Page 30 of An American in London

I have to move a pile of papers off my seat so I can sit. Ben closes the door, rounds the trunk, and then slides in next to me. The driver pulls off; presumably, he knows where we’re going.

“Oh, good,” Ben says as he sees the papers in my hands. “There should be two sets there. One for you and one for me.” He takes the stack from me and flicks through them. They seem to be divided into separately stapled bundles. “These are yours.” He hands me three bundles and keeps three for himself. “The first one is information about me. The second one is information I’d like about you, and the third one is things we need to decide on.”

“Wow.” I clear my throat. “Efficiency is key,” I say, using my robot voice again.

I pull out the section titled “Tuesday Reynolds,” which looks remarkably similar to a college application.Name, date of birth, place of birth, parent(s) name, parent(s) age, parent(s) occupation. I turn the page. He’s a man who clearly likes details. The questions continue.Pets (breed, name, age, idiosyncrasies if applicable).I turn the page again.Favorite foods. Favorite books.The questions go on and on and on.

I put down the questionnaire for me and pick up one of the other packets. It seems just the same as the one I’m supposed to fill out, except this form has already been populated with details about Ben. “This seems very thorough.”

“Like I said, everything has to be perfect.”

“Is this a form you ask people to fill out a lot?” He can’t have prepared this form just for me. Thought and preparation went into this.

Perhaps he gives this to his potential girlfriends to see whether he wants to have dinner with them, and that’s why he doesn’t date—no one’s made the grade so far. I keep skimming through the pages, wondering whether I’ll uncover something interesting. Is there a section detailing his favorite sexual positions or penis length? I glance across at his crotch, catch myself, and focus back on the questionnaires.

“You said yourself you like to be efficient. It could make dating easier if you prescreened potential sexual partners with this form.”

I’m kidding. Sort of. It’s nerves. I’m partly impressed with his organization and commitment to our ruse. It makes sense; we’ve got a lot to cover in a short amount of time. But it’s also freaking me out. Has he done this kind of thing before? Does he have a hidden agenda? My instincts say no. From what I know about Ben, he’s a straight shooter. But it’s weird he can just produce this questionnaire out of nowhere.

“I’ll keep it in mind. Although I’m not interested in this level of detail regarding the women I sleep with. It would have to be a streamlined version.”

I slide my gaze to his face to see if he’s kidding. He gives me a look that saysOf course I’m not being serious; get back to work, and I can’t help but smile. There is a sense of humor lurking deep down in this man. You just have to mine it like gold.

“Stop freaking out,” he says, reading my mind. “I have a resourceful and clever assistant who put this together for me while we were ... shopping.”

That makes sense. “What does she think about you taking a fake fiancée?” I ask.

“I haven’t asked her.”

“She didn’t say anything when you asked her to compile all this?”

“No,” he says simply. “Now let’s go through the information we need to decide between us. First things first: How did we meet? Shall we say we were introduced by mutual friends?”

“But then which friends, and would the duke know them? I think we stick to the truth. We bumped into each other in Green Park, then I ran into you the following day at the coffee shop.”

The silence starts again. Ben sure does like pauses.

What?I want to scream at him.

“I’m not a natural talker,” he says eventually. “I’m not sure it’s believable I’d just strike up a conversation with a perfect stranger.”

“You didn’t. You glared at me as if I’d just set you on fire the first time we met. The second time, I just chatted at you in the coffee shop. The third time, the seat next to you was the only one in a busy bar. You asked me to dinner.”

His frown is back, though I’m starting to realize this isn’t necessarily because he’s disapproving. He’s assimilating and trying to see the advantages and disadvantages of what I’m suggesting.

“Why would I ask you to dinner?” he asks.

“You’re attracted to me. You’re going to have to fake some of it.”

“Iamattracted to you. That’s not the problem. It just wouldn’t necessarily mean I’d ask you to dinner.”

My stomach tips and sways. He finds me attractive.Well, the feeling is mutual,I want to say, even though he’s grumpy and bad-tempered and borderline rude seventy-eight percent of the time. “What would makeyousay yes to dinner?”

More silence.

More thinking.

“Okay, so I say yes to dinner.” He pauses. “Just because I’m attracted to you.” He says it like he’s rehearsing the idea in his brain.

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