Page 15 of Love Affair in London (Once Again #12)

P iper was just so… nice . Guilt assailed Jared over the licentious thoughts he’d had about her during the entire Sunday roast. For the entire outing, actually.

But she added further inducement. “I have a lovely balcony that overlooks the river and the bridge. It’s small, but there’s room for two.”

Before he could take control of it, his mouth was saying, “I’d love to.” Once he’d committed himself, he added, “I need to bring something too. Maybe crackers and cheese?”

She put a hand to her flat stomach. “Thank you, but I’m still full of our roast.” She pointed to the bag with the champagne he carried for her. “But if we really need something, we can have the shortbread cookies I bought.”

He was doomed to a restless night after spending so much time in her delightful company. “I’ve never had shortbread before.”

She turned, walking backwards again, letting people skirt around her. “But we have shortbread at home. How could you never have had a shortbread cookie?”

He enjoyed her enthusiasm. She wasn’t like a child, not even a teenage girl, but a grown woman who enjoyed everything around her. He raised his hands n surrender.

She gaped. “What about Licorice Allsorts?” Another goodie he’d watched her put in her basket.

He shook his head slowly. “Nope.”

She turned then, once more walking beside him, her hand to her chest. “I can’t believe what a deprived life you’ve led.”

He scoffed. “Just because I’ve never heard of Licorice Allsorts or eaten shortbread?”

She smiled, almost but not quite skipping. “Then we’ll have champagne cocktails, Licorice Allsorts, and shortbread cookies out on my balcony while we gaze at Tower Bridge when it lights up.”

Though the sun was fading, the bridge’s lights had yet to come on.

In the lobby, she waved at the clerks. Despite their British reserve, they all smiled in return. Maybe they were used to American tourists. Or maybe he was just wrong about the whole British reserve thing.

Her room was a duplicate of his, except that he had a shower, and, through the open door of her bathroom, he noted her clawfoot tub. He didn’t have a balcony either. The rooms were large in this hotel, perhaps because it was built in an era before rooms became the size of a walk-in closet.

Taking the grocery bag from him, she pulled out a bottle, which was sweating after being in the store’s cooler. “Here’s another benefit of cheap champagne. It has a screw-top. And I don’t have to bring a champagne cork.”

She was utterly delightful, unconsciously sexy, and yet seductive in her almost giddy demeanor. Perhaps it was lack of sleep or the time change. Although he’d noted that she’d slept on the plane.

She waved a hand around the room. “Thank goodness I unpacked and put everything away. Or you’d see what an utter slob I am.”

Everything was neat. He figured, as an accountant, she was orderly about everything.

But was she orderly in bed? He had to stop that line of thinking. She was offering champagne and treats, not a romp in her bed.

“Just in case you ever need to know how to make a champagne cocktail, this is the recipe.” She opened a small bottle of bitters sitting on the tray with an ice bucket, then grabbed a sugar cube out of a tub she’d obviously brought from home.

Holding the cube over a plastic champagne flute, she drizzled bitters until the sugar turned a deep burgundy.

Then she dropped it into the flute. “The secret is to soak the sugar cube before you pour the champagne.” She did the same with the other plastic flute.

The woman traveled with everything she needed for her favorite cocktail.

Foam raced up the side of the tilted glass as she poured. “It’s because of the sugar. It has to die down before pouring more.

The foam rose to the lip before subsiding. Tipping the glass again, she poured slowly, the foam rising but never flowing over the top.

“It’s a very tricky process,” he commented, tongue-in-cheek.

She gave him a prim-lipped look. “And I’m an expert at it.”

He didn’t let his mind wander to other things she might be an expert at.

But damn, his slacks were getting tight again.

Turning away, he stepped out onto the balcony.

One would think he was fifteen years old, with so little control over his own body.

But it had been way too long since he’d had company in his bed. He blamed his reaction on that.

Then she stood beside him at the railing, handing him a glass, her citrusy scent surrounding him, doing things to him.

Raising her glass, she toasted. “To a very good Samaritan. And my thanks.” They tapped glasses, then she sipped the cocktail. Closing her eyes, she savored the drink before looking at him as he took his first sip. “What do you think?”

He had to admit, “It’s delicious. I’ve never been a champagne guy. But I’m a convert.”

Perhaps he would make champagne cocktails once he was home and let his thoughts drift to the pretty woman he’d met on his travels.

She flourished a hand towards the cafe table and chairs. She’d been right. The balcony was narrow, but the chairs faced the river and the bridge, the view magnificent. Really, what more could a guy ask for?

She went back inside, and he heard bags rustling, plastic tearing. Then she returned to him with two bowls, one filled with shortbread cookies, the other full of licorice in all shapes and sizes, some square, some round, some thick, some covered with tiny candy beads.

“Did you bring your own plastic bowls too?” he asked with a laugh.

She pretended to look affronted, but a sweet smile lurked on her lips. “I like my creature comforts the way I want them. Of course,” she waved an airy hand, “I could have bought all this here, but I might have had to go to different shops and that would take too much time.”

“I like the way you travel.” And he liked her.

