Page 18 of An American in London

He shoves his hands in his pockets again, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “I’ve grown into it.”

That doesn’t tell me much. I cross my arms and transfer my weight from one hip to the other, waiting for him to elaborate. Two can play the brooding wordless hero—I’ve seen enough Daniel De Luca films to get the part down pat.

Ben knows instantly I want more and emits a small sigh. “It was slightly uncomfortable at first. But the designer did a good job interpreting what I wanted. It’s not too bright or ... zany.”

I can’t stop my laugh. “No, it’s definitely not zany. It’s moody and—”

“Vampirish?”

“Yes. And no. The feel is intense and atmospheric and ... kind of just like you. But it’s also comforting and warm and ...”

“And you can’t reconcile comfort and warmth with me.” It’s not a question. “Got it.” He turns and heads out of the bathroom.

I scurry after him. “I wasn’t saying that,” I call.

But wasn’t I? If I’m being honest, I haven’t seen the side of him that’s all comfort and warmth.

There have been hints—him talking to me about my mother and his parents.

It would have made much more sense if the house were full of rooms that were stiff and formal and a little clinical.

“It’s just that I could live here. Like, without a question, I could move in tomorrow and feel completely at home. ”

“I don’t see how that’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not. Not at all. It’s just ... unexpected.

” I’ve never seen this side of Ben. I’ve found traces of his kindness and generosity; he’s obviously not a monster.

But I haven’t had a chance to see all of him yet.

The man who likes to walk around barefoot.

The guy who lounges around in gray sweats, reading books about taxidermy and performing bears.

The one who hides his humor so deep I can’t help but wonder what else is buried there.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I reach for his arm as I catch up to him in the hallway. He’s all warmth and hardness and my hand fits against him, slotting into place—a key to a lock.

He tries to shrug me off. “It’s fine.”

I hold tight. “It’s not fine. I was saying it really badly.

It’s just ... I feel really at home here, yet it’s so grand and you’re almost a stranger.

It shouldn’t make sense that I feel so comfortable.

That’s what I was trying to say.” I pause and he meets my gaze.

“And I feel I know you so much better now that I’ve been here. ”

His stare heats me from the inside out. After a few tense moments, when I can practically hear his brain whirring to compute everything I’ve just said, he nods. I have to release his arm and look away before I go up in flames.

He shows me a couple of guest rooms that look like they’re from an exclusive, high-end hotel before we take the elevator down to the basement.

I can’t help but think how someone’s home communicates something about their personality.

Melanie’s home is crammed full of things she’s collected from her travels across America.

It partly reflects the fact that space is at such a premium in New York City, but it also shows how sentimental she is, and how she’s a wanderer.

My dad is still living in a house that’s barely been touched since my mom died. He likes it that way, just like Melanie likes her disorganized chaos.

And then there’s Jed and me. I walked out of our apartment with two suitcases and some boxes.

Ninety-five percent of the things that surrounded us were rented.

We lived in the short term, and I guess we loved in it too.

I should have seen earlier that we were never going to work.

We weren’t living the dream; we only leased it.

“Gym area. Space for the pool we can start construction on when we’re married, and then changing areas.”

I know he’s joking, but it doesn’t stop my heart from racing in my chest at him mentioning us being married. I take a breath and try to get a grip. This is a job, not a date.

“Infrared sauna,” he continues. “Lera has a bedroom and kitchen through there.” He points at a door I hadn’t noticed before.

“It’s a beautiful house,” I say. “Or more accurately, mansion. Ken Dream House. Whatever the technical term is.”

He doesn’t react, and we head to the stairs. “What would I see if I saw your place in New York?” he asks.

“I actually moved out of my place before I came to London,” I say. “I’m not sure where I’ll go when I go back.”

“Jed kept your apartment? Broke the engagement and then threw you out?” He lets out a huff, and it kind of feels nice that he’s so obviously Team Tuesday.

“No, he moved to Iowa. Out of nowhere. Quit his job and ran off with a ballerina.”

