Page 31 of An American in London

“Okaaay,” I say. “And I’m over here for work, trying to save my job and nurse my broken heart, when I run into the love of my life.”

“Is this the plot of another Daniel De Luca film? You never did tell me what the obsession is.”

“No, it’s not the plot of a movie. We’re staying as close as possible to the truth, remember?”

He flips over the page and without looking up at me says, “Like I said, he was a complete idiot.”

Warmth blooms in my cheeks. Honestly, even if Ben weren’t tall, dark, and handsome, with his own plane and a black Amex, I’d still want to kiss him right now.

“Okay, so that’s how we met,” I say. “What’s next? Let’s do the pets section. Easy for me. I don’t have any. You?”

“I have a goldfish named Strawberry Shortcake,” he says.

I turn to him, intrigued by his strawberry shortcake obsession. “Really?”

“No. Neither of us has pets. Good. Next?”

I laugh and take in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from his smile. They suit him.

“Brothers and sisters?” he asks. “I have neither.”

“Same. No siblings.”

“What about your parents? What do they do for a living?”

The question brings me back to my past with a jerk. “My mom died when I was seventeen.” I stare out the window, watching the gray London streets whizz by that my mother would have so liked to have seen for herself. “She always wanted to come to London.”

“Her death must have been very difficult,” Ben says simply. There’s no apology, no dressing up death into “passing.” Always the straight shooter.

I nod. “It was. It still is.”

I hear Ben sigh, but it isn’t impatience. Almost like he’s commiserating with me that life can be a real fucker at times.

“My dad ... It was almost worse for him, I think. I got to move away to the city, but he still lives in the house I grew up in. He’s surrounded by memories of her.”

Ben pulls in a breath and shifts in his seat, but not in a way that makes me think he feels awkward. More he’s making himself comfortable. “Maybe he likes it like that.”

“Yeah,” I say, thinking about the curled list still pinned to the refrigerator door. “I guess he does.”

“I think my dad would be exactly the same if my mum died. He worships her.”

I give out a small smile. “That’s nice.” I like the idea of Ben growing up with parents who worshipped each other. Every kid deserves to see devotion growing up. “Did you grow up in London?”

“On the outskirts. Hertfordshire. Dad used to commute into town to work.”

The questionnaire falls away and we’re just talking. Two people getting to know each other, simply for the pleasure of it. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the moment was real.

Chapter Twelve

I haven’t studied so hard since college. Every evening this week, I’ve pored over the papers Ben filled in. I’ve spent hours in my hotel room, reading and rereading until my eyes watered. But I have thirty thousand dollars to earn, so here I am, in front of an almost-stranger’s house. Obviously, I was expecting Ben’s place to be impressive, but as the door opens to reveal the marble floors, sweeping staircase, and an elaborate chandelier, I realize I’ve underdressed. I’m in jeans and my old Sarah Lawrence sweatshirt. This is supposed to be a casual dinner.

“Ben is just on a call,” the slight, older lady who opened the door says through a beaming smile. “I’m Lera, his housekeeper. He won’t be long. Do come in. Can I get you a cocktail?”

“Sure,” I say, tipping my head back to take in the circular window in the ceiling at the top of the winding staircase. This place is grand but somehow also cute AF.

“Anything in particular you’d like? Ben said you enjoy a Kir Royale?”

My heart trips in my chest. Ben has clearly also been studying his comprehensive guide to Tuesday Reynolds. Him mentioning my favorite drink to his housekeeper was thoughtful and charming and kind—the sort of thing a real boyfriend would do. I meet her gaze to find her twinkling at me. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

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