Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
As predicted, it’s four long days until Saturday. Scientists have to be studying this phenomenon because it’s the longest four days ever known to humankind. I’m sure I’ve visibly aged, twice. Will, though, remains stunning, because of course he is.
To keep up his reputation at work among our colleagues as agreed, he leaves not only a paper jam but a couple of dirty mugs in the kitchen, which spurs a flurry of passive-aggressive notes over the sink (your mother doesn’t work here, pick up after yourself) and a fresh round of grumbles about Will.
Or, as I whisper to Nancy once, Mr. McLaren.
Except this time, it feels like betrayal, especially after our confrontation weeks ago, and I can’t bring myself to call him that again.
On Friday afternoon, as we swelter at the end of the day in the boardroom goldfish bowl, or better yet, our terrarium fully exposed to the sun, I can’t help but play some vintage Nelly and dance along for a moment.
I’m rewarded with a wry look from Will, which definitely makes it worthwhile.
I give him a wide-eyed look, but the smile he gives melts me.
As we pack up, I at last cave. The boardroom door is closed. And so, emboldened, I ask him for his number.
“For tomorrow. We’re still on?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can manage.
“Yes.” And he gives me his number and a level look. But I can tell he’s entertained at least by my antics. Maybe it’s a hint of a smile on his lips or a glimmer in his eyes or the way he stands, leaning ever so slightly towards me.
“We’re going dancing?” I ask archly as I send him a text so he has my number too.
“No.” Will shakes his head as his phone chimes. “No dancing.”
“What time, then?”
He considers. “How’s 11:00 a.m.? I’ll come get you.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously because of 11:00 a.m. or seriously because I’ll pick you up?”
I consider for a long moment, rubbing the back of my neck as I take in the sight of him. Will’s a bit more rumpled with the heat but still cuts an admirable figure, and I’m frankly admiring. “Both.”
“Is that too early?” He looks tentative then before he slides his laptop into his bag. “And it’s no bother to get you, for the record.”
“No, no. I’ll live,” I tease. “I’ll have a lie-in some other day. And thanks for the lift.”
God knows if this is an overnight date. I don’t dare ask. If only we were stranded out of town again, without the migraine this time. Like in, say, a convenient summer snowstorm.
“Should I… bring anything?” I ask.
“Like what?” He peers at me.
It’s my turn to look flustered. By some miracle, I keep from blurting out anything about condoms. “Well, I don’t know what you have planned. Other than it’s not dancing.”
Will considers me. “Pack a light jacket in case the weather changes and maybe not dress shoes.”
“So you’re saying the Savoy is out, then?”
He shakes his head at me and slings his leather messenger bag over his shoulder. Will looks like something out of a premium fashion line that Lily’s curating for the show. “The Savoy is out, it’s true. Sorry to disappoint. I’m an intern, after all.”
“Damn. I’d say another time, but I know this is a one-off.”
Will nods acknowledgment. “Possibly bring a hat.”
“A hat? Like one of those avant-garde hats you’d wear to a royal wedding?”
He rolls his eyes. “More like something to shade you from the sun, with a brim. Like Jacquemus. Or your hat from when we went up north.”
“Where are you taking me? Like out on some expedition? I mean, you do have the Land Rover, after all. Except I don’t have a pith helmet like some nineteenth-century expedition party member.”
“I promise we’re not going anywhere requiring a pith helmet. We will attend no archaeological excavations. For which, I must say, you would require PPE and not the latest in colonial wear.”
“Zing,” I say, impressed. “That hurt. Fine, fine.” I grab my backpack, toss my empty water bottle inside. “11:00 a.m. tomorrow. Rain or shine?”
“Rain or shine,” Will confirms. “There’s a slight chance of the weather changing, so be prepared.”
“Okay. I’m in your hands tomorrow,” I say cheekily, and Will blushes. “I’ll text you my address.”
I can only hope I’m in his hands literally, but time will tell.
After a pretext of busying himself with his bag before we head out our separate ways on Friday, I’m left imagining what Will has in store for me tomorrow.
And then the thought hits me that we’re still both interns at the museum, vying for the same job.
And I can’t forget that or get too carried away.
My latest date is already one for the record books. I message Stephen back in Vancouver at some random hour because I’m trying to avoid a meltdown, yet I clearly am in the midst of one when I text him from my safe hiding spot beneath the duvet.
