A shadow fell across the table where I sat, devouring a scone and a novel with equal satisfaction. Frowning and shading my eyes against the watery London sun, I looked up to see a tall, dark stranger gazing down at me.
“Hey, Jules!” the stranger said. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”
Jules! What on earth?
With some regret—this was an interesting distraction—I shrugged my shoulders and turned back to my book. “Sorry,” I said. “You have the wrong person.”
He gestured to the empty chair across the table from me. “May I?”
“Sorry,” I repeated, falling back on all-purpose Brit-speak for I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t want to talk to you. “You must have mistaken me for someone else.”
He hovered uncomfortably between a standing position and a ready-to-sit position, and I eyed him with a mixture of amuse-ment and curiosity.
“Um . . . I can’t believe I finally tracked you down,” he said, shifting from foot to foot and trying, unsuccessfully, to look as if he had never expected an invitation to sit. “It’s such a pleasure to actually meet you.”
“Sorry, but you have the wrong person.” I tried again. “I’m not Jules.”