Emily
Isink into an oversized lobby chair at the London Saint Redford. It’s not the sort of hotel I normally stay at, but it’s got good meeting rooms, and I assured the donor that the tab for the hotel is on me, not the foundation. And they said yes. They love my plan. I pick up my phone and dial.
“Lilith!”
“Hey you. Is something wrong?”
“No. Oh shit, shit. It’s too early there.”
“Who is that?” a man’s voice asks in the background.
“Who is that?” I ask with a laugh, then whisper, “He doesn’t sound like Tucker.”
“That’s correct. Why are you calling at this ungodly hour? Are you hurt, hungry? I know you don’t need bail money.”
I redo my time calculations—it’s not early here, only three in the afternoon. “Lil, isn’t it ten there?” Some things change as we get older, but Lilith has always been a bit of a brat about getting her nine to ten hours of sleep.
“Yes, but it’s Friday. And I have company.”
“Yes, you do. And we have plans,” he yells into the phone.
“Right. That’s not . . . Never mind. That big donation I told you about? It came through.”
“That’s fantastic.” She groans a bit, and I don’t want to hear what’s next.
“Call me when you’re less busy.”
“It’s going to be a while,” the man’s voice says, and the line goes dead.
I wait for the text that comes almost immediately.
Lilith
Sorry, if he wasn’t so talented with his tongue, I’d kick him to the sidewalk right now.
No worries.
I put my phone on my lap and lean back in the chair.
The Saint Redford is gorgeous. I have an hour before I meet Oliver for tea.
He suggested it, and I’ve got to admit I’m more than a little excited.
I haven’t been to a formal tea, ever. You’d think the daughter of Winston J.
Rockwell would have grown up being taken to places like the Russian Tea Room in New York City, Tavern on the Green, or even the Plaza.
Places my high school friends went with their American Girl dolls in tow.
But I was always in Maine or Miami, being raised by nannies and housekeepers who did their best to love me like the daughter I wasn’t to them.
I put my phone away. I’m trying to be less attached, but it’s hard with it dinging in my bag. I pull it back out and shoot Oliver a text. My dress is lovely, with a white, boned corset, but it lacks the pockets I love so much.
Hey, I’m in the lobby when you get here. Take your time. I’m turning my phone off.
Oliver
Be there soon. Good for you to be in the quiet of the moment.
I smile at my phone, and now I really have to turn it off and be in the moment.
The next few minutes trail rather slowly as I take in all the gilded details of the ornate lobby.
But in no time, I’m enjoying people-watching.
There’s an older couple holding hands, dressed in designer clothes.
A young mother carrying a girl who’s just about too tall for her to carry anymore.
The little girl’s wearing a princess dress, and she’s so sound asleep her feet swing with each step her mother takes.
“That’s cute,” a deep voice says next to me, and I jump. “Sorry to startle you, Em.”
I turn to Oliver. He’s wearing a white linen shirt under his suitcoat and dark pants. When he pulls me into a hug, his cologne is just enough to make me want to huff his skin. Linen and musk.
“Oliver. It’s so good to see you.” I could roll around in his scent all day long.
I pull back because that’s a weird thought.
And I’ve been having a lot of weird thoughts lately.
With Anders giving me mixed signals, and Ryder .
. . I don’t know what Ryder’s doing. I really thought I could be friends with all the guys.
I thought we were friends. And now it’s turning into friends who kiss, in Ryder’s case.
And in Anders’s it’s . . . Crap, Lilith’s current boy toy isn’t the only one with a talented tongue.
Oliver kisses both cheeks. “It’s Damien when we’re out in public like this.”
“Right, right.” I smile. My dear friend’s secret came out after we were rescued.
It took us all by surprise when he told us on the cargo ship that pulled us from the sea.
He’s a prince. Or the spare to the spare heir, as he likes to call himself.
The third-born royal child to a small country.
“Are you ready for some overpriced tea and some sweets as excellent as only the Brits can do them?” He stands and holds his hand out for me to take.
“Well, if you sell it that hard, how can I refuse?”
“If we were at my home, you could see how bakers blend taste and aesthetics. So beautiful and still tasty. There’s a little shop off the royal square that sells a gooseberry crumble I would sell my soul for.”
“I’ve never heard you talk about your country with such passion before.”
“Have you ever had the most perfect thing ever in your mouth?” His amber eyes twinkle in the low light of the lobby.
Does he mean to make it sexual, or is it just funny Ollie, here for a laugh?
He winks and pulls me from the tufted seat so quickly that I bounce into his arms. He grabs me around my waist. “I’m hungry, Em. How about you?”
I step away, laughing, because holy crap.
I’m definitely hungry for something. He cocks his head and offers me his arm.
My fingers instinctively wrap around his bicep, and he leads us into the cheerful, bright, white and gold tearoom.
There are a few mother-daughter combos, but there are a surprising number of businesspeople leaning in over their tea and cakes.
The host pauses by a table near the railing that peers over the lobby.
“Can we have something a little more out of the way?” Oliver smiles at the young man.
