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We spent the next hour moving through the gallery, with Edward providing commentary in a way that was somehow both educational and passionate. When he talked about art, his whole demeanor changed. The stiffness melted away, replaced by genuine enthusiasm that made my chest tight with admiration.
We paused in front of a Van Gogh self-portrait, the artist's intense blue eyes seeming to follow us. "He painted this just two years before his death," Edward said softly. "After he'd been rejected by virtually everyone who mattered in the art world."
I studied the swirling brushstrokes, the haunted expression. "He looks like someone who understood what it felt like to be an outsider."
Edward turned to me sharply, something flickering in his expression. "Yes. He did."
Our eyes met, and I wondered if he was thinking what I was thinking—that sometimes the most beautiful things came from the most painful places.
Then someone jostled me from behind, pushing me forward, and suddenly I was pressed against Edward's chest.
"Oh! Sorry, I—" I looked up at him, my hands flat against his suit jacket. He was so close I could see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes, could smell his cologne.
"It's fine," he said softly, but his hands had come up to steady me, his fingers warm against my arms.
We stood there for a heartbeat too long, awareness crackling between us like electricity. Then James cleared his throat somewhere behind us, and we sprang apart like we'd been scalded.
"Right," Edward said, his voice rougher than usual. "Shall we continue?"
"I still can't believe you've never had proper afternoon tea," James said as we settled into a cushioned booth at Fortnum & Mason. The tea room smelled like Earl Grey and old money—polished silver and hushed conversations.
The elegant space was decorated in that particularly British way, with fine china and tiered stands laden with delicate sandwiches and pastries that looked too pretty to eat.
"We have sweet tea in Texas," I protested, smoothing my skirt as I scooted into the booth. "Granted, it's usually from a Sonic Drive-In, but still."
Edward made a sound that might have been amused. Might have been horror. It was hard to tell.
"The Earl Grey is excellent here," he suggested, flagging down a server.
"I'll try it." I watched him order with the kind of natural authority that came from growing up in places like this. Everything he did seemed effortless, from the way he held his napkin to how he addressed the staff with just the right amount of courtesy.
When our tiered stand arrived, I stared at it in fascination. The stand looked like something from a fairy tale, complete with doilies and tiny silver spoons. Tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off, scones with jam and clotted cream, and pastries that looked too delicate to touch.
"Where do I even start?" I asked.
"Bottom tier first," James said, reaching for a cucumber sandwich. "Savory to sweet. It's traditional."
I picked up what I thought was a delicate cucumber sandwich, but apparently grabbed it with the grace of someone who'd never seen afternoon tea before. The filling shot out both sides like a culinary explosion, landing not just on my dress but somehow on Edward's perfectly pressed shirt sleeve.
"Oh, for the love of—" I lunged forward with my napkin, but in my panic, I knocked my teacup with my elbow. Earl Grey went flying in a graceful arc, heading straight for Edward's lap.
"No, no, no!" I dove to intercept the spill with a handful of napkins, which resulted in me practically crawling across the table—and effectively giving Edward what could generously be called a very personal napkin-dabbing experience.
"Lili," he choked out, his hands catching my wrists. "It's fine. Really."
The position we'd ended up in was compromising. Me leaning over him, our faces inches apart, my hands frozen in his lap with the tea-soaked napkins.
The elderly ladies at the neighboring table were staring with a mixture of horror and fascination.
I became acutely aware of every detail—the warmth of his hands on my wrists, the way his breathing had changed, the intensity in his eyes that had nothing to do with spilled tea.
"Perhaps we should take this to go?" James suggested, signaling the server with barely contained laughter.
That's when I heard it—the rapid clicking of cameras.
"Bloody hell," Edward muttered, looking over my shoulder toward the entrance.
I turned to see a small crowd of photographers pushing through the elegant tea room, cameras raised.