Page 12 of An American in London

This month is going a little differently from the last. First, I’m on a different continent and in a different time zone. And second, instead of being Jed’s fiancée, I’m shopping for engagement rings with a British guy I mistook for a movie star just a week ago.

“Wait, this is Bond Street?” I ask as I finally spot a street sign.

One of the weirdest things about London is it’s hit or miss whether or not you find a street sign, and I don’t get it.

Why don’t the British like to know where they are?

“This is where Tiffany is!” Daniel De Luca only made one Christmas movie, and it has some pivotal scenes on Bond Street, including a proposal in front of Tiffany.

“I believe it is,” Ben says. “But that’s not where we’re headed.”

I told Ben to get any old ring, but he insisted we come and pick one out. He said the duke would never believe he’s romantic enough to have picked it out himself, so we might as well pick one out together. Plus, the experience gives us a genuine story of a shared experience. Win-win.

“Will we have time to get a picture outside Tiffany’s?” I ask. Multitasking at its best: enjoying some DDL time while pocketing thirty grand.

Ben doesn’t respond. His driver pulls to a stop at the side of the road.

He gets out and holds the door open for me. I slide across the seat and can see the Tiffany-blue flags a few buildings up. “I gotta get a picture,” I say. “I’ll just be a second.”

Before Ben has a chance to stop me, I chase up the street and tip my head back as I take in the imposing black brick building. It’s so different from the New York City Tiffany, but somehow this one looks like the flagship. It’s such a perfect fit—traditional and beautiful and part of history.

I spin around and find the exact spot Daniel De Luca proposed to Rachel Joshi.

The setup was a little cheesy, but Daniel always has a way of pulling it back from full fondue.

It must be the British sense of humor or something.

Maybe it’s just his accent. I shuffle to my right a little and bring up the camera on my phone.

Even if it was years ago, I’ve seen The 14 Days of Christmas at least a hundred times, so I know the exact angle I’m trying to get.

“You want me to take it for you?”

I spin around, and Ben is standing there, one hand in his pocket. He looks like the film-poster version of Daniel for this movie. He just needs a Santa hat.

“Let’s take one together,” I say. I’d never pass as Rachel Joshi—who starred in and produced The 14 Days of Christmas —but it would be fun to take a shot and send it to Melanie.

“I don’t do pictures,” he says.

“Not without your stylist and makeup artist?” I tease.

He rolls his eyes and whips my cell from my hand, then takes a couple of steps back before pointing my phone at me. I tilt my head to one side and give him my most natural smile.

“Did you get it?” I ask with gritted teeth. Is he messing with me? How long does it take?

He doesn’t say anything but nods as he stares at the screen with an intensity that tells me there’re a thousand things going on in his brain. But what? What’s he looking at? Me and my rigor mortis smile?

“Ben?”

He snaps his head up as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “What?”

Never mind.

“Now for one together,” I say and take the phone from him.

I link my arm through his, enjoying the heat of him so close.

For a split second, it feels like we’re a real couple.

I hold up the phone, and you’d think someone just told him his cat died.

“Smile,” I say, giving an exaggerated grin to the camera.

“Like that ?” he asks. Our image on the screen reveals him looking at my smile like it’s curdled cream.

“I’m trying to be encouraging.”

“Selfies and I aren’t a thing,” he replies.

“Maybe they should be.” I take a couple of shots.

“These next few days, you think you’re getting a fiancée for hire, but what you’re actually going to experience is a wild ride.

First on the list is selfies. Next we’ll be driving with the windows down, and by next Sunday night, you might have even loosened your tie. ”

The corner of his mouth twitches, and I manage to capture it. It feels like a victory. Until he takes a step back and I feel a chill at my side in place of his warmth.

“Let us take one of you two.” A short, light-brown-haired American woman who sounds like she’s from Virginia sidles up to Ben.

The look on his face is priceless—like she’s just told him he’ll be milking cows for the rest of the afternoon.

Before he has the chance to turn her down, she gives him a gentle shove toward me and takes my phone.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” I ask. We might as well get couple practice in now. And there’s one final picture I’d really like to have.

“You’re American!” she says. “We’re here from Virginia. I’m Pat and this is Bobby, my husband.” She nods at the guy next to her with the sandy-blond bowl cut. “Where are you from?”

