Chasing Jane Read online

  How could a girl named Jane resist a guy named Rochester? It’s probably not his real name, but still…

  So the way this site works is, after the preliminary questions and responses, you have to communicate for two months before you get to see each other’s pictures. That’s how the “deep and meaningful connection” is supposed to be formed—absent of superficial distractions.

  I originally found this idea appealing, since I always look terrible in pictures, and I’ve never gotten much interest from guys on regular dating sites. But it’s also a little unnerving, getting to know someone without having the least idea what he looks like.

  I’ve been communicating with Rochester daily for five weeks now—writing long, juicy notes back and forth. I’m well on my way to falling in love with him. I’ve never known anyone who seems to “get” me as well as he does. He’s so intelligent and romantic and expressive, and he has such deep insight into the world.

  At the risk of sounding foolish, he reminds me of a Jane Austen hero.

  Every time I get a note from him, I thrill with excitement. I’m far more invested in him than anyone I’ve ever dated in real life. When I get back from this trip, the two months will be up, and I’ll finally be able to see him, meet him.

  I’m not sure if I’m more excited or terrified by this possibility.

  He might be hideously unattractive. Or, even worse, he might be really disappointed in me.

  I’m medium-sized and have blond hair and hazel eyes and skin that never tans. In the last couple of months, I’ve been so wrapped up in Rochester that I’ve lost ten pounds, so I’ve gone down a size in clothes, which is nice. But nothing about me is particularly distinct or beautiful. I’m just average looking. I’ve gone out with plenty of guys, but so far no one I’ve been really excited about. And, as far as I know, no guy has ever been blown away by my appearance.

  What if Rochester doesn’t like how I look? Even with a “deep and meaningful connection,” that does sometimes matter.

  “Hello?” Nate is saying, his voice a little louder than normal.

  I turn to blink at him, realizing he must have been talking to me and I was too distracted to hear him. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  We’ve been walking for a few minutes now, and we’ve left the village and taken a little road into the countryside.

  “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Nate asks, rolling his eyes.

  I frown. “Why do you ask that like it’s a bad thing?”

  “Because you don’t even know the guy.”

  Naturally, I’ve told Nate about Rochester. I tell Nate everything. Unsurprisingly, Nate isn’t particularly enthusiastic about this mystery man.

  “I do too know him. You know, in the past, people got to know each other through letters. They didn’t have all this weird, awkward, casual dating stuff.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I know him really well,” I insist, feeling defensive but trying not to sound that way. “And he knows me too.”

  “I’m not sure a lot of silly, poetic babble about nature and feelings and roses is really a sign that he knows you.”

  “He doesn’t write to me about roses!”

  “I thought you said last week he was saying that your spirit is like a pale pink rose—”

  “Oh, shut up!” I stiffen my shoulders and try (unsuccessfully) not to blush. What seems perfectly natural and moving when written down can sound incredibly silly when spoken out loud.

  Nate doesn’t understand. He’s the best guy ever, but he’s not expressive that way. He’s more practical and straightforward—with a wonderful dry sense of humor. He doesn’t think deeply and emotionally the way Rochester does.

  And that’s just fine. Nate is my friend—my best friend. But Rochester might be even more.

  Two

  The cottage is like an image out of my daydreams. It’s made of lovely old stone and surrounded by foliage and encompassed by an adorable little fence. There’s a garden in the back, and the east side offers a view of a wide pasture that slopes down toward a little lake.

  It’s just the beginning of May, so not all the flowers are blooming yet, but some of them are. I can’t wait until the morning when I can see everything better.

  I’m so excited about the cottage as we arrive that I actually forget to check for messages from Rochester. Nate and I go from room to room and examine every nook and cranny. The kitchen is small but has been beautifully updated with custom cherry cabinets and marble countertops, and the living room area is perfect, with a big stone fireplace, a huge window onto the garden, and cozy furniture that looks like it could have been around for centuries. There are two bedrooms. The big one has a lovely four-poster bed and a huge luxurious bathroom with a claw-foot tub and a roomy walk-in shower. The other bedroom is much smaller, with a tiny bed and a clean but unimpressive bathroom.

