For the ones who loved like fools, lost like legends, and still whisper "maybe" after every goodbye.
May your hope stay molten, your regrets soft, and your hot chocolate always come with marshmallows.
Chapter 1
Grace pov :
The Tube map, in all its gloriously deceitful rainbow spaghetti, had lied. Or, more accurately, Grace Rutherford—certified London newbie and reigning queen of misinterpreting public transport schematics—had probably read it with the same level of accuracy I applied to assembling IKEA furniture: with blind optimism and a complete disregard for crucial details.
Which is how I found myself, an hour later than planned, dragging a suitcase apparently filled with lead bricks up three flights of narrow, charmingly treacherous Notting Hill stairs.
Charming. That was the word the rental listing had used. "Charming two-bedroom flat in the heart of vibrant Notting Hill." It had conveniently omitted "third-floor walk-up with a banister that wobbles like a drunken sailor."
My lungs burned. My new trainers—bought specifically for "sensible city walking"—already felt like instruments of torture. And my carefully applied "I'm a sophisticated London student now" minimal makeup was probably melting down my face in a very unsophisticated manner.
This was it. My grand London adventure. Off to a stellar, sweaty start.
The key Avery had left me (bless her organized soul for finding this place before she moved in with her parents) finally turned in the lock of Flat 2B with a reluctant click. I shoved the door open with my shoulder, my suitcase and I practically tumbled into what I prayed was the living room and not, say, an ancient portal to another dimension.
Though, at this point, another dimension might have better climate control.
It was… compact. "Cozy," the listing had probably chirped. A small sofa, a slightly battered armchair, a bookshelf already half-filled with what I assumed were Avery's abandoned textbooks, and a window overlooking a typically picturesque (if currently grey) London street. Sunlight—or what passed for it on this overcast September afternoon—fought its way through the slightly grimy window panes.
The air smelled faintly of old books and Earl Grey tea, which was comforting. Avery.
"Right," I muttered, propping my behemoth suitcase against the wall. "Phase one: claim territory."
My plan was simple. Avery's friend, some girl named… Clara? Chloe? Avery had been vague—was taking over her lease. Female roommate. Bliss.
After my last disastrous co-living situation back home during that awful summer internship—the one where "shared spaces" apparently meant "Liam's wet towels colonizing every available surface" and "quiet study time" translated to "Liam and his equally odious mates reenacting World Cup finals at two AM"—I'd sworn off male roommates for life. The mere thought of another testosterone-fueled living arrangement sent a shiver of pure, unadulterated dread down my spine.
No more men who confuse 'dishwasher' with 'ornamental storage'. No more Liam. Never again.
This new flatmate, this Clara/Chloe, was my ticket to studious, hopefully tidy, female-only serenity.
I peeked into the first bedroom. Small, but with a decent window. This would be mine. I'd already called dibs via frantic text to Avery. The other bedroom door was closed. Perfect. Clara/Chloe was probably out exploring, or perhaps hadn't arrived yet. Even better.
I could unpack, make the place mine, establish a gentle but firm "this is my shelf in the fridge" precedent before she even set foot inside.
I wrestled my suitcase toward my designated sanctuary, humming a slightly off-key tune. My orange-red hair—an entity with its own mood swings—was probably escaping its messy bun in frizzy tendrils, and I knew my cheeks were still flushed from the exertion. I probably looked like a startled, slightly damp ginger kitten.
At 5'2", "startled kitten" was a look I unfortunately achieved with alarming regularity.
Please let her be nice, I thought. Not a fridge-moocher. Or someone who hoards mugs. Or—
A cough.
A deep, masculine cough.
I froze, hand on my doorknob.
No.
No, no, no.
Avery was scatterbrained, yes—but she wouldn't. She knew my one cardinal rule. My one non-negotiable.
The cough came again, deeper this time, followed by the creak of what sounded like a bed.
My stomach dropped. A thud from the other side of the door. Footsteps—heavy ones.
Definitely not Clara/Chloe-sized footsteps. Unless Clara/Chloe moonlighted as a professional wrestler.
I stood there, motionless, listening, mentally cycling through every possible scenario. Landlord? Visiting a cousin? Very large plumber?
Maybe it was someone dropping off bags. That had to be it.
I glanced at the door again. Still shut. Still ominous.
Screw it.
My hand, now slick with a fresh wave of stress-sweat, reached for the other doorknob. I was twenty years old, a business student about to embark on a prestigious course at Thames Valley University. I could handle a simple misunderstanding.
