Page 24 of Riches and Romance

I instinctively cross my arms over my chest at the same time that he takes a step back and off my welcome mat. “That was delicious. Thank you.”

“Okay. Sure.” I manage to speak even though I’m sure my lungs have collapsed.

A barely perceptible smile tugs the corners of his lips. “See you Thursday.”

I close the door and walk to my kitchen. I pull out the food Dominic sent and heat it up in the microwave.

While I wait, I pick up my phone. It takes me a second to register that the text from a number I don’t know is from Omar. “Eeek,” I squeal, and open it.

Thursday 5:30, Blackfriars.

I save his number as Break in my phone and put it down. “I’m going on a date with Omar Solomon.” And then the words sink in, and my excitement surges and bursts through the dam of stupor. I run back out to the hallway, repeating myself the whole way.

“Oh Jesus,” I gasp at my reflection. It’s worse than I thought. My eyes are red, my hair is a disaster, and the bandages on my nose make it look twice as big as it is. But my smile says it all. “Omar Solomon asked me on a date.” I walk back to my couch, flop onto it, and replay his entire visit. But this time, I let that maniacal squeal loose, and it’s so loud that my upstairs neighbor pounds her floor in protest.

“Sorry,” I shout, but not even her complaining can dampen my excitement. “My fucking finger was in hismouth. And he put it there himself. And we have a date on Thursday.” I kick my legs and scream again but this time into one of the throw pillows on my couch.

When I’m finished with my solo celebration, I send Jodi a text and ask if we can switch shifts this week and offer to take her Saturday night one. I know she’ll say yes, but I can’t wait to see the look on her face when I tell her why I need the night off.

CHAPTER 7

PENALTY AND PEACE

Omar

She wastwenty minutes late meeting me at Blackfriars. She sat talking to the artist so long past the end of the show that we missed our reservation time by almost two hours and couldn’t be seated. And then, we spent the next hour retracing our steps to search for her phone, only to find it at the bottom of her overly large purse.

All of that happened, and it’s still been a perfect night. We’re walking back to Brixton, all the way from Trafalgar Square where we sat eating kebabs we bought from a hole in the wall place in Leicester Square where they knew her by name and gave her double portions. We stumbled in, tipsy after the two rounds of shots we did at Zoo Bar to congratulate ourselves for finding the phone she never lost.

“Friends from my uni days,” she explained as we walked out of the kebab shop and onto St. Martin’s Lane with our hands full of food, and I made a note to ask more about that after we ate and were on our way home.

We sat on the steps of the National Gallery, eating and talking about the exhibit and the artist who brought it all to life and missed the last train to Brixton.

I wanted to order an Uber, but she wanted to walk until we could catch one of the night buses. I put my phone away, took her hand, and followed her lead.

It was obvious, as soon as we started down The Millbank, that as well as being an art lover, a bartender, a lawyer, and a ray of sunshine, she’s also a history buff. Every few blocks, she’d stop and point out a building or a statue and tell me why it was important.

By the time we reach the Lambeth Bridge, we’ve already missed two buses that could have taken us home because we’ve been so deep in conversation. We agreed that we wouldn’t talk until we were on a bus unless it was urgent. We’ve been walking in companionable silence for ten minutes when she puts a hand on my arm and slows her pace.

“This was a prison once.”

“Hmm?” I look down at her, and she’s looking to our left at a building with a Pantheon-like façade set back from the road.

“That’s the Tate Britain,” she informs me, and we come to a complete stop.

“Ah, I’ve always wondered where it was.”

“I’m surprised you’ve heard of it at all. It lives in the Modern’s shadow.”

“I’ve heard of it because I used to write donation checks to them.”

“A patron of the arts, are you?”

“Hardly. I just did whatever the team’s PR company said we should.”

“It’s got a narrower focus, but the painting of Ophelia by Millais alone is worth a visit. I sat and looked at it for two whole hours before I’d had my fill.”

“I’ll make a point to visit it before I leave.”

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