She pushed the bowl of Licorice Allsorts toward him.

“I know we’re not hungry after that late lunch, but you still have to try the Allsorts.

” As she leaned close, her scent drifted over him again.

“These little ones here with the candy on them are more like a jelly. And the round pink ones with the black center are coconut. If you like coconut, you can take them all. They’re not my favorite.

Although I wouldn’t waste them, of course. ”

She looked at him with a smile that filled his heart. God, the woman had a beautiful, sexy, and yet still endearing smile.

“All the others are licorice on the inside.” They came in different colors, white on one side, chocolate, pink, or orange on the other. She pointed again. “Oh, I forgot, those little plugs are just plain licorice.”

He pointed to a little man-shape. “What are those?”

“That’s licorice too. And they’re my favorites. So you don’t get any of them.” She laughed then, covering her mouth. “Except that you’re my good Samaritan, so I’ll let you have some.” She wagged her finger. “But I wouldn’t do that for anyone else.”

Christ, she made him laugh. She was a little girl at heart, one who liked to save the best for last. “I’m glad you’re willing to share.” He took one of her favorites. Unlike the licorice ropes he was used to, the candy was denser. But it was good.

Her gaze turned bright. “What do you think?”

She waited for his assessment, almost as if she were holding her breath, just as she had for his take on the Yorkshire pudding.

“It’s good. But I might like one of these others better.” He’d like something better, that was for sure. A kiss with the taste of licorice and champagne on her lips. But he delved into the bowl and picked out a coconut one, popping it into in his mouth.

“ Ewwe ,” she said like his daughter Scarlett, screwing up her face.

He pronounced, “I like this way better than the little man.”

She clapped. “Good. Then you can have all the coconut ones, I’ll take all the little men, and we’ll share the rest.”

She popped a little man into her mouth, obviously not seeing it as a sexual invitation.

They sipped champagne and savored Allsorts as the sun dipped low and the lights of the bridge winked on. White lights lit up the bridge’s cables and the catwalk between the two towers, while purple glowed in the roadway pass-throughs under each tower and beneath the span.

“It’s beautiful.” Running inside, she returned with her phone, standing at the railing to take several pictures until she flopped into her chair again.

If he looked up young at heart in the dictionary, there would be a picture of Piper Alexander.

She was the epitome of the phrase. Was that because she had no children?

Or because she wasn’t married? Children, as much as you loved them, forced you to grow up.

You had to be the responsible one. You could have fun, but there was always that sense in the back of your mind that you were the caretaker of those precious little bundles that were gifted to you.

“I should look at my photos and delete all the duplicates and the bad ones.” Her expression was so sweet it knocked him sideways. “That’s another reason to thank you for finding my phone. I wouldn’t have been able to take any pictures during my trip.”

“You could’ve bought another one.”

She wriggled shoulders as if the idea didn’t appeal. “That would have been such a pain. Of course, I’d’ve done it.” She held up the phone for him to see one of her shots. “But I wouldn’t have gotten this one.”

He laughed so hard he had to hold his stomach. “You need to delete that right now.”

He hadn’t realized she’d taken that picture of him enjoying his roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Eyes closed, cheeks puffed out like a squirrel collecting nuts, he’d relished the morsel he’d just shoved in his mouth.

She slapped the phone to her chest. “Oh no. I’m keeping this one.

It’s my favorite.” He reached over, trying to grab the phone, and she bent backwards, her chair tipping on the two back legs as she howled with laughter.

Tears streaming from her eyes, her words came out slightly garbled.

“Give me your daughter’s phone number. I absolutely must send this picture to her. ”

He subsided back into his seat, his desire to haul her into his arms almost overwhelming, and he slugged back a gulp of champagne to stop himself. “No way.”

“Then I’ll send it to you. And you can share it with your kids.”

They would both love it, probably thinking one of his colleagues took the picture.

He gave her his number, she tapped on her screen, and moments later, his phone pinged.

He mock-growled at the horrible, hilarious photo.

“I will never show this to my kids. If I do, I won’t hear the end of it.

They’d probably put it up on their Facebook pages. ”

“Do they still use Facebook?” she asked, her tone incredulous.

He shook his head, still smiling, laughter wanting to rise up his throat. “TikTok, Instagram. Whatever the latest thing is, they’re on it.”

Her eyes lit up as brightly as the bridge. “I’ll put it on my Facebook page with a tagline that says my good Samaritan .”

He leaned over again, trying to swipe her phone. “Don’t you dare. I’ll have to write to Facebook and have it taken down.”

As she laughed, even as he laughed with her, his body ached with how badly he wanted to touch her.

As they slouched back into their chairs again, he looked at her. “You said you’re going to the Tower of London tomorrow?”

“Yes. That’s my first stop.”

“Mind if I join you?” It felt like the thing he most wanted to do in all the world.

She didn’t hesitate. “I’d love to have you join me. I have an extra ticket too. I bought one for my…” Was that a slight hesitation? “Friend. And there’s no refund at this late date.”

“Thank you. That’d be great.” Another day with her.

A day in which so much could happen.