressione popolare. Il Tallone di Ferro aveva deciso di
distruggerci e non c’era da lottare contro di lui.
Secondo un proverbio, la verità finisce sempre col trionfare: [94]
comincio a dubitarne. Diciannove anni sono trascorsi, e con tutti i
nostri sforzi incessanti, non siamo riusciti a scoprire l’autore del
lancio della bomba. Evidentemente dev’essere stato un agente del
Tallone di Ferro, ma non siamo mai riusciti a raccogliere il benchè
minimo indizio sulla sua identità, ed oggi non rimane che classificare
la cosa fra gli enigmi storici.
 CAPITOLO XVIII.
ALL’OMBRA DEL MONTE SONOMA.

Non ho molto da dire di ciò che mi accadde personalmente in questo

periodo di tempo, se non che fui tenuta sei mesi in carcere, senza
alcuna imputazione di reato. Ero semplicemente classificata fra i
sospetti, parola terribile che doveva essere ben presto conosciuta da
tutti i rivoluzionarî. Pertanto, il nostro servizio segreto, ancora in
formazione, cominciava a funzionare. Verso la fine del secondo
mese di prigionia, uno dei miei carcerieri mi si rivelò come un
rivoluzionario, in rapporto con la nostra organizzazione. Alcune
settimane dopo, Giuseppe Parkhurst, che era appena stato
nominato medico delle carceri, si fece conoscere come membro di
uno dei nostri Gruppi di Combattimento.
Così, attraverso tutta la trama dell’oligarchia, la nostra
organizzazione tesseva insidiosamente la sua tela. Ero informata di
quanto avveniva all’estero, e ognuno dei nostri capi reclusi era in
relazione con i nostri bravi compagni, che si celavano sotto la livrea
del Tallone di Ferro. Quantunque Ernesto fosse rinchiuso a tre miglia
di là, sulla costa del Pacifico, io ero continuamente in comunicazione
con lui, così che potemmo corrispondere per mezzo di lettere, con
perfetta regolarità. I nostri capi, prigionieri o liberi, potevano dunque
discutere e dirigere il movimento. Sarebbe stato facile, dopo alcuni
mesi, fare evadere parecchi di essi, ma poichè il carcere non
limitava la nostra attività, risolvemmo di evitare ogni tentativo
prematuro. C’erano in carcere cinquantadue rappresentanti e più di
trecento altri capi rivoluzionarii, che decidemmo di liberare tutti
insieme. L’evasione di pochi avrebbe allarmato gli oligarchi, e, forse,
impedita la liberazione degli altri. D’altra parte, pensavamo che
quella fuga collettiva, organizzata in tutto il paese, avrebbe avuto sul
proletariato un’enorme ripercussione psichica, e che quella
dimostrazione della nostra forza avrebbe ispirato fiducia a tutti.
Fu convenuto, dunque, quando fui rilasciata dopo sei mesi, che avrei
dovuto sparire e preparare un rifugio sicuro per Ernesto. Ma non era
facile; appena in libertà, le spie del Tallone di Ferro mi si misero alle
calcagna. Bisognava far loro perdere le tracce e andare in California.
Riuscimmo nell’intento in un modo abbastanza comico. Aveva già
preso grande sviluppo il sistema dei passaporti alla russa. Se volevo
rivedere Ernesto dovevo far perdere completamente le mie tracce,
perchè, se fossi stata seguita, lo avrebbero ripreso. Non potevo
neppure, però, viaggiare travestita da proletaria: non mi rimaneva
altro espediente se non quello di fingermi un membro dell’oligarchia.
Gli Oligarchi supremi erano pochi, ma migliaia di persone di minor
valore, come i signori Wickson, per esempio, che possedevano
milioni, erano i satelliti degli astri maggiori. Poichè le mogli e le figlie
di questi oligarchi minori erano numerosissime, fu deciso che sarei
passata come una di loro. Anni dopo, la cosa sarebbe stata
impossibile, perchè il sistema dei passaporti fu così perfezionato,
che tutti, uomini, donne e bambini, vennero descritti, e seguiti a
passo a passo.
