Page 41 of An American in London

Apparently, there’s been some kind of power outage at Coffee Confide in Me, and there is no coffee.

It’s the reason I’m in line at the place down the street, trying to not judge the way the barista seems to be moving at a snail’s pace.

It’s only been a few weeks, but I’m going to miss Coffee Confide in Me as much as I’m going to miss seeing red buses everywhere.

I can’t believe it’s my last weekend in London. I fly back to New York tomorrow.

I sigh at the sloth-like movement of the line and jump when someone behind me taps me on the shoulder. I’m full New Yorker furious when I spin around ... and come face-to-face with Ben.

“Hey, Wednesday.”

His dimple undoes me. I go from furious to grinning like a puppy on ecstasy. Humming The Addams Family theme tune, I click my fingers twice. The corner of Ben’s mouth turns up and he shakes his head.

“Did you finish your packing?”

I’d left Ben’s place last night to come back to the hotel and pack. And maybe because the more time I spend with him, the more I worry about how difficult I’ll find it to leave.

Even though I saw him less than twelve hours ago, it’s so good to see him, I ache inside. “Apparently it’s not just me stalking people this morning.”

“Last night, I found myself watching the end of the Daniel De Luca movie we started together,” he says. “The one where he agrees to marry his boss for a green card. I thought finding you here was more ... in keeping with our theme.”

“Our theme?”

“Yeah, I figure our theme is Daniel De Luca romantic comedy tropes. There are so many tropes between us, I can’t keep count. You’re new in town—like De Luca in This Old Town . I’m a grumpy billionaire, like the one he plays in Love Me Like a Boss . Apparently that’s a thing.”

“Yeah. That’s definitely a thing.” I grin. This guy . “That’s two.”

“Mistaken identity—like in What a Feeling . You thought I was Daniel De Luca. You stepped on my toe in the queue at the coffee shop—that’s number four.”

“Standing in line at a coffee shop definitely isn’t a trope.”

He narrows his eyes with a look that says, Don’t argue with me. I know I’m right . “I’m sure there was one. Then of course, fake engagement.”

“My favorite.”

“The primary trope in our movie.”

“We’re in a movie now?”

“Isn’t everyone the star of their own movie?”

“I don’t know.” I’m not sure I have been up until now.

“But!” He holds up a finger. “We’ve missed an important one. I think we need to put it right.”

“Okay. What did we miss?”

“Holiday romance.”

“But it’s not Christmas.”

He rolls his eyes. “Americans. ‘Vacation romance,’ then, if you insist.”

He’s put a lot of effort into his argument, which I have to admit is compelling. “So how do you suggest we put it right?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I’m glad you asked. Turns out I have a light day at work. You’re new in town, only here for another day. Thought you might want a tour guide.”

Warmth swirls in my belly. The duchess’s reminder about it being the small things that count plays in a loop in my head. “Nothing I want more than a grumpy billionaire tour guide.”

The line inches forward and we shuffle along.

“What’s on your list that you haven’t seen yet? St. Paul’s, Westminster Abbey, The Tower of London?”

I wince. “I haven’t seen any of them.”

“What have you seen?” He groans. “Don’t tell me—Green Park where Daniel first met Julia Alice in Love Me Like a Boss , and the lobby of the hotel where he’s staying while he films his latest movie.

It sounds like you haven’t seen the most beautiful, most important things London has to offer. Well, I’m here to show you.”

“It’s very sweet of you.”

“I’m not sweet.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Aha, I see what you’re doing,” he says. “You’re making sure we’ve covered enemies to lovers, like in A Duchess for a Duke . But you see, I’ll never be your enemy.” He looks me straight in the eye, and his gaze warms me from the inside out.

We finally reach the start of the line and place our coffee orders. I play it safe with a grande latte with a caramel shot, and he insists on ordering a medium filter coffee. Whatever.

“So what now?” I ask. “Cue montage of us enjoying ourselves at various London landmarks?”

“I guess. Where do you want to start?”

“With a plot twist,” I reply.

“What do you have in mind?”

“I want to take things to the next level.”

The dimple is back. I don’t even mind that I can tell exactly what’s on Ben’s mind—and it isn’t PG. “I’m all about the next level.”

“Bring your boring coffee and come with me.”

Ben’s growling as we climb out of the car and stand in front of The Fairfield Hotel.

Black wrought-iron railings fence the almost too-green hedges around the outside of the building, so immaculate it looks like they were trimmed with nail scissors.

