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A small smile touches his mouth.

“I’m glad you did.”

He places my bag in the back and opens the passenger door for me. Once I’m inside, he walks around to the driver’s side and settles behind the wheel.

“You’re driving?” I ask.

Ross starts the engine. “I thought I’d spare both of us a chauffeur for the weekend.”

“That’s considerate of you,” I say.

“I have my moments.”

I look toward him, but he is already pulling away from the curb.

London keeps us for a while. Traffic thickens and loosens in waves before the city gradually gives way to broader roads and quieter stretches beyond it. Ross keeps the music low, and neither of us makes much effort to fill every silence.

For once, the quiet between us doesn’t feel strained. I watch the scenery change beyond the window as the buildings thin and the countryside begins to open around us. Stone walls run along the road, fields spread beyond them, and the farther we travel, the more something in me starts to loosen.

I hadn’t realized how much I missed this part of England.

Ross glances toward me before returning his attention to the road.

“You still like it out here,” he says.

“I do,” I reply. “I always did.”

“I remembered.”

I turn my head toward him.

“You remembered that?”

Ross keeps his eyes on the road.

“I remember more about you than you probably think.”

The answer settles quietly between us, and I don’t immediately respond.

There was a time when hearing that would have thrilled me. Now it does something more complicated.

After another few miles, I ask, “Where exactly are we staying?”

“One of the family properties,” Ross says.

“In the Cotswolds?”

“Yes.”

I look at him.

“You neglected to mention that part.”

“I thought you’d prefer somewhere private.”

He isn’t wrong, and I know it.

“I do,” I admit.