Al momento opportuno le mie spie furono avviate su una falsa
traccia. Un’ora dopo, Avis Everhard non esisteva più, mentre una
certa signora Felida Van Verdighan, accompagnata da due
cameriere e da un cane dal lungo pelo ricciuto, che aveva pure la
sua cameriera, [95] entrava nel salone di un vagone Pullman, [96] che,
qualche istante dopo, filava verso occidente.
Le tre cameriere che mi accompagnavano erano tre rivoluzionarie, di
cui due facevano parte dei Gruppi di Combattimento, e la terza,
Grazia Holbrook, ammessa l’anno seguente a far parte di un gruppo,
fu giustiziata, sei mesi dopo, dal Tallone di Ferro. Questa serviva il
cane! Delle due altre, una, Berta Stok, sparì dodici anni dopo; l’altra,
Anna Roylston, vive ancora e ha parte sempre più importante nella
Rivoluzione [97].
Giungemmo, attraverso gli Stati Uniti, senza il più piccolo incidente,
fino alla California. Quando il treno si fermò a Oakland, alla Stazione
della XVIª Via, scendemmo, e Felicia Van Verdighan scomparve per
sempre, con le due cameriere, il cane e la cameriera del cane. Le tre
giovani andarono con dei compagni fidati, altri si incaricarono di me.
Mezz’ora dopo aver lasciato il treno, ero a bordo di un piccolo
battello da pesca nelle acque della baia di San Francisco. Sbalzati
da terribile raffiche di vento, andammo alla deriva per quasi tutta la
notte. Ma vedevo le luci di Alcatraz dove Ernesto era rinchiuso, e
quella vicinanza mi riconfortava. All’alba, a forza di remi,
raggiungemmo le isole Marin. Là, rimanemmo nascosti tutto il
giorno; la notte seguente, portati dalla marea e spinti dal vento,
attraversammo in due ore la baia di San Pablo e risalimmo il
Petaluma Creek.
Un altro compagno mi aspettava con i cavalli, e senza ritardo ci
mettemmo in cammino, al lume delle stelle. A settentrione potevo
vedere la massa indistinta del monte Sonoma, verso il quale
eravamo diretti. Lasciammo alla nostra destra la vecchia città di
Sonoma e risalimmo un canalone che sprofondava nei primi
contrafforti della montagna. La strada, da carreggiabile, divenne
sentiero, e poi un semplice passaggio per le bestie, che finì col
perdersi nei pascoli dell’alta montagna. Raggiungemmo a cavallo la
cima del monte Sonoma. Era questo il cammino più sicuro, perchè
nessuno, là, poteva osservare il nostro passaggio.
L’aurora ci sorprese sulla cresta del versante settentrionale, e l’aria
grigia ci vide andare a precipizio, attraverso boschi di querce
intristite nelle gole profonde ancora tiepide in quella fine d’estate;
dove s’inalzavano i maestosi sequoia. Poichè quello era per me un
luogo familiare e caro, io, ora, facevo da guida. Era il mio
nascondiglio, l’avevo scelto io. Entrammo in una prateria
abbassando le sbarre ad un passaggio e l’attraversammo; poi,
oltrepassato un piccolo rialzo ricoperto di querce, discendemmo in
una prateria più piccola, e risalimmo un’altra cresta, questa volta
all’ombra dei «mandroños» e dei «manzanìtas» dorati. I primi raggi
del sole ci colpirono la schiena, mentre salivamo. Un volo di quaglie
si levò con rumore dal bosco; un grosso coniglio attraversò la nostra
strada, a salti rapidi e silenziosi; un daino, al quale il sole indorava il
collo e le spalle, valicò la cresta davanti a noi, e scomparve.