“Jesus, Tuesday. How long were you two together?” He leads us upstairs and out into the hall where Lera showed me in, and I turn a full three hundred and sixty degrees to try to get my bearings. This place is huge.

“Nearly ten years. We were college sweethearts.” I’m staring at the chandelier, wondering how in all holy hell the thing stays in place. It looks like it’s floating in midair. “This is really pretty.”

“Are you upset?” he asks, and I turn to look at him.

“Am I upset my fiancé cheated on me, nursed a secret desire to move back to his hometown, broke our engagement, and split? I’m fine about it,” I say sarcastically. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“It’s just ... You don’t seem that cut up.”

“You want me to cry on your shoulder?”

He rolls his eyes and leads me through a door I’m fairly certain we haven’t been through yet. Somehow we end up back in the kitchen.

“You’re right,” I add. “I’m not as cut up about it as I thought I would be either. Maybe it’s because I don’t want someone who doesn’t want me,” I explain.

“And now you can focus on your real love, Daniel De Luca?” he asks.

I laugh. “My first love. I forgot about him for a while there. Being in England has brought the fairy tale back.”

Our gazes slide together, and it’s like he’s pulled me into his arms—I can feel his warmth all around me. He’s not Dracula, after all. Not even close.

He clears his throat and looks away. “Lera has prepared some food.”

Since we were last in here, bowls and plates have appeared on one of the two islands, filled with every type of food imaginable.

A literal banquet has been laid out, including what looks suspiciously like shrimp curry, which is one hundred percent my favorite dish, as noted in my questionnaire.

It’s like he’s expecting twenty guests to appear.

“You know, I might need to move in,” I say, surveying all the food and deciding what to try first. “Sample Lera’s cooking on a daily basis. Make sure the gym works. That sort of thing.” I look up at him. “For preparation purposes only, obviously.”

He grins, and it’s so boyish and open, for a second I forget about his buttoned-up, gruff side and smile right back.

“I thought we could just help ourselves,” he says.

“As opposed to getting your footman to serve us?”

“Just fill your plate, Monday Morning.” He hands me a dish, and we both dig into the feast in front of us.

“So you’re having dinner with a woman,” I say as I take a seat at the kitchen table. It’s positioned by the window and has been laid with place mats, silverware, wineglasses, and a vase of white roses. I’m guessing we have Lera to thank for that. “How does it feel?”

“I have dinner with women. Just not women I date.”

“Because you don’t date,” I add for him.

“Right. But I’ve had dinner with women for work.”

“And you never get asked out?” I ask. He’d get hit on all the time if he was in New York.

He finishes the mouthful of food he’s chewing. “Women make it known they’re interested, if that’s what you mean.”

“I bet they do.”

He raises his eyebrows in a flirty pulse.

“And you say”—I pause, only continuing once I’ve pitched my voice low and adopted a remarkably bad British accent—“‘I’ll fuck you, but I’m not paying for you to eat a meal beforehand’?”

He half chokes on his lobster and reaches for a glass of water. “Jesus, Tuesday. You think it’s better if I take them to dinner, pretend I want a relationship, fuck them, and never see them again?”

I think about it. “I suppose not.”

“I don’t promise what I can’t deliver.”

“It’s good, I guess. You don’t promise them cake and serve them spaghetti. They want your spaghetti, they can have your spaghetti, but you’re not giving them cake.” The words hang in the air, and I can almost hear the clink and hiss of our brains catching up to what I just said.

“Interesting euphemism,” he says. “If you’re implying I’m a selfish ... lover—”

He stops as my jaw hits the table and my eyes pop out on springs. “I wasn’t talking about your sexual technique.”

“I’ve never had any complaints,” he says, silencing me. “For the record, I like to give cake. Lots of cake. Cake is a favorite of mine, as you know. And further, for the record, there’s nothing ... noodle-y about me.”

My face heats like someone’s holding a blowtorch to my cheeks. Ben laughs as I slowly turn puce, but I can’t look away from him. I’m a thousand times dead and also incredibly turned on. I’m officially a horny zombie with a staring problem.