  “I’ll take the small room,” I say, as I recognize the difference between them.

  “You will not,” Nate says.

  “But you’re paying for all of this.”

  “And it’s your present. So you get the big room.”

  I sigh and scan his face, realizing there’s no reason for me to argue anymore. No one is as stubborn as Nate is, when he’s made up his mind about something. “Well, you can use my bathroom if you want.”

  He chuckles dryly and shakes his head at me.

  Overwhelmed with another surge of affection, I lean over to kiss him on the left side of his jaw, my spot. “Thank you for all this, Nate.”

  “You’re welcome,” he mutters.

  He puts his stuff down in the small room, and then he goes to drag my luggage into the big room. “Do you want to go right to bed?” he asks, looking over at the tall bed with thick white covers on it.

  “No. I’m starving. I want to eat something first. And then I was thinking about that hot tub.”

  There’s a fantastic hot tub in the garden, and I figure it’s just the thing to help me relax after the trip. I’m exhausted but emotionally wired, so I’m not going to be able to sleep quite yet.

  “Sounds like a good idea,” Nate says with a smile.

  “I’m going to the bathroom. Then I’ll work on getting supper together.”

  When I come out of my room, Nate has turned on the gas fireplace. Since it’s a chilly evening, the heat is welcome and the ambiance pleasant. We cut pieces of bread from the loaf we bought in the village, and set them with cheese, roast beef, and grapes on a big plate. Nate pours some red wine, and we bring our meal out to eat in front of the fire.

  We don’t talk much, but I have a wonderful time. I think Nate does too.

  I close my eyes when I’m done eating, thinking that I’m perfectly comfortable and content for the first time in hours.

  “Are you going to sleep?” Nate asks.

  “No. Just enjoying myself.”

  “Good. I’m glad.”

  There’s an odd note to his tone that makes me open my eyes to check his expression, but I can’t read anything on his face.

  He’s on the floor, leaning against the sofa, just like I am, and his hair looks more rumpled than usual. I’m tempted to reach over to smooth down the kink at his right temple, but I know it’s a futile effort.

  “Are you going to try out the hot tub?” he asks, when he notices me looking at him.

  “Yes. I better do it now, or I won’t have the energy.” I start to stand up, and I wince when I realize how sore my back and neck are.

  “Okay.” Nate hasn’t moved.

  I frown down at him. “Aren’t you coming too?”

  “I can. I didn’t know if you’d want me to or not.”

  “Well, why wouldn’t I?’

  He gives a half-shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “Of course, I want you. I’ll feel stupid in that big thing by myself.”

  “Okay.” He’s chuckling as he stands up. “I’ll go change too.”

  As I change into my suit, I suddenly reme
mber that I still haven’t checked for messages from Rochester. With a gasp, I reach for my phone and pull up my email.

  I’m having to pay extra to use my phone overseas, so I’ve vowed to spend as little time as possible on the data usage. I won’t be able to read his messages over and over again the way I usually do.

  I droop as I look at my inbox and realize that there’s no email from the dating site, telling me I have a new message.

  Rochester hasn’t replied to the note I sent him just before Nate picked me up to take me to the airport.

  He’s never waited so long to reply to me before.

  I try to be reasonable, but I feel irrationally crushed, like it’s a rejection.

  As I’m quickly moving through my other email, a message suddenly pops up. It’s the dating site. Rochester has finally replied.

  I read it quickly. It’s much shorter than usual. He apologizes for the long delay and says he’s been tied up with family obligations and hasn’t been able to sit down at the computer all day. He hopes I’m having the time of my life in England, and he tells me to keep a journal, recording all my impressions of the trip so I can share them with him afterwards.

