Page 61 of An American in London

One of the waiters comes over with the house cocktail—the one from the movie, obviously. He takes our order. We both opt for the duck à l’orange.

“Yeah, I like to prepare for . . . important . . . things.”

I laugh. “I know that about you,” I say, thinking about the questionnaires. “Which movie is your favorite?”

He takes a breath. “I’ve not watched them all. Mr. De Luca has been rather prolific in his career. But ... I have his complete collection back at the house set up in the screening room. Along with the popcorn you mentioned. I thought you might like the second half of this date to involve a movie.”

“The classic date combo of dinner and a movie.” There’s nothing typical about this dinner. He bought the freaking restaurant and recreated a scene from my favorite movie. When do things like that happen outside of an actual Daniel De Luca film?

“I don’t want you to think that if you come back and watch a movie, we have to—I mean, I don’t expect ... anything.”

Awkward Ben is adorable. But the joke’s on him, because I’m expecting itallwhen I go back to his place. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ll be ready to skip to the good part and miss the movie entirely.

He must see the desire in my eyes. He slides his leg between mine and takes my hand across the table.

I want to ask him whether it feels different between us, now that he’s not paying me to be here, but I don’t get a chance. Our food arrives and we’re forced to drop our hands.

“I confirmed dinner with the duke and duchess tomorrow,” he says. “I suggested taking them out. They’ve insisted on hosting us at their town house.”

“They’re such great hosts. What should I wear?”

“I’ll send you something.”

“No, there’s no need.” It’s weird. When I was being paid for the weekend, going to Ralph Lauren was a little odd but okay because it felt like Ben was buying me a uniform for a job. But when I’m going to dinner with the guy I’m interested in, it’s more than weird for him to buy me the dress I’m expected to wear. My phone buzzes with a notification, and I pull it out from my jacket pocket. “Sorry, I just want to get it in case it’s my dad.”

“Go ahead,” Ben says.

It’s not my dad. It’s a message from my bank. Normally I’d ignore it, but something makes me swipe up.

There’s been an unexpected deposit into your bank account. Please contact us immediately.

A feeling of dread circles my ankles like fog in a horror movie. He didn’t, did he?

Quickly, I log into my banking app.

Oh, yes he did.

“Ben?” I say. “I didn’t give you my bank account details because I told you I didn’t want your money. I was really clear about that.”

His frown is back. The dimple that’s been on display all evening has disappeared. “You earned that money. We had a deal. I don’t back down on a deal.”

“It’s too much money. I had fun.”

“Compensation wasn’t contingent on you being miserable.”

“But it wasn’t a job. I enjoyed myself. I had an experience I would never have dreamed of if you hadn’t taken me there.”

“Then that’s a perk. You negotiated that money. It’s yours.”

“It was two nights at a fancy country house. It wasn’t worth thirty thousand dollars.”

“It was to me. You were perfect.”

I groan. “I wasn’t perfect. I don’t know how I’m going to convince you to take that money back.”

“I don’t want you to convince me. That money is yours. You deserve it. If it makes you feel better, you can purchase your own dress for dinner tomorrow.”

I pause, mulling over whether or not I could live with taking money from this man. It seems so wrong.

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