Harper was lost.

In the geographical sense. The "I-don't-recognize-these-buildings" sense. Although, Harper reflected, if she spent much more time on this doorstep overthinking her trip to England, she might be figuratively lost, too.

She knocked on the door again, hopping from foot-to-foot. London was freezing for May, and her airplane outfit — leggings, a hoodie, and a pair of Birkenstocks — wasn't helping matters. She needed a scarf. Or a hot cup of tea.

Or for her damn stepbrother to open the door.

Harper knocked again. Where the hell was Griffin? He'd known that she was flying out today. She could take a cab to their parents' place, of course, but the wedding was in less than two weeks, and Harper had already seen enough fabric samples and floral bouquets over Zoom to last a lifetime.

She took out her phone.

I'm outside, she typed. I think.

No response.

Harper opened Google Maps. No, she was definitely here; the blue dot was outside a house in Clapham. Not because Griffin couldn't afford Chelsea — she'd seen her stepbrother happily fork out three hundred quid for champagne and oysters — but because he didn't care. Griffin would happily live in a red telephone box, so long as he had his toolkit and access to military-grade steel.

She knocked again.

No answer.

"Griffin?" Harper raised her voice. "Griffin, are you in there?"

She glanced at her phone. Still no text. Maybe he'd popped to the shops? She raised her fist to the door. Or maybe he'd stayed up all night and was sleeping in. That sounded like Griffin. He always—

There was a large boom.

Harper flinched. Good lord. Was he moving furniture? A moment later, the door flew open; Griffin appeared on the threshold, red hair rumpled, smelling vaguely of sulfur and pine soap. He was also, Harper noted with amusement, covered in soot.

"Harper!" Griffin beamed. "You're here just in time."

She let him hug her. "In time for what?"

"You'll see."

Griffin motioned for her to come in. Harper reached back for her suitcase, but Griffin was already cradling it like a child, looking unbothered by the six pairs of heels that she'd crammed inside. But that was typical Griffin, Harper thought; Diana had raised him to never let a woman open a door, carry a suitcase, or top up her own wine.

"I can carry that, you know," Harper told him. "If you need a break."

Griffin waved her off. "It's good for me." He adjusted the suitcase. "Have to get the cardio in somehow, don't I?"

They picked their way up a narrow staircase, dodging a Barbour jacket and a rake, half-eaten buckets of noodles and a Rolex watch. Griffin directed her to the kitchen, and Harper paused in the threshold, drinking in the scene. Overturned lamps. Wires snaking across the floor. Fridge door ripped off the hinges.

It looked like scene from a slasher film, Harper thought. And not even a good slasher film; a "they-used-ketchup-as-blood" sort of slasher film.

"Griffin," Harper said mildly. "Why is your fridge door missing?"

"Hmm?" Griffin set the suitcase down, straightening. "Oh. I needed the hinges. Take a seat on the..." He trailed off, eyeing the two-legged stool sagging against the wall. "Er. Maybe just sit on the counter."

Harper leaned gingerly against the stove. "Diana's going to kill you."

Griffin looked genuinely baffled. "Do you think so?"

"Absolutely."

It wasn't an exaggeration. Diana Pembrooke was a professional organizer, regularly appearing on Good Morning Britain to teach the world how to fold t-shirts or declutter a kitchen. The first time Harper had met the Pembrookes in a Chelsea café three years ago, she'd half-expected Diana to introduce the waiter — English, handsome, wearing a signet ring — as her son.

But no.

Diana Pembrooke had somehow given birth to this redheaded troglodyte instead. Not that Harper was complaining; she and Griffin had spent most of that first meeting horrifying the waiter by gleefully mispronouncing menu items in a loud American accent. Now, they rung each other at least twice a week.

Not that Griffin was ugly, Harper admitted begrudgingly; heaven only knew she'd had friends over the years ask if he was single. He'd inherited Diana's long lashes and sharp cheekbones, as well as his father's height. But, gross. This was Griffin.

He was her older brother, in every way that counted.

Harper squinted at a tangle of wires. "What are you making, anyway?"

Griffin held up a finger. "One second. I'll show you."

Griffin picked up a large lump, fiddling with a copper wire. Harper sighed. Well, if she was about to die, she might as well die in a clean apartment; she stooped down, gathering discarded cogs and clippers, wires and wrenches. She paused, using a stray pen to lift a pair of lacy red underwear.

"Cute," Harper said. "Not sure they're your colour, though."

"What?" Griffin glanced up. "Oh. Those are Lawson's."

"Really?" Harper tilted her head. "I always thought he'd look better in blue."

Griffin lowered the device. "No, I mean they belong to the girl he slept with. Gretchen? Gertie? Something German. She left them when she—" He broke off, taking in Harper's obvious amusement. "Oh. You're taking the piss."

"Yes." Harper threw the knickers into the second bedroom. "Yes, I am. Is Lawson coming to the wedding?"

She had yet to meet Griffin's flatmate, but she'd heard a lot about him over the years. In fact, Harper felt like she already knew Griffin's childhood friends: Alisdair, Haz and Lawson. The Wilder boys. They'd met at Wilder Academy, and the ongoing joke with their parents was that they got wilder every year.

"Those boys," Diana always said, shaking her head, "are either going to rule the world, or burn it down. Mark my words."

Naturally, Harper had seen pictures of them on Instagram. Alisdair always wore tweed and horn-rimmed glasses, a book tucked under his arm; Haz, on the other hand, looked like the sort of motorcycle-riding maniac that your parents warned you off in high school.

But it was Lawson Hale that had caught her eye. Not because Lawson was more handsome (although he was) but because there was something about him. Something...

Mysterious?

Sad?

Lonely?

Harper could never quite put her finger on it. But she'd photographed enough people over the years to know that the people that smiled the quickest were invariably the saddest. You just had to look at their eyes to tell.

Yes, Lawson Hale was a mystery. Not that Harper had any intention of solving that mystery; in fact, she'd promised herself that she wouldn't get with any of the Wilder Boys. They were strictly off limits.

But still.

It was fun to wind Griffin up. And it was obviously working because her stepbrother's eyes narrowed.

"Why?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I'm just curious."

"Yes," Griffin said, "Lawson's coming to the wedding." He gave her a pointed look. "But he's not going with you."

Harper opened the closet. "I need a date."

"Well, it won't be Hale." Griffin sighed. "Don't look at me like that, Harper. You'll understand when you meet him."

She pulled out a broom. "Why are you friends with him, then?"

Griffin adjusted a wire. "Lawson Hale is the best person that I know. Unfortunately, he's also the worst person that I know." He made a noise of triumph, thrusting the mysterious object towards her. "Well? What do you think?"

"Er." Harper paused her sweeping, leaning on the broom. "What is it?"

"It's their wedding present," said Griffin, as if this should be obvious.

Harper eyed the object dubiously. "When Diana asked for a unique centerpiece, Griff, I don't think this is what she meant."

Griffin rolled his eyes. "It's a custom Sat Nav. For their boat. It speaks sixteen languages, and I've even programmed their favourite songs in. Look."

He pressed a button.

And the world exploded.

Hello lovely readers,

Wow! It feels good to be back ;)

Soooo I was originally planning to complete the "Thread of Gold" series before releasing more romance-y stuff, but Harper and Lawson's story popped into my head, and I just couldn't shake it. I can't wait to hear your thoughts!

I'll be updating once a week (every Tuesday) for now, and then hopefully more in December once I have a break from uni.

Question of the Day: if you could have any pet (real or magical), what would it be? I'm quite attached to the idea of a miniature elephant...

Affectionately,

J.K.