Page 35 of An American in London

“As opposed to getting your footman to serve us?”

“Just fill your plate, Monday Morning.” He hands me a dish, and we both dig into the feast in front of us.

“So you’re having dinner with a woman,” I say as I take a seat at the kitchen table. It’s positioned by the window and has been laid with place mats, silverware, wineglasses, and a vase of white roses. I’m guessing we have Lera to thank for that. “How does it feel?”

“I have dinner with women. Just not women I date.”

“Because you don’t date,” I add for him.

“Right. But I’ve had dinner with women for work.”

“And you never get asked out?” I ask. He’d get hit on all the time if he was in New York.

He finishes the mouthful of food he’s chewing. “Women make it known they’re interested, if that’s what you mean.”

“I bet they do.”

He raises his eyebrows in a flirty pulse.

“And you say”—I pause, only continuing once I’ve pitched my voice low and adopted a remarkably bad British accent—“‘I’ll fuck you, but I’m not paying for you to eat a meal beforehand’?”

He half chokes on his lobster and reaches for a glass of water. “Jesus, Tuesday. You think it’s better if I take them to dinner, pretend I want a relationship, fuck them, and never see them again?”

I think about it. “I suppose not.”

“I don’t promise what I can’t deliver.”

“It’s good, I guess. You don’t promise them cake and serve them spaghetti. They want your spaghetti, they can have your spaghetti, but you’re not giving them cake.” The words hang in the air, and I can almost hear the clink and hiss of our brains catching up to what I just said.

“Interesting euphemism,” he says. “If you’re implying I’m a selfish ... lover—”

He stops as my jaw hits the table and my eyes pop out on springs. “I wasn’t talking about your sexual technique.”

“I’ve never had any complaints,” he says, silencing me. “For the record, I like to give cake. Lots of cake. Cake is a favorite of mine, as you know. And further, for the record, there’s nothing ... noodle-y about me.”

My face heats like someone’s holding a blowtorch to my cheeks. Ben laughs as I slowly turn puce, but I can’t look away from him. I’m a thousand times dead and also incredibly turned on. I’m officially a horny zombie with a staring problem.

We manage to get through the rest of dinner without further euphemisms or any more moments where I’m too embarrassed to breathe. We talk about where we went to college, what our favorite TV shows are—not surprisingly, he doesn’t watch much of anything other than the news. He asks me lots of questions and patiently listens, which I realize isn’t something I’m used to. Jed used to talk a lot. It suited me to let him, I think. But it’s nice to have Ben listen. Another quality to add to the growing list.

“What about you? I had Daniel De Luca as my fantasy guy growing up. Who was yours?” I ask.

“I don’t remember having a celebrity crush, if that’s what you mean.”

“Were you always so focused on work? You didn’t have a Scarlett Johansson poster taped on your bedroom wall along with your copy of theFinancial Times?”

He rolls his eyes and stands. We both take our plates back to the counter, where he flips down the dishwasher door and loads his plate and silverware into the machine. It’s oddly endearing to watch a man who’s clearly so wealthy do something I’m sure Lera would be more than happy to do. He reaches for the plate I’m holding, and our fingers brush and electricity sparks between us.

His eyes dart to mine. “Sorry,” he mutters as he places my plate in the dishwasher.

“Yeah, you can’t apologize for touching me when we’re at the duke’s pad,” I say.

He laughs. “Yeah, probably not.” He straightens, and I step toward him.

“We should ... practice,” I say.

“Practice what?” he asks. “Accidentally touching each other?”

I shrug. “Yeah. I should give you a pat-down or something.”

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