Page 33 of An American in London

“The first night we had dinner, I knew it was special. I’m used to people being ... relatively subservient. Not because I demand it,” he rushes to add. “People self-edit. But you didn’t. It caught me off guard. You saw yourself as my equal, and that shifted things for me.”

My spine tingles and I can’t help wondering how close we’re skating to the truth. I turn slightly, to check I’ve not missed anything of the room and to cover the flush of my cheeks. “And when did you decide to propose?”

“I didn’t like the fact you were going back to America so quickly. I realized I wasn’tevergoing to like you going back to America.”

He sounds so earnest in his explanation that even I’m starting to believe what he’s saying. I guess people believe what they want to believe, and the idea that someone like Ben could be in love with me? That’s something I wouldn’t mind being the truth.

I turn to him. “You’re good at this game.”

His eyes search mine. For once, I’m not waiting for a witty comeback, just looking at him, enjoying him looking at me.

Ben clears his throat, then turns and heads back into the hallway. I follow. He pads upstairs, and I’m faced with his perfect ass flexing beneath his soft gray joggers. Is there a possibility this is a Melanie setup? Maybe she and my dad got together and devised a way to send me overseas, and they’ve hired the perfect man to help erase Jed from my brain.

In one of his first on-screen appearances, Daniel De Luca had a supporting role in a Sean Penn movie where the main character’s life had been turned into a disaster by his best friend because he was getting bored. I can’t think of another explanation for why I’d be in this beautiful house, with this beautiful man, getting thirty thousand dollars to pretend to be in love with him. This isn’t a hard gig.

There’s only one sticking point to my theory: Neither Melanie nor my dad has thirty grand. It can’t be them. This must be real life, but I’ve never come so close to living out my fantasies.

“Lower ground floor is a screening room, gym, hot tub—that kind of thing.”

“Pool?” I ask.

“Nope. Seemed a waste to put it in just for me.”

“Whereas living in a ten-thousand-square-foot home on your own is just fine.”

“It’s nine and a half thousand. We all have different lines in the sand.”

“For future reference, I would have liked a pool. I mean, if you can, why not?”

“We can discuss it once we’re married.”

My heart somersaults at his statement. I know he’s joking, but just the thought is ... almost too much. “It cost you thirty thousand just to get me to wear the ring for a week. Getting me to the altar is going to be expensive, let me tell you.”

“This is the master bedroom,” he says, ignoring me. “The designer insisted on two bathrooms and two wardrobes for resale value. So I suppose this is yours.” He leads me through the simple but large bedroom into a bright-white marble bathroom. “It’s never been used. Obviously.”

“What a waste,” I say, running my fingers along the book-matched marble. “You mentioned the designer. They’ve done a tremendous job, and you have a beautiful house, but how much of it is you? You’ve said yourself your background is humble, which this place isn’t. Does it feel like home?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets again, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “I’ve grown into it.”

That doesn’t tell me much. I cross my arms and transfer my weight from one hip to the other, waiting for him to elaborate. Two can play the brooding wordless hero—I’ve seen enough Daniel De Luca films to get the part down pat.

Ben knows instantly I want more and emits a small sigh. “It was slightly uncomfortable at first. But the designer did a good job interpreting what I wanted. It’s not too bright or ... zany.”

I can’t stop my laugh. “No, it’s definitely not zany. It’s moody and—”

“Vampirish?”

“Yes. And no. The feel is intense and atmospheric and ... kind of just like you. But it’s also comforting and warm and ...”

“And you can’t reconcile comfort and warmth with me.” It’s not a question. “Got it.” He turns and heads out of the bathroom.

I scurry after him. “I wasn’t saying that,” I call. But wasn’t I? If I’m being honest, I haven’t seen the side of him that’s all comfort and warmth. There have been hints—him talking to me about my mother and his parents. It would have made much more sense if the house were full of rooms that were stiff and formal and a little clinical. “It’s just that I could live here. Like, without a question, I could move in tomorrow and feel completely at home.”

“I don’t see how that’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not. Not at all. It’s just ... unexpected.” I’ve never seen this side of Ben. I’ve found traces of his kindness and generosity; he’s obviously not a monster. But I haven’t had a chance to see all of him yet. The man who likes to walk around barefoot. The guy who lounges around in gray sweats, reading books about taxidermy and performing bears. The one who hides his humor so deep I can’t help but wonder what else is buried there.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I reach for his arm as I catch up to him in the hallway. He’s all warmth and hardness and my hand fits against him, slotting into place—a key to a lock.

---