Page 42 of An American in London

“Is it the desk?” I ask. “Is that why you want the hotel?”

“Partly,” he answers, which, of course, is entirely infuriating. He’s offering me a breadcrumb when I want the whole loaf and a slab of butter.

The waiter appears with our coffees. “I’d like to order the strawberry shortcake,” Ben says as the waiter sets down my cup in front of me. “Would you like anything?” he asks.

I shake my head, then remember Ben saying something about strawberry shortcake when we were first getting to know each other.

I change my mind. “Actually, make that two.” Ben isn’t a guy who indulges in dessert.

Even when we went to stay with the duke and duchess, he never ate more than a mouthful.

If he’s ordering the strawberry shortcake, I can’t pass up the opportunity. Even if it is only just past nine a.m.

“Certainly, sir, miss. I’ll just get that.”

“Strawberry shortcake?” I ask.

He shrugs but doesn’t give any more away.

“You like this room?” I ask. “Any more items of furniture that catch your eye?”

“It’s a fine room, but not my favorite.”

I try the silence thing, hoping he’ll answer the question that hangs in the air: So what is your favorite, then ? But he doesn’t. He sips his coffee, staring out at the empty chairs.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” I nod over to two men in suits at the other end of the lounge.

“Maybe they’re asking each other what we’re talking about.”

I laugh. “So you already knew about that desk, didn’t you?”

Ben nods.

“You’ve been here before?”

He nods again as he sets his coffee down on its saucer.

“Did you use to work here?” I ask. Is that what this is? Some kind of weird score settling?

“My dad worked here,” he says finally. “For thirty-five years.”

It’s like I’ve cracked the world in two and molten lava is flooding out. I’m not quite sure what to do.

“That’s a long time,” I say, like I’m trying to avoid stepping on anything hot. “He must have enjoyed it.”

“He loved it. He loved people.” He shoots me a look that says, I know what you’re going to say before you say it, so save your breath.

I shrug. I’m not going to make some lame joke about how the apple falls so far from the tree it thinks it’s an elephant. It’s not a time for telling jokes. “Way too easy.”

“That was his desk. It is his desk, as far as I’m concerned.”

“That’s why you want the hotel? For the desk?”

“Not just the desk. While he worked here and even after, when he retired, he’d regale us with stories from the hotel.

The rich and famous who crossed the threshold.

The waiters who made more money than the managers.

The chefs screaming at each other. His mother, my grandmother, was Irish, and you could tell by the way he could—and sometimes still can—tell a story.

He could capture the attention of Wembley Stadium.

He still has a magnetism about him. A charm.

He can pull people in and keep them entertained for hours.

This hotel is so much a part of him. And a part of him and me that .

..” His voice cracks. It’s like watching steel turn to cotton.

I slide my hand over his, and he lets me provide that small bit of comfort.

“There’s a lot of memories here,” he continues.

“The way he proudly brought me to visit the place on his days off. The way I’d sit under that desk—that he was so proud to work behind—during school holidays when my mother was ill.

I’d sit cross-legged by his feet and listen to him arranging trips, charming restaurants for reservations, researching destinations and guest preferences.

He took his work tremendously seriously.

He was my inspiration.” His voice doesn’t crack this time, but only just.

“Did anyone know you were under the desk?”

He smiles. “The staff all knew. Apart from the manager. But never the guests. I’d sit so quietly while he spoke with people.

I always had a book with me, and Dad had a pocket torch as well as a Swiss Army knife he’d charge me with while I was there.

But I didn’t read much. I was too fascinated with everything going on.

Every now and then, when Dad knew it was going to be particularly busy, housekeeping would smuggle me into one of the guest rooms and put the TV on.

Someone always brought me a plate of strawberry shortcake. ”

This man is so special.

“I bet you know every room in this place.”

“Like the back of my hand.”

“So that’s why you want it? To relive the memories?”

Ben sighs and shakes his head. “My dad was—is—a clever man, but his father before him was a farmer. They came to England for a better life. For their children to have a better life. And Dad had a life his father before him could never have dreamed of. My father’s wages weren’t generous, but in summer months, wealthy Arabs flock to London to avoid the heat of the Middle East. It still happens now.

The tips would flood in like rain. We lived a comfortable life.

But he could have done so much more if he’d had the opportunity.

I’d overhear him talk to my mum about what he’d do with the hotel if he was in charge.

The small changes he would make. The large shifts all the staff agreed on.

He was on the ground. He knew what he was talking about. ”

It’s like when a painter starts on a canvas—there’s no hint of what the picture will look like in the end. But Ben has just put down his palate knife, and everything has become clear. I understand him so much better now. “You want a chance to do all the things your dad talked about.”

He nods. “He’s older now. Too old to come back.

He has joint pain, probably from being on his feet so much over the years.

And his memory sometimes fails him. He’s having some tests.

They think it might be the early stages of dementia.

I want to show him, before it’s too late, that his hard work laid the foundations for what I’ve been able to achieve.