Probably.
I knocked. Once. Twice. Firmly. (Or so I hoped.)
"Hello?" I called out, voice pitching up against my will. "Is anyone there? Avery's friend?"
The creaking stopped.
Silence. Then footsteps. Definitely approaching.
The doorknob turned.
The door opened.
And I found myself staring.
Up.
Way, way up.
At the chest. A very broad, very solid-looking chest, covered by a simple dark grey t-shirt that did nothing to hide the fact that there were serious muscles happening underneath.
My gaze, against my will, flickered upward. Past a strong column of a throat, a jawline that could cut glass, lips pressed into a neutral line, a straight nose, and then…
Eyes.
Grey eyes. Like a London sky just before a storm. Cool, assessing, framed by lashes that were deeply unfair for a man to possess.
His hair was a mess of sun-touched blonde, like he'd just run his hands through it. He was tall. Impossibly tall. At least a foot taller than me, maybe more.
And he was, in a completely objective, purely observational, and currently very inconvenient way, incredibly handsome.
He was also, very clearly, not Clara. Or Chloe.
He leaned against the doorframe, one hand tucked into the pocket of his dark, well-fitting jeans. The other—large, veiny, traitorously aesthetic—hung relaxed at his side.
Veiny hands. My stupid, useless brain noted it like a trivia fact I hadn't asked for.
"...Can I help you?" he asked.
His voice. Oh no. It was low, calm, a smooth rumble that vibrated down my spine like bass through a floorboard. It was the kind of voice that convinced nuns to take tequila shots and quit their jobs.
I swallowed.
"I… uh… I'm Grace. Grace Rutherford. Avery's… Avery arranged the flatshare." My voice sounded like a squeaky mouse doing a PowerPoint.
A flicker of something—understanding? amusement?—passed through his expression. His eyes did a deliberate once-over: from my damp hair to my practical trainers to my probably-freaked-out face. I felt like an insect pinned under a very attractive microscope.
"Lucien," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might have been a smirk if you squinted. "Lucien Beaumont . Avery's friend's… friend, I guess." He pushed off the doorframe, extending that hand. "Looks like we're roommates."
Roommates.
The word echoed in my skull like a punchline from the world's cruelest sitcom.
I stared at his outstretched hand. Then blinked. Then I looked at the ceiling, as if some divine force might appear and yelled "JUST KIDDING!"
It didn't.
My grand plan for a tidy, tranquil, female-only sanctuary? Dead on arrival.
I wiped my hand on my jeans—elegant—and shook his. It was warm. Predictably firm. Probably sculpted by fate just to spite me.
"There must be some mistake," I said, the words spilling out fast and I panicked. "Avery knows I specifically requested… I mean, she wouldn't… Are you sure you're in the right flat?"
A flicker passed through Lucien's eyes. No amusement this time. Maybe a flicker of oh crap, quickly replaced by neutrality.
He dropped his hand. "Flat 2B, Notting Hill, right? Lease signed. Deposit paid. Unless there's another Lucien Beaumont who looks exactly like me and also knows Avery's friend Ben, I'm pretty sure this is it."
Ben.
That was the name Avery had mumbled. Not Clara. Not Chloe. Ben.
My stomach plummeted like a rollercoaster hitting its first drop.
"But… but she knew!" I sputtered. "No offense," I added quickly, manners surviving like cockroaches in crisis, "but I have a strict 'no male roommates' policy. It's… personal."
He paused.
Something flickered again in his eyes—less amusement, more awareness. Maybe even regret. But he didn't ask. Thank God.
"Personal," he echoed. Still calm. "Right. Well, I'm afraid Avery—or Ben—or whoever—seems to have overlooked that particular policy." He gestured vaguely around the living room. "As far as I'm aware, we're both on the lease for the next twelve months."
Twelve.
Twelve months.
Trapped. In a "cozy" Notting Hill flat. With him.
With Lucien Beaumont and his glacier-melting voice and his grey eyes and his veiny hands and—
XY chromosomes.
I closed my eyes for a second. Took a breath. Opened them again.
"Right," I said, trying to resolve and landing squarely in exasperated panic. "Well. This is just… fan-bleeding-tastic."
Lucien's mouth twitched again. Infuriatingly close to a smile.
"Welcome to Notting Hill, Grace Rutherford."
I had a sinking feeling this was going to be a very, very long year.