Page 32 of An American in London

“Let me show you through to the drawing room.”

The walls of the drawing room are almost black, and one wall has backlit bookshelves that give the room a book-shrine feel. The furnitureis dark wood and burgundy velvets with lush, expensive cushions and billowing drapes. It has a definite feel of romanticism about it, like I might find Lord Byron behind the sofa, passed out from too much opium.

I’m about to start examining the bookshelves when the door sweeps open and Ben appears. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in anything but a perfectly tailored suit, and my stomach swoops at the sight. At-Home Ben is sockless, in cuffed sweatpants and a white T-shirt, his hair ruffled like he’s just come off a difficult call, his brow tight, and his eyes trained on me.

I might be recovering from heartbreak, but in Ben’s presence, it’s hard to remember. He’s like coming into the AC on max after a walk from the subway in August.

“The sweatpants suit you,” I say. “And here I was thinking you might be Dracula.”

“I only wear my cloak on special occasions,” he says without missing a beat.

“But seriously,” I reply, nodding at the room. “It’s moody. Dramatic. I feel like I should be in a corset and carrying smelling salts.”

“I’d never discourage you from listening to your gut. Feel free to wear a corset next time you’re here.” Does he know how funny he is? I can’t decide if he’s cooler than a fan or just plain uptight.

Would there be a next time? Soon we’d be heading to the country, and then on Sunday evening, when we arrive back in London, my job will be done. I’ll be thirty grand richer, and I’ll likely never see Ben again before the bank’s annual health check.

“Shall I show you around?” he asks. “You should be familiar with the place at least.”

I nod. “Absolutely. I get to see the coffin too, right?”

He doesn’t respond but leads me straight to the kitchen. It looks like something in a magazine, only nicer. It’s big and expensive, but not showy or brash. The dark-color theme continues with what looks liketarnished bronze accents, dark-stained cabinets, and swathes of backlit black-and-white marble.

“Where’s your refrigerator?” I ask.

“Over here.” He indicates what looks like more cabinets. He pulls it open to reveal a huge larder fridge, with a smattering of fresh fruit, vegetables, and dairy. “You hungry? Or are you trying to discover where I hide the dead bodies once I’ve drained their blood?”

A chill melts down my spine. “Can you stop being so nonchalant about being a vampire? At least pretend to be offended.”

“I’ve heard worse.”

“You have? What’s worse?”

“Maybe I’m wrong, but I’m assuming you don’t actually think I feed on people’s blood. So why would I be offended?”

He’s unlike any man I’ve ever met. Cool. Cocky. Unreadable but kinda funny, and charming in his own way.

“You really have an answer for everything. It’s exhausting.”

“Then maybe stop trying to trip me up. Let’s get down to business. Where was I born?” He turns and heads out of the kitchen. I follow.

“Hertfordshire. Me?”

“This is my office.” He opens a door off the magnificent hallway and steps aside to let me in first. “Madison County, upstate New York. Where did we meet?”

I stand in the middle of the booklined room and spin around, taking it all in. The room is more library than office, with built-in shelving lining the walls floor to ceiling. I move toward one wall of shelves. It’s not just business books, though there are plenty of those. There’s also fiction that looks well thumbed, including a particularly worn copy ofThe Hotel New Hampshire—the seminal modern classic of misfits and oddities—and next to it, a huge coffee-table book simply titledWashington State. I want to be left here for a week to do nothing but investigate every corner and page of this room.

Ben moves behind me, and I spin again to take in the parts of the room I’ve not seen yet. There’s a heavy mahogany desk on one side andtwo large navy couches facing each other by the window. I could live in this room. Other than bathroom and kitchen access, I wouldn’t need anything else. I hadn’t exactly envisaged what Ben’s house would look like, but the warmth here is unexpected. I suppose I was expecting his home to reflect his aloofness, but instead of cold and clinical, this place is a warm blanket and a bucket of popcorn.

“I love it,” I say and glance at Ben.

I swear there’s a flicker of a smile before he lowers his head and pushes his hands into his pockets. “Where did we meet?”

“Green Park, of course. I was a tourist wanting my picture taken. Was it love at first sight for you?”

His brow furrows and he looks up, catching my gaze. “Not love, exactly, but I was intrigued.”

I try to disguise my smile. “How did you know you’d fallen in love with me and decided to ask me to be your wife?” The question wasn’t part of the packet, but it is something people ask. I remember Jed being stumped by the question when his grandfather asked. Maybe that should have been a warning sign for us both.

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