Page 52 of Holiday Romance
“He was my greatest bully,” Oliver says, pointing to him. “Except for the day one of the village kids tried to do the same and he punched him in the nose.”
“What!” I turn to Andrew, who doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed.
“He had an excellent right hook,” Oliver continues. “Even when he was ten.”
“He’s still family,” Andrew says with a shrug. “We were the only ones allowed to make fun of him.”
“That’s not what I—” I glare at him. “You broke a kid’s nose?”
“Fractured,” he says as if that’s any better.
“It was magnificent,” Oliver adds fondly. “Well, then! Do you want a tour?”
Andrew stretches, eyeing his suitcase. “I think we’d rather—”
But Oliver is already off, shuffling into the next room, and despite my exhaustion, I hurry after him, too nosy not to.
I’ve been around rich people in my life, you meet them a lot in my line of work, new money and old, but this is next level. This is like…movierich.
The house is small in the way I suspect most London homes are. The opulence is in the details, the ornate furniture, and polished floorboards, the vases of flowers and matching gold and silver Christmas decorations. They’re classy and restrained but also make me scared to touch anything in case they immediately crack into a million pieces.
Oliver leads us through the living room and then another living room and then a goddamnlibrarybefore the kitchen, dining room, and pantry that’s almost the size of my bedroom in Chicago. Eventually we end up back where we started in the hall, where a grandfather clock I hadn’t noticed chimes grandly.
“And now for the first floor!” Oliver declares, but this is where Andrew puts his foot down.
“Can we do this later, Oli? I need to stand under running water and stare at the wall until I feel normal.”
“But the… Oh, alright,” he says, obviously disappointed. “At least let me show you to your rooms. I’ve given you my favorite ones.” He looks at him pointedly. “Because I’m nice.”
Andrew wrestles with his suitcase as Oliver leads me up the stairs, pointing out the paintings that line the wall along the way.
“How do you feel about floral patterns?” he asks when we reach the top.
“I feel completely neutral about them.”
“Wonderful!” He throws open a door and gestures me grandly inside.
It is, by far, nicer than any hotel room I’ve ever stayed in. It’s really the size of two rooms with large windows overlooking the street below. A four-poster bed dominates the space and the wallpaper is indeed floral, as is the bedspread, the upholstery on the chair, and the love seat that’s placed against the window. A solemn, possibly haunted closet takes up the other wall, and to my right by the bed is a door that I’m guessing leads to an en suite or maybe the chambermaid’s room because honestly who knows. It should be stuffy, maybe a little old-fashioned, but there’s a charm to it I didn’t expect. One that makes me feel instantly comfortable.
“Do you like it?” Oliver asks.
“I like all of it,” I confess. “You have a beautiful home.”
He beams, delighted with my response. “I’ll leave you to get settled. Let me know if you need anything!” His voice echoes at the last bit, already vanished down the hall, and I take a moment to inhale, breathing in the scent of furniture polish. As I do, I slip my coat off and step farther into the room, running a hand down the thick quilt cover.
What a weird twenty-four hours.
“Looks comfy.”
I spin around at Andrew’s voice to find him standing in the doorway, gazing at the bed.
He gives me an innocent look and leaves my laptop bag just inside my door. I hesitate only briefly before following him out to his own room, which turns out to be directly next to mine.
“From the way he spoke about your childhood, I thought he would have put you in the attic,” I say.
“The attic here is probably bigger than my entire apartment.”
I glance around, taking it all in. It’s just as nice as mine, but with a stereotypically more masculine feel, all dark wood and navy shades of wallpaper. It’s also…
