Page 72 of An American in London

“You don’t need to think about it. I’ll figure this out. It isn’t your burden.”

I turn and place my hand on his, trying to ignore the spark of electricity I feel every time we touch—even now. “Let them down gently.”

“I’ll say we’re taking some time apart. I may wait until you’re back in the US. Say you went home to care for”—he glances at me—“someone. And then maybe the distance takes its toll?”

“You’ll have to maintain the facade without me for a few weeks, then.”

He groans. “You’re right. But I’m not sure I’m capable. Better to come clean straightaway. I’ll say we’ve decided to call off the engagement. The reality of wedding planning showed us we were ... incompatible.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention at the idea I could be incompatible with Ben. I’ve never felt so completely compatible with anyone. But it’s a good explanation. “We’ve had some disagreements over the long hours you work and how it wouldn’t be compatible with family life,” I suggest, my fingers tapping against his knuckles as I think to myself.

Ben’s frown deepens. I swear I can see the faces of at least four presidents carved into the crevices of his forehead. “You think I work too much?”

“No,” I say, surprised he wants my opinion.

“Because if I were married, I probably wouldn’t work such long hours.”

“Ben, I almost married a corporate lawyer. The fact you leave the office to sleep in your own bed makes me think you’re practically unemployed.”

He nods but it’s not convincing. “And if I were a father, I would want to ... you know, really spend time with my kid.”

He’s so adorable and perfect and wonderful. I want to squeeze him. “You gotta work harder on yourI’m a ruthless uncaring businessmanpersona. It doesn’t take too much to scratch the surface and get to the goo underneath.”

He growls, and I pretend not to feel it in my vagina. “There’s no goo in me. I just want to take an active role in my kids’ lives.”

I pull my hand away. “Code red, code red.” I make to open the car door. “Red-blooded, rich, handsome man wants kids. I gotta go or my ovaries are going to make me do things to you that would make you blush.”

The dimple is back with a vengeance. “You’d be surprised what I can cope with without any embarrassment whatsoever.”

And then it’s me who has to worry about covering my blush.

I clear my throat dramatically in an effort to neutralize the bubbling chemistry between us. Rip. The. Band-Aid. Off. “So, the duke and duchess. You’re going to say we’re splitsville. Planning the wedding for people on two continents made me realize I couldn’t cope with being so far from my family.”

He sinks back into his seat like a boxer who’s ten rounds in and knows he’s going to lose. “Sounds like a plan.” His voice is dull and flat, his dismay palpable. I wish he’d tell me why the duke’s hotels were so important to him, but maybe it’s better he doesn’t. He’ll probably have to kiss that dream goodbye forever.

Even though he’s reassured me I can’t do anything to help, guilt still clings to me. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m going to miss being your fake fiancée.”

He looks at me, his expression is so soft it’s like falling back onto a blanket of freshly fallen snow. “I’m going to miss that too.”

“Maybe we should ... catch up when you’ve had a chance to tell them,” I say. Even though I know I shouldn’t wade into waters that are already too deep, I can’t leave London without seeing him again.“Just so I’m fully aware of what you’ve said in case I run into them. I can ... corroborate your story.” The excuse is so flimsy, I’m surprised the words don’t form a puddle at my feet. When would I run into the duke and duchess?

He starts to say something but stops himself and nods. “Drinks, maybe.”

“Dinner even,” I say. “My treat. I’m feeling pret-ty flush right now.”

He bites back a smile, and I bask in the sunlight of his amusement.

The car arrives outside the hotel, and my heart dips with disappointment. But why? This is better, isn’t it? I can’t let the waters get too muddied.

“Great. Not great. I mean, okay.”

He pauses and smooths his hands down his trousers several times. “I have a meeting scheduled with the duke on Friday. We could do dinner Saturday night. That is, if you’re not out stalking someone.”

“No stalking in my plans,” I say. “I’ll leave that to you. I know what you’re like in coffee shops.”

“I’m giving up stalking. No one could compare to my most colorful stalkee—a New Yorker with a penchant for Daniel De Luca.”

I want our back-and-forth to continue, but I know it can’t. Not for long, anyway.

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