I don’t know a better way to do that than buying this hotel and making all the changes he wanted to make. ”

My throat tightens and I can barely get my words out. “I think you’re wonderful.”

Ben is not some tropey, grumpy billionaire. He’s real and sweet and loyal and so, so wonderful. I can’t bear to think what would have happened if I hadn’t mistaken him for Daniel De Luca. If I had never gotten to know him.

“Have you ever thought about telling the duke the truth about why you want the hotels?” Surely anyone would be moved by Ben’s story.

Ben shakes his head. “He’s focused on maintaining his legacy. The financials have to be sound. He needs to have confidence that if he sells, the person is going to be able to continue what he started.”

“Is it possible to have both? You can prove to him that you meet his competence criteria, that you understand the financial aspects of the hotel, and that you have a truly personal connection to the business he built. You don’t even need to buy all of them.

Why not see if he’ll just sell you this location? ”

He takes his time, and I appreciate him listening to me. He doesn’t dismiss me because he’s the billionaire and I’m just some random American who works at a bank. He respects me enough to consider what I’m saying.

“Last time we spoke, he pretty much closed the door. He said he wasn’t ready to divest. And I’m not surprised.

Our engagement may have even worked against me.

Maybe he sees me as someone who can’t hold on to what’s valuable.

” My heart inches higher in my chest at his words, at the thought I might be valuable to him.

“Serves me right for lying.” He shuts his eyes.

“I should never have been so dishonest. That’s not how my father raised me. ”

“No, but isn’t it worth telling him about your family connection to The Fairfield?”

“He might see it as attempted manipulation.”

“It’s the truth, Ben.”

“Tell me more about your vision boards.” He’s not subtle when he wants to change the subject, but I can’t blame him. He didn’t even know I was going to bring him here today. “What does that involve?”

“It’s fun. Just grab a bunch of magazines, some card stock and glue, and we’re off.” I don’t tell him I’ve already wasted an afternoon with a bunch of magazines and didn’t come up with anything. I ended up lying on my bed, scrolling through photographs of my time in London.

“You create your vision for the future?”

“Exactly. I used to do them all the time before my mom died. Since then, I lost sight of what I want my future to look like. I’ve focused too much on everyone else.”

“Ben? Tuesday?” I snap my head around to find the duchess coming toward us. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Together.” She’s beaming. I can tell she’s hoping this means we’ve reconciled. For real.

“Darling,” she calls. I follow her gaze and spot the duke having a conversation with someone at the entrance to the lounge.

He breaks it off when he sees us.

We stand and greet them like old friends, and they join us in seats around the low table in front of the sofa we’re sitting on.

“We didn’t expect to see you either,” I say.

The duchess orders tea for her and the duke. After we confirm we don’t need anything, she asks, “What are you doing here of all places?”

I glance at Ben. He’s not going to tell them, and I can’t help but think they would be entirely charmed, knowing Ben’s connection to this place.

“Do you mind if I tell them?” I ask.

Ben mumbles but I make out, “If you must.”

“Ben’s father worked here for thirty-five years. Ben has such wonderful memories of the place, I insisted he bring me to see where his ambition was born.”

“Your father worked here?” the duchess asks. “How long ago?”

“He retired just under ten years ago,” Ben replies.

“His name?” the duke asks, looking puzzled.

“Harry. Harry Kelley.”

The duchess raises her hands. “You’re Harry Kelley’s son? We love Harry! How is he?”

Ben pushes his hands down his thighs. “Very well. Thank you for asking.”

“He was a very good man,” the duke says.

Ben clears his throat. “Still is, sir. The best of men.”

“Ben was just sharing that his dad would smuggle him into the hotel to sit under the Churchill desk for the day while he worked.”

The duchess roars with laughter. “Did you ever know that, George?”

“Certainly not, and neither did my managers. I’m sure we would have been in breach of at least a dozen laws. But GMs never have a clue what’s going on with their staff. I’ve always said it.”

“He didn’t do any harm. It was years ago,” the duchess says.

“It’s probably still happening. People think owning hotels is a walk in the park. Let me tell you, it’s a headache.”

“So that’s why you want to own these hotels?” the duchess asks Ben, ignoring her husband’s grumbling.

Ben slides his hands down his legs again. “Partly. I’m sentimental. Tuesday’s right—this place is where my business brain was born. And it would mean a lot to my father.”

I don’t miss the look exchanged between the duke and duchess, but nothing more is said.

“And the two of you being here together,” the duchess says. “Can I hope for a reconciliation?”

Neither of us says anything, but I feel Ben’s gaze on me.

The duchess leans back. “You two are meant to be. You’re going to figure it out. I just know it.”

She believes that just like in all Daniel De Luca’s romantic comedies, there’s going to be a happy ending for us. Our story might be tropey, but I don’t see how everything ends wrapped in a bow.

Even if a happily-ever-after with Ben is definitely on my vision board.