Page 8 of Arranging Ayra
He laughed. “You might find yourself with a few uninvited guests come morning.”
I laughed along with him. He was charming and witty and so easy to be with. It already felt like we’d known one another for ages.
“Is this your first time in England?” he asked. He turned away from the rose garden and headed to the woodlands.
I nodded. “I’ve travelled quite a bit in the States... you know, the Grand Canyon, Vegas, New York... that sort of thing. But outside of that... not really.”
“Well then, you’re in for a treat,” he said. “The previous owner built a thirty-foot tower that gives you a view over these here treetops. You can clearly see the entirety of Derby from there.”
“I’m eager to see it. So far, it seems like everything about England is like a fairy tale. I mean, I’ve been enamored with the thought of England since I was a little girl, so I guess I’m sold on the idea of loving this place no matter what. But so far, England is living up to all the hype I’d imagined for myself.”
“What happened as a little girl to have you fall in love with a place you don’t know?”
“Jane Austen,” I said with a smile. “Pride and Prejudice, to be more precise.”
“Ah, yes. The eighteenth-century writer with a flair for creating the twentieth century heroines.”
I looked at him with surprise. “You know Jane Austen?”
“No Brit worth his salt doesn’t know her. I guess much like you Americans know...” He shrugged as he sought an American author. “I don’t know... Dr. Seuss?”
I burst out laughing. “I like your comparison. Your Jane Austen to my Dr. Seuss. Makes sense.”
“Okay, on a more serious note, there’s William Shakespeare.”
“But he’s a Brit,” I argued.
“Oh, right you are. Born in Stratford, I believe.” He thought a moment. “What about Charles Dickens?”
“Um, I do believe he’s a Brit as well.”
“There’s that woman who wrote Wuthering Heights. What was her name?”
“Bronte? Jai, she’s British, too.”
“Oh. Okay, okay. I know. The woman who wrote that horror story.”
“That would be Shelley, and she, too, was a Brit. Can you honestly not name one American author?”
“Alright. Alright. Now that I’ve shown off what great talents we have here in Great Britain... what about Ernest Hemingway?”
“Now that’s more like it.A Farewell to Arms... a must read.”
“Never heard of it.”
I gasped and looked at him. “What aboutThe Sun Also Rises.”
He shrugged. “I guess with all the great writers that we have here in Great Britain, there was never a need to read any American offering.” He looked at me with a good-humored grin.
I couldn’t help but laugh as I slapped his arm. After the playful slap, my hand rested on the warm and irresistible skin for a prolonged moment.
He was muscular, much more than what his loose-fitting red plaid shirt let on. In addition to his gorgeous smile, he had warm, puppy dog eyes that were a rich brown, almost black. His jaw was strong and masculine, and his dark hair beckoned fingers to run through it.
We reached the lake and Jai stopped at the shore.
“I’ve been told that there have been times when we’ve had ducks and geese here, but a while back someone brought a few swans.”
“Oh, how lovely. Swans are beautiful. So elegant and regal.”