  I think this is a lovely idea. I never keep a journal, but I like the idea. Maybe I can borrow one of those little notebooks that Nate always carries around with him. I’m sure he brought extra on the trip.

  Feeling happy again, I fix the straps of my tankini swimsuit and grab a towel before heading outside. I’m surprised when Nate is leaving his room at the same time I am. It wouldn’t have taken so long for him to change, since I stopped to check my email.

  Maybe he took a minute to check email too.

  “Is that new?” Nate asks, his eyes scanning my body.

  I suddenly feel self-conscious, which is ridiculous, since it’s just Nate. “Yeah. I had to get a new one, since I lost that weight. My old suit didn’t fit.”

  “You look good,” he says. His voice is casual, but his eyes do another scan of my body.

  “Thanks.” I feel myself blushing, and I have absolutely no idea why.

  I go right outside to the hot tub, while Nate makes a detour to the kitchen. I’m slowly sinking into the hot water as he comes out with two glasses of wine.

  “Perfect,” I say, reaching for mine. “Look how gorgeous the view is.”

  Nate glances over as he lowers himself into the water beside me. It is a beautiful view, the garden, sloping meadow, and picturesque lake lit only by the bright moonlight. “Nice.”

  That’s about as poetic as Nate gets.

  I breathe deeply, sip my wine, enjoy the pleasing embrace of the heated water, and gaze out at England in the moonlight. It’s all perfect. Exactly as I’ve always dreamed.

  Nate is the most incredible guy ever for doing all this for me.

  I look over at him and catch him staring at me. He glances away almost immediately, and I can’t help but wonder what he was thinking.

  I hope he’s having a good time. I hope he thinks that all the time and money he’s spent on this trip is worth it.

  “Would you rather have done this with a girlfriend?” I ask, totally out of the blue, following the line of my thoughts.

  He jerks slightly, almost slopping his wine. “What? I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  I have no idea why he doesn’t. He’s the best, cutest, sweetest, smartest guy I’ve ever known. “I know. I was just thinking that this is the kind of trip that you might have preferred to do with a girlfriend, if you had one. Rather than me, I mean.”

  His brows draw together, and his mouth turns down. “Why wouldn’t I want to do this with you?”

  I’m starting to feel flustered, for no good reason. “There’s no reason why you wouldn’t. I was just thinking it might be more fun for you with…I just want you to have a really good…Oh, forget it. It doesn’t matter.” I’m sorry I even brought the stupid topic up.

  Nate is watching me closely now, like he can see and read every flicker of emotion on my face. “There’s no one else I’d rather go on this trip with,” he says at last, sounding uncharacteristically sober.

  I take a weird little breath that catches in my throat. “Really?”

  “Of course.” He’s still frowning. “Why would you think I’d rather be with someone else?”

  My feelings are all a tangle now of embarrassment, pleasure, and affection. “I don’t know. I didn’t really. You’ve just spent so much on this trip, and I know it’s not the same with just me.”

  He’s silent for a long time, looking again at my face and then out to the landscape. Finally, he murmurs, “There’s no just about you, Jane.”

  It takes me a few seconds to figure out his words, and then I’m overwhelmed by them. I want to hug him, but it won’t really work in the hot tub like this, not when both of us are holding wine glasses. So I reach out with my free hand until I find his under the water, and I squeeze it. “Same to you.”

  His eyes shoot back over to my face, searching for just a moment. Then he smiles his old smile. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be here with Rochester?”

  I actually think about this for a minute, since I want to make sure what I tell Nate is the truth. And I realize that I wouldn’t prefer to be with Rochester, no matter how compelling and deep he is. It just wouldn’t be right, to be here with anyone but Nate, now that my mother has died.

  “I wouldn’t,” I tell Nate. “You’re definitely my first choice.”

  This seems to please him, and he squeezes my hand. After a minute, I realize we’re still holding hands. It feels nice, but it’s a little strange, so I gently pull my hand away.