Red alert on my next date. I’m getting involved with the enemy.
I hit Send, groan, and burrow my head under my pillow.
When I unburrow a couple of hours later for the routine of coffee and preening, Stephen has helpfully messaged me back.
It’s not too late to cancel. Everyone loves a quitter.
Jerk.
You’ve got this. Remember your London dating strategy.
I snort and toss my phone on my duvet. So much for my mates having my back in a time of great need. Little does he know that I’m officially screwed. Except not literally screwed. And God, I’d love to be literally screwed—
Definitely not helping.
By 10:30 a.m., the stomach butterflies are in full force, flapping and pirouetting in some aerial dance that will be the end of me.
Get a grip, I tell my reflection in the mirror after a cool shower to freshen up and to stage an anxiety intervention.
After all, it’s Will. Mr. McLaren. We come from different planets. There’s no way—
Just one date. That’s it. One, like we agreed. Fraternizing or not, what’s the harm in one date?
Then we can go back to our regularly scheduled rivalry because, after all, the whole reason I’m in London is for my museum work experience and chasing the dream of such a job.
And there’s only one position on the line.
If I were the diabolical sort, I’d take advantage now to find out Will’s weaknesses and exploit them mercilessly to my advantage.
He’s probably thinking the same thing, really.
It would be sensible.
I run the tepid water from the tap, wishing it were ice water, and scrub my face with a washcloth for good measure. Doesn’t hurt to be extra clean. I carefully shave.
By the time 11:00 a.m. rolls around, I’m twitchy by the front window, watching for Will.
Without any real direction from Will on where we were going, Russell gave me the sage advice of smart casual: black jeans, a coral linen shirt, a lightweight yellow anorak jacket with a hood, and trainers.
And my tie-dye sunhat in my bag. After another check for the usual—keys, wallet, phone—I gulp when I see Will’s green Land Rover pull up to the curb.
I put my sunglasses on, yell bye to Russ, and head out.
I fumble the keys when I lock the door.
He’s only a person, I tell myself.
When I reach the SUV, I brighten into my best smile and get in without incident.
“Hey,” says Will. His dark hair is in that sort of pristine tousle that a stylist would approve of.
I also approve, along with his white shirt and dark jeans.
Russell would also clock this as smart casual, so at least we’re on the same page.
He gives a broad smile that thrills me. I try not to fidget or drum my fingers against the seat, all of my nervous energy eager to manifest.
“Hey.” I give him a sidelong glance. “So, I’m dying to know what we’re doing if not going dancing.”
Will laughs, adjusts his phone for music. “We’re going on a drive. Getting out of London.”
“How’s the migraine report?” I ask, giving him a glance.
“None on the horizon. And I’m still mortified about last time.” Will chuckles and looks remarkably carefree for a mortified man.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to remortify you in some terrible faux pas. Chalk it up to another cross-cultural misunderstanding—or, more likely, me going directly to sticking my foot in my mouth.”
“Best to stick to what we know.” He’s grinning as he puts on the turn signal and pulls out onto the road.
“Hey! Don’t make me turn the car around.” And I’m grinning too. For a moment, even a couple of transcendent moments, it’s blissful. Then I revert to my go-to strategy of making things awkward because my brain can’t keep up with my mouth. “Speaking of, what happened to the McLaren anyway?”
Will’s still smiling, but some of the spark has instantly gone out of him, even though to an outside observer, he would look the same. Which is glorious. “Well… interesting story, that.”
“Yeah?”
The smile’s definitely faded now, and I swear I can hear him thinking or emoting or doing something quiet very loudly from the driver’s seat. “Another time.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry…”
“You’re not prying.” He cues up some music to play with voice commands in the end, and something atmospheric and classical comes on.
Not what I was expecting, though I’m not sure what I would expect from him.
He glances over and gives a reassuring smile, even though I’ve reverted to my own quiet screaming meltdown. “Don’t worry, Dylan.”
Shit. The way he says my name is something else. Sublime. Like I actually believe him, that I shouldn’t worry, that it might truly be okay. “I’m still sorry for asking.”
“I know.” Will tilts his head in acknowledgment. He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, focused on expertly navigating London roads. But the small smile he gives reassures me that I didn’t make an irreparable mistake.