Page 17 of An American in London

I haven’t studied so hard since college.

Every evening this week, I’ve pored over the papers Ben filled in.

I’ve spent hours in my hotel room, reading and rereading until my eyes watered.

But I have thirty thousand dollars to earn, so here I am, in front of an almost-stranger’s house.

Obviously, I was expecting Ben’s place to be impressive, but as the door opens to reveal the marble floors, sweeping staircase, and an elaborate chandelier, I realize I’ve underdressed.

I’m in jeans and my old Sarah Lawrence sweatshirt. This is supposed to be a casual dinner.

“Ben is just on a call,” the slight, older lady who opened the door says through a beaming smile. “I’m Lera, his housekeeper. He won’t be long. Do come in. Can I get you a cocktail?”

“Sure,” I say, tipping my head back to take in the circular window in the ceiling at the top of the winding staircase. This place is grand but somehow also cute AF.

“Anything in particular you’d like? Ben said you enjoy a Kir Royale?”

My heart trips in my chest. Ben has clearly also been studying his comprehensive guide to Tuesday Reynolds.

Him mentioning my favorite drink to his housekeeper was thoughtful and charming and kind—the sort of thing a real boyfriend would do.

I meet her gaze to find her twinkling at me. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

“Let me show you through to the drawing room.”

The walls of the drawing room are almost black, and one wall has backlit bookshelves that give the room a book-shrine feel.

The furniture is dark wood and burgundy velvets with lush, expensive cushions and billowing drapes.

It has a definite feel of romanticism about it, like I might find Lord Byron behind the sofa, passed out from too much opium.

I’m about to start examining the bookshelves when the door sweeps open and Ben appears.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him in anything but a perfectly tailored suit, and my stomach swoops at the sight.

At-Home Ben is sockless, in cuffed sweatpants and a white T-shirt, his hair ruffled like he’s just come off a difficult call, his brow tight, and his eyes trained on me.

I might be recovering from heartbreak, but in Ben’s presence, it’s hard to remember. He’s like coming into the AC on max after a walk from the subway in August.

“The sweatpants suit you,” I say. “And here I was thinking you might be Dracula.”

“I only wear my cloak on special occasions,” he says without missing a beat.

“But seriously,” I reply, nodding at the room. “It’s moody. Dramatic. I feel like I should be in a corset and carrying smelling salts.”

“I’d never discourage you from listening to your gut. Feel free to wear a corset next time you’re here.” Does he know how funny he is? I can’t decide if he’s cooler than a fan or just plain uptight.

Would there be a next time? Soon we’d be heading to the country, and then on Sunday evening, when we arrive back in London, my job will be done. I’ll be thirty grand richer, and I’ll likely never see Ben again before the bank’s annual health check.

“Shall I show you around?” he asks. “You should be familiar with the place at least.”

I nod. “Absolutely. I get to see the coffin too, right?”

He doesn’t respond but leads me straight to the kitchen.

It looks like something in a magazine, only nicer.

It’s big and expensive, but not showy or brash.

The dark-color theme continues with what looks like tarnished bronze accents, dark-stained cabinets, and swathes of backlit black-and-white marble.

“Where’s your refrigerator?” I ask.

“Over here.” He indicates what looks like more cabinets. He pulls it open to reveal a huge larder fridge, with a smattering of fresh fruit, vegetables, and dairy. “You hungry? Or are you trying to discover where I hide the dead bodies once I’ve drained their blood?”

A chill melts down my spine. “Can you stop being so nonchalant about being a vampire? At least pretend to be offended.”

“I’ve heard worse.”

“You have? What’s worse?”

“Maybe I’m wrong, but I’m assuming you don’t actually think I feed on people’s blood. So why would I be offended?”

He’s unlike any man I’ve ever met. Cool. Cocky. Unreadable but kinda funny, and charming in his own way.

“You really have an answer for everything. It’s exhausting.”

“Then maybe stop trying to trip me up. Let’s get down to business. Where was I born?” He turns and heads out of the kitchen. I follow.

“Hertfordshire. Me?”

“This is my office.” He opens a door off the magnificent hallway and steps aside to let me in first. “Madison County, upstate New York. Where did we meet?”

I stand in the middle of the booklined room and spin around, taking it all in.

