Her smile is halfhearted.

“You’re not,” I reassure her. “We’ll figure this out, Alessia. You’ll see.”

She nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. “You are not hungry?”

I eye my chicken sandwich, and my stomach rumbles. She giggles, and it’s the most wonderful sound in the world.

“That’s better.” I delight in her amusement, relieved that she’s recovered her sense of humor, and I turn my attention back to my meal.

* * *

Alessia relaxes. She can’t remember talking about her feelings to him before, and he doesn’t seem angry with her. When he glances at her, his eyes are warm, his expression reassuring.

We’ll figure this out, Alessia. You’ll see.

She looks down at her butternut squash soup, her appetite returning. She marvels at the chain of events that has brought her here. When her mother put her into the minibus on the freezing back road in Kuk?s, she knew that her life would change beyond all recognition. She had such hope for a new life in England. She didn’t expect the journey to be so hard, or so dangerous. And the irony was that she had been trying to run from danger.

And yet it brought her to him.

Mister Maxim.

He of the handsome face and easy laugh and brilliant smile. She watches him as he eats. He has impeccable table manners. He’s neat and tidy and chews with his mouth closed. Her English grandmother, who was a stickler for manners, would have approved.

When he looks across at her, his eyes are a luminous green. The most extraordinary color. The color of the Drin. The color of her home.

She could watch him all day.

He gives her a reassuring smile. “Okay?” he asks.

Alessia nods. She loves the warmth of his smile when he looks at her, and she loves the heat in his eyes…when he wants her. She blushes and looks down at her soup. She never expected to fall in love.

Love is for fools, her mother used to say.

Maybe she is a fool, but she loves him. And she’s told him. But of course he doesn’t understand her native tongue.

“Hey,” he says.

She looks up. He’s eaten his food.

“How’s your soup?”

“It is good.”

“Well, eat up. I’d like to get you home.”

“Okay,” she says, and she likes the idea of “home.” She’d like to make her home with him. Permanently. But she knows it’s not possible.

A girl can dream.

* * *

The drive back to Trevethick is more muted than their earlier journey. Maxim is preoccupied and listening to strange music playing over the sound system. Their stop at a supermarket called Tesco on the way out of Padstow has yielded all the ingredients Alessia needs to make tav? kosi, her father’s favorite dish. She hopes Maxim will like it. She gazes out at the passing countryside. Still cloaked in winter, the landscape reminds her of home. Though here the trees are cropped short and warped by the bitter Cornish wind.

She wonders how Magda and Michal are getting on in Brentford. It’s Sunday, so Michal will probably be doing his school homework or online gaming, and Magda will be cooking or talking to her fiancé, Logan, via Skype, or maybe she’s packing for their move to Canada. Alessia hopes they are safe. She glances at Maxim, who seems lost in his own thoughts; he would know how Magda and Michal are if he’s been in touch with his friend. Maybe he’ll let her use his phone later, and she can catch up with the news from home.

No, Brentford is not her home.

She doesn’t know where her next home will be.

Determined to keep her spirits up, she lets go of that thought and listens once more to the extraordinary sounds coming from the sound system. The colors are clashing: purples, reds, turquoise…it’s like nothing she’s heard before.

“What is this music?” she asks.

“It’s from the soundtrack of Arrival.”

“Arrival?”

“The film.”

“Oh.”

“Have you seen it?”

“No.”

“It’s great. A real headfuck. About time and language and the difficulties of communication. We can watch it at home. Do you like the music?”

“Yes. It’s strange. Expressive. And colorful.”

His smile is brief. Too brief. He has been brooding. She wonders if he’s dwelling on their earlier conversation. She has to know. “Are you angry with me?”

“No. Of course not! Why would I be angry with you?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. You are quiet.”

“You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“I am sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize. You haven’t done anything wrong. If anything…” He trails off.

“You have not done anything wrong,” she says.

“I’m glad you think that.” He gives her a quick, sincere smile that dispels her doubts.

“Is there any food you don’t eat?” she asks, and wishes she’d found out before they went shopping.

“No. I eat pretty much anything. I went to boarding school,” he answers, as if this explains his entire ethos on food. But Alessia’s knowledge of boarding schools is limited to Enid Blyton’s Malory Towers, a favorite book series of her grandmother.

“Did you like it?” she asks.

“First one no. I was expelled. The second one yes. It’s a good school. I made good friends there. You met them.”

“Oh, yes.” Alessia blushes as she remembers the two men in their underwear.

They settle into an easier conversation, and by the time they arrive home, she’s more cheerful.

* * *

We carry the bags into the house, and while Alessia unpacks the groceries, I take her clothes upstairs. I put them in the spare bedroom, then change my mind and place the bags in the walk-in wardrobe in my room. I want her in here with me.

It’s presumptuous.

Fuck.

I’m tangling myself in knots. I don’t know how to behave with her.

Sitting down on the bed, I put my head in my hands. Did I have a game plan before we got here?

No.

I was thinking with my dick. And now…well, I hope I’m thinking with my head and following my heart. During the drive home, I contemplated what to do. Should I tell her that I love her? Should I not? She’s given me no indication of how she feels about me, but then she’s reticent about most things.

She’s here with me.

That means something, surely?

She could have stayed with her friend, but that would have meant those gangsters returning and finding her. My blood turns to ice. I shudder to think what they would do to her if they did. No. I was her only option. She has nothing. How could she go on the run?

Yet she arrived in the UK with nothing, and she survived. She’s resourceful, but at what cost to herself? The thought weighs heavily on me. What did she do during the time between her arrival and finding Magda?

The anguish in her eyes in the restaurant. It was…affecting.

I’m tired of being afraid.

I wonder how long she’s felt this way. Since she got here? I don’t even know how long she’s been in the UK. There’s so much I don’t know about her.

But I want her to be happy.

Think. What to do?

First. We have to make her legal here. And I have no idea how to do that. My solicitors should know the answer. I can only imagine Rajah’s face when I tell him I’m harboring an illegal immigrant.

Her grandmother was English. Maybe that will help.

Fuck. I don’t know.

What else could I do?

I could marry her.

What?

Marriage?

I laugh out loud, because the idea is so absurd.

Why not?

It would freak my mother out. For that reason alone, it’s worth popping the question. Tom’s words from our night at the pub come back to me: You know, now that you’re the earl, you’ll need to provide an heir and a spare.

I could make Alessia my countess.

My heart starts hammering. That would be a bold move.

And maybe a little sudden.

I don’t even know if she has feelings for me.

I could ask her.

I roll my eyes. I am going round and round in circles. The truth is, I need to find out more about her. How could I ask her to be my wife? I know where Albania is on the map, but that’s about it. Well, I can put that right, now.

I drag my phone out of my pocket and open Google.

* * *

It’s dark when my phone starts to complain about its remaining battery life. I’m sprawled across the bed, reading everything I can about Albania. It’s a fascinating place, part modern, part ancient, with a turbulent history. I’ve found Alessia’s hometown. It’s in the northeast, nestled among mountain ranges and a few hours’ drive from the capital. From all I’ve read, it does appear that life is more traditional in that region.

This explains a great deal.

Alessia is cooking downstairs. Whatever she’s making, its savory aroma is enticing. I get up and stretch and head downstairs to see her.

She’s still dressed in her white top and jeans, and she has her back to me at the stove, mixing something in a pan. My mouth waters; it smells delicious.

“Hi,” I greet her, and sit down on one of the barstools at the counter.

“Hi.” She gives me a quick smile, and I notice she’s plaited her hair. I plug my phone into one of the charging sockets beneath the counter and fire up the Sonos.