We manage to get through the rest of dinner without further euphemisms or any more moments where I’m too embarrassed to breathe.

We talk about where we went to college, what our favorite TV shows are—not surprisingly, he doesn’t watch much of anything other than the news.

He asks me lots of questions and patiently listens, which I realize isn’t something I’m used to.

Jed used to talk a lot. It suited me to let him, I think.

But it’s nice to have Ben listen. Another quality to add to the growing list.

“What about you? I had Daniel De Luca as my fantasy guy growing up. Who was yours?” I ask.

“I don’t remember having a celebrity crush, if that’s what you mean.”

“Were you always so focused on work? You didn’t have a Scarlett Johansson poster taped on your bedroom wall along with your copy of the Financial Times ?”

He rolls his eyes and stands. We both take our plates back to the counter, where he flips down the dishwasher door and loads his plate and silverware into the machine.

It’s oddly endearing to watch a man who’s clearly so wealthy do something I’m sure Lera would be more than happy to do.

He reaches for the plate I’m holding, and our fingers brush and electricity sparks between us.

His eyes dart to mine. “Sorry,” he mutters as he places my plate in the dishwasher.

“Yeah, you can’t apologize for touching me when we’re at the duke’s pad,” I say.

He laughs. “Yeah, probably not.” He straightens, and I step toward him.

“We should ... practice,” I say.

“Practice what?” he asks. “Accidentally touching each other?”

I shrug. “Yeah. I should give you a pat-down or something.”

We stand opposite each other, and I shift my weight from one leg to the other.

“This is hopelessly awkward. Engaged couples aren’t this ... uncoordinated.” I hold out my hand as if I’m going to shake his. “Take my hand. We haven’t even—”

He slides his hand into mine. I lift my gaze as his warm palm envelops mine, his fingers tangling around my wrist. I hold up my free palm. “Your hands are huge .”

He releases my hand and puts his palm to mine. I look like I’m Alice in Wonderland and just took the Drink Me potion. I breathe in his musky scent that reminds me of an open fire and toasted marshmallows.

He brings his other hand up, moving the wisps of hair around my face, winding them around my ear.

“Yeah,” I breathe out, a little dizzy. “We need to be comfortable being physical with each other.”

He releases my hand, and I catch his wrist and place his hand on my hip. “Like this.” I look up to him, and his eyes are wide, following my every move. “Now, you put my hand where—”

He takes my hand in his and places it on his chest, over his heart.

My fingers press against his solid pectoral muscles, and I pull in a breath. “Yes. Good.” I reach for his other hand and place it on my other hip. His hands are firm and hold me in place. I wrap a hand around the back of his neck, rising up to my tiptoes and pressing against him for balance.

He pulls me even closer, his hands sliding around my waist and up my back. Every part of me is throbbing. My head, my heart, between my legs.

I’m needy for more of him.

His gaze flits between my eyes and my mouth. There’s a deep ache in the core of me, echoing, begging to be soothed.

He leans forward and I lift my chin, ready to sink into his kiss, but his kiss doesn’t make it to my lips. Instead, he presses his lips to my forehead. I can’t help but wonder if he’s ever done that to any of the women he’s not-dated before.

He doesn’t move away quickly. We stand, pressed against each other, so close I can feel the pulse under his skin.

He takes his lips from my forehead and then dips his head down until our cheeks graze one another.

I feel his breath on my skin. My body is buzzing and I sweep my hands over his shoulders.

This time, he presses a kiss on my cheek. So chaste but so anything but chaste. I want him to strip me naked, spin me around, and bend me over the kitchen counter.

When my fingers find the back of his neck, he groans, then quickly steps away. I miss his warmth immediately.

“Maybe that’s where our preparation should end for tonight,” he says.

The distance between us helps me regain my composure. I remember which way is up, where I am, and what I’m doing.

This isn’t real.

I fold my arms, trying to cover my body, not wanting to give away how much I’m drawn to him. As much as part of me might want to, I don’t ask him if he’s serving cake for dessert.