The room is more library than office, with built-in shelving lining the walls floor to ceiling.

I move toward one wall of shelves. It’s not just business books, though there are plenty of those.

There’s also fiction that looks well thumbed, including a particularly worn copy of The Hotel New Hampshire —the seminal modern classic of misfits and oddities—and next to it, a huge coffee-table book simply titled Washington State .

I want to be left here for a week to do nothing but investigate every corner and page of this room.

Ben moves behind me, and I spin again to take in the parts of the room I’ve not seen yet.

There’s a heavy mahogany desk on one side and two large navy couches facing each other by the window.

I could live in this room. Other than bathroom and kitchen access, I wouldn’t need anything else.

I hadn’t exactly envisaged what Ben’s house would look like, but the warmth here is unexpected.

I suppose I was expecting his home to reflect his aloofness, but instead of cold and clinical, this place is a warm blanket and a bucket of popcorn.

“I love it,” I say and glance at Ben.

I swear there’s a flicker of a smile before he lowers his head and pushes his hands into his pockets. “Where did we meet?”

“Green Park, of course. I was a tourist wanting my picture taken. Was it love at first sight for you?”

His brow furrows and he looks up, catching my gaze. “Not love, exactly, but I was intrigued.”

I try to disguise my smile. “How did you know you’d fallen in love with me and decided to ask me to be your wife?

” The question wasn’t part of the packet, but it is something people ask.

I remember Jed being stumped by the question when his grandfather asked.

Maybe that should have been a warning sign for us both.

“The first night we had dinner, I knew it was special. I’m used to people being ... relatively subservient. Not because I demand it,” he rushes to add. “People self-edit. But you didn’t. It caught me off guard. You saw yourself as my equal, and that shifted things for me.”

My spine tingles and I can’t help wondering how close we’re skating to the truth. I turn slightly, to check I’ve not missed anything of the room and to cover the flush of my cheeks. “And when did you decide to propose?”

“I didn’t like the fact you were going back to America so quickly. I realized I wasn’t ever going to like you going back to America.”

He sounds so earnest in his explanation that even I’m starting to believe what he’s saying. I guess people believe what they want to believe, and the idea that someone like Ben could be in love with me? That’s something I wouldn’t mind being the truth.

I turn to him. “You’re good at this game.”

His eyes search mine. For once, I’m not waiting for a witty comeback, just looking at him, enjoying him looking at me.

Ben clears his throat, then turns and heads back into the hallway.

I follow. He pads upstairs, and I’m faced with his perfect ass flexing beneath his soft gray joggers.

Is there a possibility this is a Melanie setup?

Maybe she and my dad got together and devised a way to send me overseas, and they’ve hired the perfect man to help erase Jed from my brain.

In one of his first on-screen appearances, Daniel De Luca had a supporting role in a Sean Penn movie where the main character’s life had been turned into a disaster by his best friend because he was getting bored.

I can’t think of another explanation for why I’d be in this beautiful house, with this beautiful man, getting thirty thousand dollars to pretend to be in love with him. This isn’t a hard gig.

There’s only one sticking point to my theory: Neither Melanie nor my dad has thirty grand. It can’t be them. This must be real life, but I’ve never come so close to living out my fantasies.

“Lower ground floor is a screening room, gym, hot tub—that kind of thing.”

“Pool?” I ask.

“Nope. Seemed a waste to put it in just for me.”

“Whereas living in a ten-thousand-square-foot home on your own is just fine.”

“It’s nine and a half thousand. We all have different lines in the sand.”

“For future reference, I would have liked a pool. I mean, if you can, why not?”

“We can discuss it once we’re married.”

My heart somersaults at his statement. I know he’s joking, but just the thought is ... almost too much. “It cost you thirty thousand just to get me to wear the ring for a week. Getting me to the altar is going to be expensive, let me tell you.”

“This is the master bedroom,” he says, ignoring me. “The designer insisted on two bathrooms and two wardrobes for resale value. So I suppose this is yours.” He leads me through the simple but large bedroom into a bright-white marble bathroom. “It’s never been used. Obviously.”

“What a waste,” I say, running my fingers along the book-matched marble. “You mentioned the designer. They’ve done a tremendous job, and you have a beautiful house, but how much of it is you? You’ve said yourself your background is humble, which this place isn’t. Does it feel like home?”