Page 83 of An American in London

“It’s very sweet of you.”

“I’m not sweet.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Aha, I see what you’re doing,” he says. “You’re making sure we’ve covered enemies to lovers, like inA Duchess for a Duke. But you see, I’ll never be your enemy.” He looks me straight in the eye, and his gaze warms me from the inside out.

We finally reach the start of the line and place our coffee orders. I play it safe with a grande latte with a caramel shot, and he insists on ordering a medium filter coffee. Whatever.

“So what now?” I ask. “Cue montage of us enjoying ourselves at various London landmarks?”

“I guess. Where do you want to start?”

“With a plot twist,” I reply.

“What do you have in mind?”

“I want to take things to the next level.”

The dimple is back. I don’t even mind that I can tell exactly what’s on Ben’s mind—and it isn’t PG. “I’m all about the next level.”

“Bring your boring coffee and come with me.”

Ben’s growling as we climb out of the car and stand in front of The Fairfield Hotel. Black wrought-iron railings fence the almost too-green hedges around the outside of the building, so immaculate it looks like they were trimmed with nail scissors. Three flags fly over the entrance. One is the British flag, another American, and another in the middle readsThe Fairfield Hotelin scrolling script. A doorman waits for incoming guests at the top of eight marble steps clad with red carpet. He’s dressed smartly in a gray coat, and he’s spotted us but can’t decide whether we’re coming in.

Apparently, neither have we.

“When was this place even built?” I ask. I glance up at the redbrick building and gargoyles stare back.

“Eighteen sixty-three,” he says without missing a beat. Why would he know that? What is it with this place? Why is it so important to him? “It’s a nice example of Gothic Revival.”

I know stuff. I went to college. I can hold my own in a room full of suits when they’re discussing whether interest rates are going to tank the market. But even I have to admit, I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. “Gothic Revival, huh?”

“Of course the Palace of Westminster or Tower Bridge are more famous examples, but Sir William Henry Barlow didn’t do a bad job here.”

Oh, we’re talking architecture. He’s clearly done his research, but I have a feeling a love of architecture isn’t the reason Ben wants to own this hotel.

“Show me around,” I say. “I want to see the place that meant you gave a near-perfect stranger thirty thousand dollars.”

“No,” he snaps. “Is that why you brought me here? You want to go inside?”

“We’re sightseeing. This is a sight. I want to see it.”

“It’s a hotel, Tuesday.”

“But it’s important to you. And it’s been the reason for a lot of my experiences here in the UK. You’ve told me I’m bad at asking for whatI want, so I’m telling you as clear as day: I want you to show me the hotel.” We’ve spent so much of our time together over the past weeks making decisions and taking steps connected to this hotel. I want to know what’s so special about the place.

He folds his arms and stands rooted to the spot.

“Come on. Let’s get a coffee.” I dump my coffee in the trash and walk toward the entrance.

“We’ve just had a coffee.” The softness in his eyes has completely gone, and his expression is bordering on furious.

“Champagne, then,” I say. When he still doesn’t budge, I add, “Tell me why this place matters to you.”

“I buy and run profitable businesses. That’s what I do.” His walls are up, his windows are shuttered.

But I’m not giving in.

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