“Of course, Mr . . . I mean, Your—”
“Damien is fine,” Oliver says.
The host takes us to the back of the tearoom where there’s an alcove off to the side. “How about here?”
“Perfect.” Oliver holds out my chair for me.
“Thank you.” I sit and wait for the host to leave. “You’re quite the gentleman when you want to be.”
“I prefer my beer and pizza persona personally, but I’m trained. You can’t be the spare to the spare without having a few duties.”
I shake my head at him.
“You still find it hard to believe I worked as a deckhand when my father owns a yacht?”
I take a sip of water from the crystal glass in front of me. “No, not at all. You know I don’t care about things like that.”
“So it’s true you’ve given away your shares of Rockwell & Harding?”
“It is. Easton put my share of the sale of Rockwell Tire into a trust for me, just in case I change my mind. But I’m not going to. I have enough to live a thousand lives on.”
“A trust?” Oliver cocks his head to the side, and I know what he’s getting at.
“You’re wondering, if I’m raising money for charity and it’s my money, why didn’t Easton just give it all to me?
I’m not a child. But I’m also not a businessperson, and the trust will keep the allotments coming to me in a steady stream for the rest of my life.
He did give me a big chunk in cash, and that’s how I started my charity, but I want to help more people.
Which means I need more money. I just don’t need extremes. ”
Oliver nods. “I like extremes, I suppose. One day I’m scrubbing someone else’s toilet, and the next I’m driving my McLaren down the autobahn. And then a month later I’m bobbing around in a raft in the middle of the ocean with a beautiful woman.”
I laugh and take a sip of tea. “Are your deckhand days over?”
“Oh, I’m afraid so. I’m not a mama’s boy, but she’d lose her shit if I did it again. Are you back to editing?”
“Not so much. I have a few freelance jobs. But my charity keeps me busy.” I smile.
The server brings more tea, and a few minutes later, platters of mini sweet cakes and savory open-faced sandwiches arrive.
“And how is the gang?” Oliver picks up his teacup, and somehow, in his hand it doesn’t look dainty.
“Good. I haven’t seen a lot of them in a while.
But Ryder and Anders still come over most weeks.
” I pick up a cucumber sandwich and take a bite.
Holy heck, it’s delicious. I’m two bites in before I realize I’m stuffing my face.
It takes me a second to chew and swallow.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize how hungry I was.
I had early morning meetings with donors and lost track of time. ”
“No worries, love.” He sips his tea. “You know what this tea could use?”
“Sugar?”
“No.” He winks at me. When we arrived back in the States, he stayed with me.
A bunch of the crew did. Both Anders and Shayla had sublet their apartments.
Ryder didn’t have one at all, and a few others stayed with me a little while before heading back to where they were from.
Oliver was whisked away by his family, but he called to check in on us, and when the media frenzy settled, he visited every few months, helping me with my master map or calling agencies or anyone we thought would help.
Shayla teases me because every time I come to Europe, no matter what the city is, Oliver seems to be there too.
She says he likes me, and by the way he’s leaning across the table, maybe she’s right?
But there’s no way. Every woman in this restaurant stopped and followed him with their eyes when we walked in.
“Cream? Lemon?” I lean back.
“I’m thinking champagne.”
“My meeting did go well.”
Oliver raises his chin, and our server’s at the side of the table. “A bottle of Veuve Clicquot, please.”
“Yes, sir.” The server pivots with a smile on his lips.
“To you giving away money to people who deserve it far more than me.”
“Or me.”
“I don’t know about that, Em. I think you deserve the very best.”
“You do? Why?”
“Because you have to ask that question.” He laughs and pops a canapé into his mouth. Oliver’s head cocks to the side, and his eyes move from mine to something behind me. “Em, do you have a boyfriend?”
My heart thuds against my ribs. And this time, instead of answering, I thought I did, I whisper, “No.”
“I’m only asking because there’s a rather beefy guy with a grim expression on his face glaring at you from the doorway.”
“I don’t, really.”
Oliver stands halfway up and back down. “He’s gone. Big guy. I don’t like it. Do you still have security?”
“No. Not for the last year. My dad insisted I have a security team the entire time the trial for his ex-wife was happening. But I convinced him to let me give them up once it was done. No one cares about me.”
“I don’t know about that.”
And that has me wondering if he means him or the stranger.
Oliver winks and picks up a red iced petit four. “Okay, these aren’t so bad.” He licks the tip of his finger before taking his napkin from his lap. My eyes are glued to his lips. He takes another of the small cakes.
“Hey, are you going to leave any for . . .”
He leans across the table and holds the cake in front of my mouth. I open my mouth like an anxious baby bird. The sweet icing hits my taste buds at the same time his thumb grazes my lower lip. His other fingers trail over my cheek. “See, delicious. Like I said.”
“Yes.”
Oliver’s eyes are over my head again, and I’m wishing I’d sat facing the door.
“He’s back?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
I twist around. Oliver has his phone out and has taken a picture of the back of the retreating brute. “I know the owner of the Saint Redford. I’ll get the tape and personally help my security people figure out who that is.”