  I’m suddenly conscious that I’m in a very romantic setting with Nate, who doesn’t have on a shirt. His chest is very nice—toned and lean and masculine.

  It must be the hot water and the wine going to my head because I’m suddenly washed by a wave of attraction to him. I feel it everywhere—all through my body.

  For Nate.

  That’s not at all the way things are supposed to be between us. Not at all. I’m so rattled by the strange reaction that I’m tempted to climb out of the hot tub, but since we just got in, Nate would recognize it as strange and demand to know what’s wrong.

  That would just make things worse, so I close my eyes and talk myself out of it. After a few minutes, I feel normal again. Nate has always been my friend—and nothing more.

  When I open my eyes, I discover that he’s been watching me. I smile, hoping he didn’t see anything untoward on my face.

  “You all right?” he asks.

  “Of course. What about you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good. I’m fine too.”

  He gives me a quizzical smile. “All right then. I’m glad both of us are fine.”

  I can’t help but laugh at his tone. I’m not sure why it’s felt a little stilted between us recently. I feel like he’s acting differently, but maybe I am too. It’s like we’re both being careful, but I’m not really sure what we’re being careful about.

  I’m relieved when, after laughing, I’m relaxed enough to sink back into the water, sip my wine, and enjoy the evening.

  We stay in the hot tub for about a half-hour, but then the heat and the alcohol start to make me feel a little dizzy, so I decide to get out. Nate gets out too, and we go to our separate rooms to dry off and get ready for bed.

  My whole body is buzzing, but it’s a pleasant feeling. I put on my favorite camisole with the lacy straps and a pair of pale blue pajama pants, and I braid my damp hair into one big rope down my back. I’m tempted to climb into bed, but I don’t want to have a headache tomorrow from the wine and the traveling, so I decide to get a bottle of water so I won’t get dehydrated.

  Nate is in the kitchen, wearing a clean white t-shirt and the bright red flannel pants with golf balls on them that I got him last Christmas. His hair is standing up nearly on end now, and he’s leaning over the counter, jotting something down on one of his little notep
ads.

  He looks startled when he sees me, and he straightens up, sliding the pad into his pocket. “I thought you were going to bed.”

  “I was, but I decided I better get some water. What are you doing?” I look at the outline of the pad in his pocket, feeling curious since he almost looked guilty for a moment. He’s usually just writing out lists or drafting work emails on those pads—certainly nothing very private.

  “Just making notes for an email I need to send.”

  “An email to your boss? Is he giving you problems?” I feel a pang of worry, landing on an explanation for his demeanor. “Is he mad that you took the time off?”

  “I told you it’s fine,” he mutters coolly—far more coolly than normal. “Don’t ask me again.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry.” I try not to be hurt by his tone. We occasionally snap at each other—although not as much as we did as kids. Anyone who spends as much time together as we do will do that from time to time. But it bothers me when he seems to be annoyed at me for no good reason. Especially on this trip, since I need him to have a great time. He’s so good to me. I want to be good to him too.

  He sighs—so thickly it’s almost a groan. “I’m sorry. Don’t be upset.”

  “I’m not upset.” I smile at him to prove it.

  He gives me a dubious look and reaches into the bag on the counter and pulls out a chocolate bar. “You want some?” he asks.

  I perk right up. “Yes. Thank you.”

  He gets a bottle of water too, and we take our waters and our chocolate into the living room. He turns the fireplace back on as we sit on the couch together.

  “So did you hear from Prince Charming?” he asks dryly.

  I ignore the dryness—mostly because I’m shocked that Rochester has completely slipped out of my mind for the last hour or so. “Yeah. He sent a quick note. I guess he was really busy today.”

  “I’m sure he’ll catch up as soon as he can and send you a lengthy tome about the beauty of the bluebirds.”

  I narrow my eyes. “He doesn’t write about bluebirds.”

  “Or whatever.”