Page 24

"Perhaps because I am."
I caught James's eyes in the mirror as he glanced back at me, one eyebrow raised in amusement. The man was clearly enjoying himself far too much.
"I can hear you both plotting my character assassination, you know," I said, trying to inject some levity into the situation. "And for what it's worth, I don't glow in the dark. Not usually, anyway."
James laughed, a rich sound that filled the car. "See? She has a sense of humor about it. Unlike certain brooding barristers I could mention."
"I don't brood."
"Edward, mate, you've elevated brooding to an art form."
I watched Edward's reflection in the rearview mirror, noting the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Was that almost a smile? Before I could be sure, he'd schooled his expression back into its usual mask of polite indifference.
"Our first stop is the National Gallery," Edward announced, clearly trying to change the subject. "I thought you might appreciate the collection."
"Sounds perfect," I said, meaning it.
But what I didn't add was that I'd appreciate it a lot more if he'd actually look at me when he spoke instead of addressing the windshield like it was the most fascinating thing in London.
The National Gallery was impressive—grand columns, sweeping staircases, and enough marble to build a small city. I stood in the entrance hall, craning my neck to take it all in while tourists flowed around us like water around stones.
"It's beautiful," I breathed, pulling out my phone to snap a quick photo.
"Mind the flash," Edward said automatically, then softened when he saw my confused expression. "Some of the paintings are light-sensitive."
"Oh!" I quickly adjusted my settings. "Sorry, I didn't know. We don't have many paintings this old in Texas."
"None of them are older than the eighteen-hundreds," James interjected with a grin. "Edward's being precious about it."
"I am not being—" Edward started, then caught himself. "I simply believe in preserving cultural artifacts."
"Of course you do." I couldn't help smiling at his earnestness. "So, what should we see first? I'm guessing y'all have strong opinions about that."
"I thought we might begin with the Renaissance collection," Edward said, already moving in that direction. "The Turner wing is also excellent, though perhaps more accessible for—"
He stopped abruptly, and I raised an eyebrow. "For what?"
"Nothing. This way."
As we walked, I noticed people staring. Not at the paintings—at us. Or more specifically, at Edward. A few even pointed, whispering among themselves.
"Is it just me, or are people looking at us funny?" I whispered to James.
"The Grosvenor name does carry a certain weight," he replied diplomatically. "Edward's something of a public figure."
"Public figure?"
"Billionaire lawyer from one of Britain's oldest families," James explained. "He's been in the papers a fair bit. Usually for winning some impossible case or attending charity galas."
"Billionaire?" The word came out as a squeak. "As in, actual billions? With a B?"
James nodded, clearly enjoying my reaction. "The Grosvenor family's been accumulating wealth since before America was a country."
I stared at Edward with new eyes.
No wonder he carried himself like he owned half of London—he probably did. And here I was, living in his family's staffquarter, working for a small shopping channel, crushing on a man so far out of my league we weren't even playing the same sport.
"The Dutch masters are just through here," Edward said, apparently oblivious to my minor existential crisis.