Page 23 of An American in London

I turn to Ben. “You need to stand like this.” I grab his forearms and move him into position like he’s a giant mannequin. He’s standing infront of Tiffany, facing up the street. Then I stand opposite him. “You need to put your hands on my hips, and I’m going to put my hands on your chest.”

This situation is so weird. The man I’m ordering about is almost a perfect stranger, yet I’m maneuvering him into what I’m just now realizing is an extremely intimate pose. And he smells so freaking good. I’m going to find out what makes him smell like clean laundry and wood chippings, just so I can make sure my next boyfriend smells exactly the same.

Ben slides his hands over my hips. Despite the fact I asked him to, his touch chases the air from my lungs, and I gasp. We lock eyes as he hears my response to his touch, and maybe it’s me, but his gaze feels intense.

“Oh, that’s just perfect,” Pat says, breaking the momentary spell. Ben looks away. I’m both disappointed and relieved. “You two look like you’re actually from the movie. Now put your hands on Daniel’s chest.”

I’m hyperaware of my hands as I hover them over his shirt before placing them down. His chest is hard but has heat, like I’m touching a rock warmed by the sun.

“You need to look at each other,” Pat squeals. “This is better than the movie. You two don’t need to pretend you’re in love—you have the real thing.”

A smile threatens at the corners of my lips before Ben looks at me, and I forget everything I was thinking.

“You two are just perfect together,” Pat says. “Don’t you think, Bobby?”

Ben clears his throat and reaches for my phone from Pat. “It was very nice to meet you. But we must be going.” He takes my hand and practically drags me down the street.

“Bye,” I call over my shoulder. “And thank you!” I do a little half skip to catch up with Ben. “Well, that was a little rude. They were just being friendly.”

“In this country, it’s rude to strike up conversations with strangers.”

I scoff. “No, it’s not.”

“Maybe not, but we need to find a ring. And I don’t have all day.”

He lets go of my hand, and I feel the loss of heat as if his has always been holding mine. He nods, encouraging me through the door being held open by a doorman.

Immediately, a male sales assistant appears in front of us. “Mr. Kelley. We’re delighted to have you in store. How may I be of assistance?”

Why would Cartier know Ben by name? I get it, he’s rich—but he’s notactuallyDaniel De Luca.

“I’d like an engagement ring,” Ben says flatly. “Something we can take away today.” He couldn’t sound more brisk or businesslike if he were telling his broker to go short on Japanese tech stocks.

“Congratulations, Mr. Kelley.” He turns to me. “And ...”

“Tuesday Reynolds.” I plaster on a smile and attempt to push away an intrusive thought about how close I was to being Mrs. Miller if I’d married Jed.

But ...wasI close? Maybe he had no intention of marrying me. We never set a date. Jed suggested—and I agreed—that we wouldn’t move forward with wedding plans until we’d grown our nest egg to a quarter million dollars—which seemed high to me. He said it would be best to start our marriage off with financial comfort, since money problems are the leading cause of divorce in America. Yet here I am, shopping for a fake engagement ring with a near stranger, precisely because therewasno nest egg. And if there was no nest egg, was there ever really a plan to get married? What rankles most is that I’ll never know.

“We would be delighted to find something that will suit you. My name is Edward. Let’s go to the suite.”

Edward leads us through the shop, where the number of sales assistants far outweighs the number of customers. We go through a door the assistant unlocks with a key card.

“Please take a seat,” Edward says. There is a red velvet sofa with a low table in the middle of the room and to the side, a small desk withtwo chairs tucked underneath it. “Can I offer you any refreshments? Tea? Coffee? Champagne?”

Ben looks sideways at me and then back to Edward. “Her coffee order is ridiculous. You’ll be sorry you asked. I’ll have a black coffee, please.” He guides me to the sofa and we take a seat.

“I’ll take a green tea,” I say, determined not to be irritated by Ben’s assessment of my coffee order. “Thank you.”

Edward presses a button under the small desk, and almost immediately, someone knocks at the door. A tall Asian woman who looks around twenty appears. Edward goes to speak to her, presumably to give her our drink order.

I nudge him with my elbow and lower my voice. “Calling me ridiculous in front of people might not be the best way to convince them we’re in love—FYI.”

“FYI, I didn’t call you ridiculous,” he replies as if such a suggestion is in and of itself entirely ridiculous. “I would never do that. I was referring to your coffee order.”

“Semantics,” I say.

“Which are important.You’renot ridiculous.Your coffee orderis ridiculous. You are not your coffee order. Just like your name is ridiculous. But you’re not ridiculous.”

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