“Originally from upstate New York.” Say you’re a New Yorker to another American and they make their mind up about you right away—they’ll either love you or loathe you. Upstate New York is perfectly acceptable to most people. “But now my fiancé, Ben, and I live in London.”

I slide my arm around Ben’s waist. It’s probably just an excuse to touch him again, but I’m supposed to be playing a part, right?

It’s not like he’s going to think I’m into him.

And he smells so good, not getting close to him when I have the chance would be like passing up a winning lottery ticket.

He’s taller than Jed. And bigger. There are muscles under the suit you’d never know about just by looking at him.

Okay, so maybe I had an inkling from dinner the other night.

I look up as he puts his arm awkwardly around my shoulder. Is he not smooth with women in general, or just women he’s fake-engaged to?

“Relax,” I whisper, then let out a small laugh. I thought it was going to be me who was going to have a problem faking things between us.

“You’re engaged?” Pat asks, beaming. “That’s so nice.

We’ve been married thirty-five years. It’s gone so fast, hasn’t it, Bobby?

And now that the kids have flown the nest, we’re finally taking all those trips we said we would when we first got engaged.

Have you got any plans to travel when you’re married?

” she asks. “Smile,” she adds, and points the phone at us.

“I hope so,” I say. “I’d love to go to Italy.” All the advice I’ve ever heard about lying is that it’s best to stick as closely to the truth as possible. Who doesn’t want to travel to Italy?

The woman narrows her eyes. “You know you look awfully like that actor. The British one. Daniel De Luca.”

I can’t contain my laugh. “He really does, doesn’t he? The first time I met him, I thought Ben here was Daniel. In fact, you know that movie he was in, The 14 Days of Christm —”

“Of course I do,” Pat says. “It’s one of my favorites, and definitely my favorite holiday movie. I watch it every year.”

“This is where the proposal scene takes place. I’d love to get a shot with us pretending to be Rachel Joshi and Daniel De Luca.”

Pat squeals. “Well, of course you do. That would be just the cutest thing.”

I turn to Ben. “You need to stand like this.” I grab his forearms and move him into position like he’s a giant mannequin. He’s standing in front of Tiffany, facing up the street. Then I stand opposite him. “You need to put your hands on my hips, and I’m going to put my hands on your chest.”

This situation is so weird. The man I’m ordering about is almost a perfect stranger, yet I’m maneuvering him into what I’m just now realizing is an extremely intimate pose.

And he smells so freaking good. I’m going to find out what makes him smell like clean laundry and wood chippings, just so I can make sure my next boyfriend smells exactly the same.

Ben slides his hands over my hips. Despite the fact I asked him to, his touch chases the air from my lungs, and I gasp. We lock eyes as he hears my response to his touch, and maybe it’s me, but his gaze feels intense.

“Oh, that’s just perfect,” Pat says, breaking the momentary spell. Ben looks away. I’m both disappointed and relieved. “You two look like you’re actually from the movie. Now put your hands on Daniel’s chest.”

I’m hyperaware of my hands as I hover them over his shirt before placing them down. His chest is hard but has heat, like I’m touching a rock warmed by the sun.

“You need to look at each other,” Pat squeals. “This is better than the movie. You two don’t need to pretend you’re in love—you have the real thing.”

A smile threatens at the corners of my lips before Ben looks at me, and I forget everything I was thinking.

“You two are just perfect together,” Pat says. “Don’t you think, Bobby?”

Ben clears his throat and reaches for my phone from Pat. “It was very nice to meet you. But we must be going.” He takes my hand and practically drags me down the street.

“Bye,” I call over my shoulder. “And thank you!” I do a little half skip to catch up with Ben. “Well, that was a little rude. They were just being friendly.”

“In this country, it’s rude to strike up conversations with strangers.”

I scoff. “No, it’s not.”

“Maybe not, but we need to find a ring. And I don’t have all day.”

He lets go of my hand, and I feel the loss of heat as if his has always been holding mine. He nods, encouraging me through the door being held open by a doorman.

Immediately, a male sales assistant appears in front of us. “Mr. Kelley. We’re delighted to have you in store. How may I be of assistance?”

Why would Cartier know Ben by name? I get it, he’s rich—but he’s not actually Daniel De Luca.

“I’d like an engagement ring,” Ben says flatly. “Something we can take away today.” He couldn’t sound more brisk or businesslike if he were telling his broker to go short on Japanese tech stocks.