like that.”
“Well, I’m not rich,” Sunny informed him. “And it doesn’t look like I’m going to be. So please expect your parents to be highly disappointed.”
He chuckled as if she had said something extraordinarily funny. “Money isn’t everything,” he said. “They’ll appreciate your sensible qualities and your nice personality.”
Sunny bit down hard on the inside of her lip. “That,” she said, “is what people say about women they are trying to pawn off on a blind date.” Her voice drifted into a falsetto as she repeated the age-old line: “‘You’ll like her, she has a real nice personality.”’
Brett’s irresistible grin widened. “And cheery sense of humor,” he added.
“I have a common sense of humor,” she stressed. “Think common. As in commoner.”
He waved it off, unaffected. “It doesn’t matter, Sunny. Really. In spite of our differences, I have to believe my parents will come around. At least enough to let me out of this trap they insist on calling marriage.”
Sunny stared at him, realizing he had no idea how great their differences were. “I would have thought,” she said slowly, “that since you know so many of the women at the office, you might have asked one of them instead.”
“I…” He looked confused and lifted a shoulder. “I don’t really know any of them well.”
“But I’ve often seen you talking to all sorts of women.” Flirting, she wanted to say.
“Office demeanor,” he dismissed. “You know how some people like to carry on.”
Sunny was debating whether he was serious or not when the waitress, named Hazel, according to the plastic name tag pinned to her plump chest, stopped at their table. “Coffee?” she asked, simultaneously pulling a pencil from behind her ear and a notepad out of her apron pocket, “or something special?”
“Cappuccino,” Sunny said.
“A pot of tea, please,” Brett ordered. “With sugar and lemon.”
The waitress slid him a disbelieving look. “You into that antioxidant stuff, sonny?”
Brett’s lips twitched. “No, luv. That old English stuff,” he answered, pumping up his accent and giving her a broad wink.
The waitress snorted. “Cute,” she grumbled, jamming the pad into her pocket. “Everybody’s got to be a comedian. And they all think I got the time for it.”
As Hazel hurried away, Brett and Sunny looked at each other.
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I don’t think she believed me,” Brett confided, his voice lowered.
Sunny felt the beginnings of a smile curve her lips. “Apparently not.”
“She probably wouldn’t have believed me if I professed to be an English lord, either.”
“Probably not.”
“That is a bit difficult, here in America, you know.”
Given Brett’s self-deprecating demeanor, some of the tension that had Sunny in knots subsided. She’d arrived at the coffee shop convinced Brett would lay out a list of expectations for her. He’d give her the dos and don’ts, all the while making her conscious of the haves and have nots. Instead, he’d come into the coffee shop with an apology for being late and a smile. Maybe she’d never given him a chance in the first place.
Brett sat back and openly studied her. “I don’t know why we haven’t really talked before,” he said thoughtfully.
“I imagine because we’re supposed to be working.” She shrugged, knowing that wasn’t the reason at all. He’d probably dismissed her as an underling. “You’re busy. I’m busy.”
“Mmm. Well, no matter. But I did want to talk to you about this—” Brett quickly glanced around to make sure he couldn’t be overheard “—lord and lady thing. So it’s probably good this came up as it did with the waitress. I would appreciate it if you would keep it in the strictest confidence. No one at the office knows.”
“But why?” Sunny lifted both shoulders. “I’d think you’d want to have that little prefix in front of your name. It must come with its own set of perks.”
“And responsibilities,” he said dryly. “No, I’d much prefer to just be me.”
Sunny didn’t believe him. Not for a moment. Here was a man who had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He’d probably grown up in a castle, or on an estate that had been handed down through the generations. He’d most likely gone to private schools and worn jodhpurs instead of jeans when he went riding. “That can’t be easy, Brett. Adjusting to life without your title?”
“What isn’t easy is being different. Or being treated differently.”
Brett, Sunny realized, apparently didn’t have any idea how difficult being “different” could be. “Come on. Admit it. There have got to be times you enjoy the privilege.” When Brett’s eyes narrowed, as if he wondered whether he should be offended, Sunny added, “I would.”
“But it all comes with a price,” he warned. “There are obligations. And sometimes I’d just as soon do without them.”
“But you’ve had the good life, and because of it I’ll bet you’ve acquired certain expectations, certain attitudes and behaviors. Like playing rugby instead of football. Or choosing escargot over onion rings.”
He smiled faintly, as if bored by her conjecture. “Now how do you know I like rugby?”
Sunny ignored his attempt to change the subject. “I don’t. But for the life of me, I can’t imagine why you’d want to give it up and walk away from such an existence.”
Hazel set Sunny’s cappuccino in front of her with a thunk, slopping it over the rim before she walked away. Brett pulled a napkin from the dispenser and automatically handed it to her.
Sunny reached for it, and when their fingers met, a spark of electricity went pinging up her wrist. The fine hairs on the back of her arm stood up.
Brett stared at her pensively, as if the touch that passed between them, and over a cheap paper napkin, had been enough to ignite and burn. An undercurrent of awareness sizzled.
Sunny’s fingers, still smoldering, fumbled to dab at the spill. “Thank you. I— I don’t want to get it on my skirt.” She paused while the waitress put down the teapot, cup and sliced lemons, then left again. “And Brett? I wasn’t trying to pry. Or even be critical. It’s just…” She pushed the soiled napkin aside. “My parents were on the move a lot, and I haven’t known very many people who have your kind of family history. Or that kind of security. It makes me wonder if you know what you’re giving up.”
Brett silently poured a cup of tea, then squeezed a bit of lemon into it. He wiped his fingertips, then crumpled the napkin, as she had done. “You’ll have a few weeks to get an inside look at my life, with and without my title.” Picking up a sugar packet, he ripped it open. He tapped a few grains
