Page 9 of Love Affair in London (Once Again #12)

As she headed to the steps leading up to Tower Bridge, she felt free.

Free of the wicked stepdaughters, as if she were a Cinderella character in reverse, the abused stepmother.

It all came home to her now as she stood at the foot of the iconic bridge crowded with people, the noise, the voices, the laughter. She was free. And it felt amazing.

A Black man stood on the corner giving directions to whoever asked, a friendly smile lighting up his face.

But she had her GPS on her phone, and she knew exactly where she wanted to go, an English pub just on the other side of the bridge that served Sunday roast. She’d planned their arrival time around being able to have Sunday roast the day they arrived.

After glancing at her map app just to be sure of her directions, she stuck the phone in her pocket and set off.

It was summer, tourist season, and the bridge was packed.

People bumped and jostled her, but that was part of the charm.

Cars rushed by in both directions, and at the middle of the span, she reached into her pocket, wanting to take a picture of the Thames, with the city in the background and a panoramic view of the Tower of London.

But when she stuck her hand in her jacket pocket, her phone was gone.

She didn’t panic. Maybe she’d put it in the other pocket.

But that was empty too. She checked the back pockets of her leggings.

Empty. Maybe she’d been a good tourist and zipped the phone back in her purse the way she was supposed to.

But the phone wasn’t inside her purse either.

Her pulse rate jumped. She’d lost her phone. Worse, she remembered all that jostling on the stairs. What if she’d been the victim of a pickpocket? In which case, her phone was gone for good.

Then she panicked, her heart thumping, her skin hot, her mind racing.

Everything, absolutely everything , was on her phone.

She remembered using it to check the GPS.

Turning back, she pushed against the flow of tourists on this side of the bridge, following the footsteps she’d taken, searching the sidewalk and the roadside, seeing nothing.

Finally reaching the last spot she remembered using the phone, she began rethinking everything. Had she really taken it out here? Or at the bottom of the steps?

She pushed against the flow of people, scouring every step for her phone’s red case.

But there was nothing. Rushing to the Black man she’d seen on the corner giving directions, she almost rudely grabbed his arm to get his attention, pulling back only at the last minute.

He finished speaking to a young family, the woman pushing a stroller with two babies close in age.

Once they’d left, she said, “Has anyone turned in a phone to you? It had a red case. I lost it somewhere on the bridge.” He gave her the saddest look, and she read his thoughts.

Pickpockets. Her phone was gone forever.

But instead of saying that, he smiled and spoke in Cockney accent.

“No, ma’am. But I’ll keep me eyes peeled.

” He touched the corner of his eye. “Just call your mobile, and if I’ve found it, I’ll answer. ”

With his sad puppy look, that was the best she could hope for. “Thank you so much.”

She retraced her steps, down to the docks, along the water, where tourists boarded a boat. Back up the steps, she crossed the street to the hotel and beneath its portico. Nothing.

What if her phone really had been stolen? Could they hack her banking apps? What about all her payment apps? She’d have to change all her passwords as soon as possible.

Inside the hotel’s lobby, she knew she’d never find the phone here, remembering all the photos she’d taken along the waterfront. But she went to the front desk anyway. As soon as a clerk was free, she asked, “I wondered if anyone turned in a phone.”

The young man conferred with the other staff and returned. “I apologize, Madame, but we’ve had no mobiles turned in.” He paused for a few seconds. “Shall I call it for you? Perhaps someone else found it.”

“That would be great. Thank you.” It was her last hope. She reeled off the number, and he punched it in.

Afraid she’d been pickpocketed, she didn’t hold out much hope. She should have put the tracking app on her phone, but she’d never needed it before. She should have zipped the damn phone into her purse.

Then, somewhere across the marble lobby, she heard her ring tone. But other people used the same tone. It came with the phone.

But the ringing stopped, and the young clerk said, “Sir, I’m tracking this lady’s mobile. She lost it while she was out strolling.” He looked up as if asking Piper for confirmation, and she nodded.

Then he smiled, a satisfied, cat-that-ate-the-cream smile. “I’m sure she will be very glad to hear that. Can you tell me your location so I can relay the information to her?”

He was so formal, and she wanted to leap across the counter and kiss him.

He gave a reserved British chuckle before saying, “I shall tell her. Thank you, sir.” Then he hung up the phone and leaned over the counter.

“You’re in luck. A gentleman has found your mobile.

” His eyes seemed to dance, despite the British reserve, and he pointed. “He’s right over there.”

She followed the line of his finger, turning to the Starbucks coffee shop in the hotel’s lobby. A man held up a phone, its red case clearly visible.

The panic of the last few minutes rushed out of her, and she felt weak with relief.

Almost as relieved as when she told Roger she couldn’t marry him.

Her itinerary, her plane tickets, all the tickets she’d purchased online, everything was on the phone.

Not to mention all her contacts, her GPS for making her way around the city, her photos, her calendar.

She didn’t remember anyone’s number, not even Juanita’s, since all she ever did was push a button.

It would have been like going blind here in London.

She gave one last, “Thank you so much,” to the clerk, then rushed across the lobby, dodging a couple with way too many bags, to the man seated in Starbucks.

She had been so focused on the phone that she hadn’t paid attention to the man. When she got to his table, she finally looked down. And gasped.

It was him .