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Their lenses were focused directly on us. The clicking got closer, more aggressive. Other diners were starting to turn, some pulling out phones to record the scene. I felt like an animal in a zoo, trapped and on display.
"Edward Grosvenor!" one of them called out. "Who's your friend? Is this a new romance?"
"This way," Edward said, his hand finding mine with surprising gentleness. His fingers were warm and firm, and despite the chaos, I felt safer.
But the photographers were closing in, and other tearoom patrons were starting to stare and point. One man even had his phone out, clearly recording.
Edward led me toward a side door I hadn't noticed before, and James followed closely behind. We moved quickly through what appeared to be service corridors. Edward was clearly familiar with the layout.
"In here," Edward said, pushing open what I thought would be an exit.
Instead, we found ourselves in a small, windowless room filled with tablecloths and dining supplies. The space was cramped—barely large enough for the two of us, let alone three. James took one look at our situation and stepped back.
"I'll keep watch out here," he said with a knowing smile. "Make sure no one disturbs you while you catch your breath."
Before either Edward or I could protest, he'd closed the door, leaving us alone in the small, dimly lit space.
Edward pulled out his phone, speaking in rapid, authoritative tones to someone about "handling the situation" and "making this go away."
When he finished the call, he turned to me, running a hand through his hair. The careful styling was coming undone, making him look less like an untouchable lawyer, and more like a man who'd just been through an ordeal.
In the small, cramped space, every breath seemed amplified. I could see the rapid rise and fall of Edward's chest.
"I'm sorry about that," he said, his voice rougher than usual. " I should have anticipated—"
"Edward." I stepped closer, drawn by something unspoken. "It's not your fault."
He looked down at me, and I saw the moment his control cracked. His hand came up to my face, his fingers tracing my cheek like he was memorizing it.
"This is insane," he whispered.
"Completely," I agreed, moving closer until there was barely any space between us.
"Daphne would never forgive me."
"Maybe not." My voice was barely a breath.
His thumb traced across my lower lip, and I made a sound that was part sigh, part surrender. That seemed to break whatever was left of his restraint.
Part of me knew I should feel guilty. This was Daphne's brother. My best friend's brother. There was a huge difference in our backgrounds. But standing there in that cramped storage room, breathing the same air, I couldn't bring myself to care about any of it.
All I could think about was how right this felt. How wrong it was supposed to be, and how that somehow made it more right.
That last thread of control seemed to snap. His mouth crashed against mine, and I melted into him, my hands fisting in his shirt. The kiss was desperate, hungry, full of all the wanting we'd been trying to suppress.
I pressed closer, needing more contact, more connection. His hands slid into my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. The sound I made was half sigh, half moan, and I felt him shudder against me.
"Lili," he breathed against my lips.
"Don't stop," I whispered back. "Please don't—"
Voices outside the door made us freeze. Footsteps, getting closer.
"Edward?" James's voice, carefully neutral. "I'm afraid we have company."
We sprang apart just as the door swung open, revealing not just James but an elderly woman in a Fortnum & Mason uniform, looking thoroughly scandalized.
"My apologies," she said crisply. "But this is a storage area. Guests are not permitted—"