Page 34 of An American in London

He tries to shrug me off. “It’s fine.”

I hold tight. “It’s not fine. I was saying it really badly. It’s just ... I feel really at home here, yet it’s so grand and you’re almost a stranger. It shouldn’t make sense that I feel so comfortable. That’s what I was trying to say.” I pause and he meets my gaze. “And I feel I know you so much better now that I’ve been here.”

His stare heats me from the inside out. After a few tense moments, when I can practically hear his brain whirring to compute everything I’ve just said, he nods. I have to release his arm and look away before I go up in flames.

He shows me a couple of guest rooms that look like they’re from an exclusive, high-end hotel before we take the elevator down to the basement. I can’t help but think how someone’s home communicates something about their personality. Melanie’s home is crammed full of things she’s collected from her travels across America. It partly reflects the fact that space is at such a premium in New York City, but it also shows how sentimental she is, and how she’s a wanderer.

My dad is still living in a house that’s barely been touched since my mom died. He likes it that way, just like Melanie likes her disorganized chaos.

And then there’s Jed and me. I walked out of our apartment with two suitcases and some boxes. Ninety-five percent of the things that surrounded us were rented. We lived in the short term, and I guess weloved in it too. I should have seen earlier that we were never going to work. We weren’t living the dream; we only leased it.

“Gym area. Space for the pool we can start construction on when we’re married, and then changing areas.”

I know he’s joking, but it doesn’t stop my heart from racing in my chest at him mentioning us being married. I take a breath and try to get a grip. This is a job, not a date.

“Infrared sauna,” he continues. “Lera has a bedroom and kitchen through there.” He points at a door I hadn’t noticed before.

“It’s a beautiful house,” I say. “Or more accurately, mansion. Ken Dream House. Whatever the technical term is.”

He doesn’t react, and we head to the stairs. “What would I see if I saw your place in New York?” he asks.

“I actually moved out of my place before I came to London,” I say. “I’m not sure where I’ll go when I go back.”

“Jed kept your apartment? Broke the engagement and then threwyouout?” He lets out a huff, and it kind of feels nice that he’s so obviously Team Tuesday.

“No, he moved to Iowa. Out of nowhere. Quit his job and ran off with a ballerina.”

“Jesus, Tuesday. How long were you two together?” He leads us upstairs and out into the hall where Lera showed me in, and I turn a full three hundred and sixty degrees to try to get my bearings. This place is huge.

“Nearly ten years. We were college sweethearts.” I’m staring at the chandelier, wondering how in all holy hell the thing stays in place. It looks like it’s floating in midair. “This is really pretty.”

“Are you upset?” he asks, and I turn to look at him.

“Am I upset my fiancé cheated on me, nursed a secret desire to move back to his hometown, broke our engagement, and split? I’m fine about it,” I say sarcastically. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“It’s just ... You don’t seem that cut up.”

“You want me to cry on your shoulder?”

He rolls his eyes and leads me through a door I’m fairly certain we haven’t been through yet. Somehow we end up back in the kitchen.

“You’re right,” I add. “I’m not ascut upabout it as I thought I would be either. Maybe it’s because I don’t want someone who doesn’t want me,” I explain.

“And now you can focus on your real love, Daniel De Luca?” he asks.

I laugh. “Myfirstlove. I forgot about him for a while there. Being in England has brought the fairy tale back.”

Our gazes slide together, and it’s like he’s pulled me into his arms—I can feel his warmth all around me. He’s not Dracula, after all. Not even close.

He clears his throat and looks away. “Lera has prepared some food.”

Since we were last in here, bowls and plates have appeared on one of the two islands, filled with every type of food imaginable. A literal banquet has been laid out, including what looks suspiciously like shrimp curry, which is one hundred percent my favorite dish, as noted in my questionnaire. It’s like he’s expecting twenty guests to appear.

“You know, I might need to move in,” I say, surveying all the food and deciding what to try first. “Sample Lera’s cooking on a daily basis. Make sure the gym works. That sort of thing.” I look up at him. “For preparation purposes only, obviously.”

He grins, and it’s so boyish and open, for a second I forget about his buttoned-up, gruff side and smile right back.

“I thought we could just help ourselves,” he says.

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