They had met one dreary April afternoon when the skies had vomited rain. Both taking shelter in the same small hotel lobby, he began talking to her after noticing she was carrying a copy of his new book.

At first, he didn't let her know that he was the author, though she knew – his picture was on the dust jacket, after all – introducing himself as Ralph, his first name (on the book his name was given as R. Peter Lockwood, and indeed he went by Peter most of the time). But he liked the way his despised first name sounded as it rolled off her tongue.

He was wearing his wedding ring, a gold band that had never seemed so restrictive, a feeling that would occur quite frequently, and always in her presence, in the years to come. She noticed his ring but didn't care.

The rain continued to fall and they approached the counter to ask for a room.

***

Later, as he stood beneath the warm spray of the shower, he tried to let his thoughts slip away like water down the drain. It was near impossible, at least until she joined him. Then he had better things to do than think.

***

The next weekend he followed her careful directions to the large house she owned in the country – too large, she claimed, for one person. And it was – it would be best suited for a family of eight, and could certainly accommodate them all easily. But she was alone, never having married.

She was in the pool – he could hear her splashing – and he walked around the back to find her easily moving through the water. She was obviously well-practised. She emerged when she saw him watching her.

"I'm so glad you found your way," Fiona said, stepping out of the water. His eyes clung to her figure the way the rather skimpy bathing suit clung to her skin.

"Your directions were excellent," he said, tearing his eyes away from her curves to look into her eyes. She had a slight grin on her face.

"This isn't the only time you'll see me in a bathing suit," she said, and led him inside, her bare feet leaving wet footprints behind them.

***

"I've got to get back to the city tonight," he said that afternoon as they walked through her expansive gardens. "I have a party I must attend."

"To promote your book," she said, more a statement than a question. He nodded.

"I would ask you to join me but..."

"You don't have to explain," she said, cutting him off. "You're married, and obviously you can't bring me with you. I don't mind."

"Really?" he asked her.

"Really," she replied.

"I won't be able to see you often," he said. "I'm very busy, and my wife's nearly always at home."

"That's all right."

"Though I do get a week or so free every few months when Deirdre goes to visit her brother in Brighton."

"You can stop by then," she said, bringing him back to the house. "I'll make you a sandwich for the road."

He followed her into the kitchen.

***

As promised, it was nearly three months before he returned. She was sitting in front of the fire, reading, when the doorbell rang. She opened the door to reveal Ralph.

"Oh, hello!" she exclaimed, delighted to find him on her doorstep, and even more delighted to see that he was carrying a suitcase.

Ralph was adorable, she thought, as he blushed bashfully and stumbled over his words. She relieved him from his embarrassed agony by taking his hand and drawing him inside.

When he left a week later, she allowed a few tears to fall. She would miss him – his conversation, his company, his presence in her bed... but most importantly, and perhaps most regrettably –

she had fallen in love with him.