Seguimmo per un tratto la pista dell’animale, discendemmo poi, a
picco, seguendo un sentiero a zig-zag che l’animale aveva
disegnato, nel folto di un magnifico gruppo di sequoia che
contornava uno stagno dalle acque fatte oscure dai minerali disciolti
che contenevano. Conoscevo quel cammino sin nei minimi
particolari, perchè un tempo, uno scrittore, mio amico, aveva
posseduto la fattoria. Anch’egli era diventato rivoluzionario, ma con
minor fortuna di me, perchè era già sparito, e nessuno aveva saputo
mai dove nè come fosse morto. Lui solo conosceva il segreto del
nascondiglio verso il quale mi dirigevo. Aveva comperato la fattoria
per la bellezza pittoresca di questa, e l’aveva pagata cara, con
grande scandalo dei fattori del luogo. Si divertiva a raccontarmi
come quand’egli ne diceva il prezzo, costoro alzassero la testa con
aria costernata, e dopo una seria operazione di calcolo mentale,
finissero coll’esclamare: «Non potrete ricavarne il sei per cento».
Ma era morto, e i suoi figli non avevano ereditato la fattoria. Caso
strano, essa apparteneva al signor Wickson, che possedeva
attualmente tutto il pendio orientale e settentrionale del monte
Sonoma, dalla proprietà degli Spreckels fino alla linea di cinta della
vallata Bennett. Ne aveva fatto un magnifico parco di daini, che si
stendeva per migliaia di acri di prateria in pendio dolce, di boschi e di
canaloni, dove gli animali si movevano in libertà, come se fossero
nello stato selvaggio. Gli antichi proprietarî del terreno erano stati
scacciati, e un asilo per deficienti era stato demolito per far posto ai
daini.
Come se non bastasse tutto ciò, il padiglione della bandita del signor
Wickson era situato a un quarto di miglio dal mio rifugio. Ma questo,
anzichè un pericolo, costituiva una garanzia di sicurezza. Saremmo
stati sotto l’egida d’uno degli oligarchi secondarî. Ogni sospetto
sarebbe stato stornato da questo fatto. L’ultimo angolo del mondo,
dove le spie del Tallone di Ferro potessero pensare di cercare
Ernesto e me, sarebbe stato certo il parco dei daini del signor
Wickson.
Legammo i nostri cavalli sotto i sequoia, vicino allo stagno. Da un
nascondiglio fatto in un tronco marcio, il mio compagno levò un
rifornimento di oggetti varî: un sacco di farina di cinquanta libbre,
scatole di conserva di ogni specie, utensili da cucina, coperte di
lana, tele cerate, libri e l’occorrente per scrivere, un grosso pacco di
lettere, un bidone di cinque galloni di petrolio, e un gran rotolo di
grossa corda. Quell’approvvigionamento era tanto considerevole,
che ci sarebbero voluti numerosi viaggi per trasportarlo al nostro
asilo. Per fortuna, il rifugio non era lontano. Mi caricai del pacco di
corda e, per prima, mi inoltrai in un fitto di arbusti e di viti vergini
intrecciate, che formavano, fra due monticelli boscosi, come un viale
verde, che finiva bruscamente sul letto scosceso d’un corso d’acqua.
Era questo un piccolo ruscelletto alimentato anche da sorgenti, che i
più forti calori dell’estate non inaridivano mai. Da ogni parte
sorgevano monticelli boscosi: ce n’erano molti, e sembravano gettati
là, dal gesto negligente di un Titano. S’inalzavano a qualche
centinaio di piedi sulla base, ma erano senza nucleo roccioso,
composto solo di terra vulcanica rossa, la famosa terra color vino
della Sonoma. Fra quei rialzi, il piccolo ruscello si era scavato un
letto molto scosceso e profondamente incassato.
Bisognò lavorar di piedi e di mani, per scendere fino al letto del
ruscello, e, una volta là, per seguirne il corso lungo un centinaio di
piedi. Allora arrivammo al grande abisso. Nulla rivelava l’esistenza di
quel baratro, che non era un buco nel vero senso della parola. Ci si
trascinava carponi fra un inestricabile confusione dì arbusti e di
tronchi, e ci si trovava sul margine dell’abisso, e, attraverso una
cortina verde, si poteva approssimativamente giudicare che il baratro
avesse duecento piedi di lunghezza, altrettanti di larghezza, e circa
la metà di profondità. Forse per qualche causa geologica remota,
all’epoca della formazione dei monticelli, e certo per effetto di
un’erosione capricciosa, l’escavazione era avvenuta nel corso dei