Three flags fly over the entrance. One is the British flag, another American, and another in the middle reads The Fairfield Hotel in scrolling script.

A doorman waits for incoming guests at the top of eight marble steps clad with red carpet.

He’s dressed smartly in a gray coat, and he’s spotted us but can’t decide whether we’re coming in.

Apparently, neither have we.

“When was this place even built?” I ask. I glance up at the redbrick building and gargoyles stare back.

“Eighteen sixty-three,” he says without missing a beat. Why would he know that? What is it with this place? Why is it so important to him? “It’s a nice example of Gothic Revival.”

I know stuff. I went to college. I can hold my own in a room full of suits when they’re discussing whether interest rates are going to tank the market. But even I have to admit, I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. “Gothic Revival, huh?”

“Of course the Palace of Westminster or Tower Bridge are more famous examples, but Sir William Henry Barlow didn’t do a bad job here.”

Oh, we’re talking architecture. He’s clearly done his research, but I have a feeling a love of architecture isn’t the reason Ben wants to own this hotel.

“Show me around,” I say. “I want to see the place that meant you gave a near-perfect stranger thirty thousand dollars.”

“No,” he snaps. “Is that why you brought me here? You want to go inside?”

“We’re sightseeing. This is a sight. I want to see it.”

“It’s a hotel, Tuesday.”

“But it’s important to you. And it’s been the reason for a lot of my experiences here in the UK.

You’ve told me I’m bad at asking for what I want, so I’m telling you as clear as day: I want you to show me the hotel.

” We’ve spent so much of our time together over the past weeks making decisions and taking steps connected to this hotel.

I want to know what’s so special about the place.

He folds his arms and stands rooted to the spot.

“Come on. Let’s get a coffee.” I dump my coffee in the trash and walk toward the entrance.

“We’ve just had a coffee.” The softness in his eyes has completely gone, and his expression is bordering on furious.

“Champagne, then,” I say. When he still doesn’t budge, I add, “Tell me why this place matters to you.”

“I buy and run profitable businesses. That’s what I do.” His walls are up, his windows are shuttered.

But I’m not giving in.

“I know it’s more than that.”

Silence wraps itself around the two of us, binding us in a bubble in the middle of a bustling street in Knightsbridge.

He hasn’t left. He’s still standing here next to me. I’m taking that as a win.

“So what if it is?” he asks eventually. “What does it matter to you?”

It’s a good challenge, and I don’t have an immediate answer. “I want to understand. Then I want to brainstorm with you and come up with a different plan for you to get it.”

Ben laughs, but it’s an empty sound that makes my ribs rattle. He checks his watch. “And that will take us until lunchtime. Shall we then try and broker world peace in time for dinner?”

“I’m serious,” I say, a little frustrated with his resistance. What’s he hiding? “I’m new in town, remember? I get to choose which sights we see. I’m telling you what I want, Ben. Don’t you want to give it to me?”

“And what about you?” he asks. “Why don’t we figure out the direction your life is taking? Maybe that’s what should occupy us this afternoon.”

I tilt my head and hold out my hand. “If you follow through with The Fairfield, you can help me compile my vision board.”

“Your what?”

“My plan for my future. I’ve been thinking about what you said. I think I’ve just been going along the path of least resistance for a long time. Prioritizing other people’s needs. Acting out of fear instead of passion. I want that to change. I’m trying to figure out what exactly I want.”

“Oh, your personal life plan.” He takes my hand, and the sparks of electricity jump between us. “Deal.”

At the top of the stairs, through the entrance, is a lobby that’s larger than looks possible from the outside. There’s a huge chandelier hanging from the ceiling and a round table beneath it, covered in vases of every shape and size, holding white lilies and orchids.

I glance over at Ben to find him stopped, facing a battered old oak desk that looks a little out of place in the lobby of such a grand hotel.

A member of staff appears out of nowhere. “I see you’re admiring our fine concierge desk, sir,” the short, blond-haired woman says. “We’re very proud of that desk. It was the desk Sir Winston Churchill sat behind at Downing Street when he was prime minister.”

Ben nods slowly. To the casual observer, it might look like he’s interested in what she’s saying, but I know him better. He already knows who the desk belonged to. Is that why he wants this hotel? He doesn’t strike me as a man who collects trinkets, but maybe he’s a Churchill fanatic.

“We’re here to get a coffee,” he explains. The woman leads us toward the back of the room, to the sun lounge.

I glance around, trying to find more clues about Ben’s fascination with this place. Meanwhile, he buries himself in the menu.