Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Pippa
Stepping out of the London Dungeon, the warmer air hits me like a slap after the damp, shadowed corridors inside.
My hair is slightly messed up from all the jump scares, and I run my fingers through it, tidying it up a little bit.
I’m still laughing when I shake my head at the memory of Rhett catching me not once, but thrice.
Honestly, this whole morning has been absurd in the best way possible.
“Ok,” I say, brushing imaginary dust from my top. “That was terrifying, fun, and completely ridiculous. But …” I pause for dramatic effect, and Rhett raises an eyebrow. “We didn’t really talk.”
Rhett grins, those perfectly straight white American teeth flashing in the sunlight. “We didn’t?”
“No,” I insist, pointing a finger at him playfully.
“I screamed, I jumped, you caught me, I screamed again, you caught me again, and then we ran around like idiots. But the whole point of this day is to get to know each other. You’re my fake boyfriend, remember?
That involves chatting. We need to know things about each other.
Intimate things that only lovers will know. ”
He tilts his head, leaning back slightly against the stone wall, his eyes glittering with something I can’t name, and his voice soft. “Things lovers will know, huh?”
“Exactly,” I say primly. “We need to swap personal stories, hopes, dreams, the stuff that reveals character.” I give him a pointed look. “Now, for step one of the getting to know you stuff, we should do it over proper English food.”
His eyebrows rise in mock intrigue. “Proper English food?”
“Yes,” I say, nodding. “We need to drink tea, lots of it, and eat scones thickly spread with jam and a good dollop of clotted cream. You know, the works. There’s a tiny café not far from here with lots of charm. It’s the real thing, not another tourist trap pretending to be quaint.”
“Lead the way,” he says, stepping next to me.
The café is perfect. The interior is narrower than it looks from the outside, with low ceilings and dark beams, polished wooden tables, and yellowing framed black and white photos of the neighborhood in the bygone days.
The smell of fresh coffee and vanilla drifts through the air, and mingles with the hushed voices of the few customers who are already here.
I pick a table by the window, sunlight streaming in, and slide into a chair, and gesture for Rhett to take the opposite one.
He’s watching me, I notice, and I catch a glimpse of his green eyes, sharp and heavy-lidded.
They really are bedroom eyes. An image of him between white sheets and those marvelous eyes glittering away like emeralds pops in my head.
Oh! My God! What am I doing? I shake my head in disgust. Focus, Pippa. It’s a charade.
A woman in a white shirt and a long black skirt stops by our table. She looks to be in her sixties, her grey hair pulled back in a neat little bun and her white apron pristine clean. She is old school, a pad and pen in her hand ready to take our order. No tablets here.
“What’ll it be?” she asks, beaming at us.
“Two teas, please,” I say. “With two scones, strawberry jam, and clotted cream.”
She writes down our order.
“It won’t be long, love,” she says and hurries off towards the kitchen.
Rhett raises an eyebrow.
“Scones and tea? You were serious! That’s what we’re having for lunch?”
“Of course. Sometimes I even have two desserts for dinner,” I say, leaning back slightly, feeling a little smug at his surprised expression. “And now, Sir Rhettimus, I’m going to teach you the sacred art of eating scones.”
“Sacred art?” he repeats, an amused half-smile on his face.
“Yes, sacred. There is only one correct way to do it, and I am about to show it to you. And if anyone ever tells you it’s wrong, trust me when I say they don’t know what they are talking about.”
“Wow. The English really are serious about the strangest things.”
“That’s rich coming from someone whose national sport is a glorified version of rounders,” I say.
Rhett is saved from having to argue with me when our waitress comes back. She has a tray with the scones and our tea, and she puts them all down on the table in front of us. We thank her. She tells us to enjoy, and she leaves us to it.
“Right, here goes. Pay attention. First, you split the scone in half,” I say.
I pick my scone up, stand it on its side, carefully cut it in half, and place it back down.
“Next, you spread jam on it.” I spread the jam in a thick, neat layer, and glance up, half-pleased, half-surprised to see Rhett watching me carefully.
“Finally, it’s time to add the cream. Only the uncultured spread the cream first. There’s a massive debate about the right order, but it’s a no-brainer really. Jam first is the only correct way.”
Rhett watches as I finish my explanation. He leans forward with interest. “Jam first? I suppose I must obey the sacred rules.”
“Exactly,” I say, scooping up a large dollop of clotted cream on my spoon and spreading it atop the jam. “Voilà. Perfection.”
I slide a plate toward him, and he follows my instructions with careful attention. I can’t help smirking when he nods approvingly after his first bite.
“Not bad,” he says, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“It’s a matter of principle,” I say, feigning solemnity, though I’m laughing inside. “And now, Sir Rhettimus, we must chat. Let’s start with something simple. How about our likes and dislikes?”
He folds his hands, and leans in. “Lead the way, Madam Pippa.”
I love this game and how the small details emerge that can reveal a lot about someone, bits of personality that aren’t immediately obvious. “What’s your favorite book?”
“American Gods,” he says immediately. “Neil Gaiman. It’s dark, clever, and slightly weird.”
I grin. “You’re not kidding with the weird part. Are you?”
“Never,” he replies solemnly. “Yours?”
“Pride and Prejudice. Always. Jane Austen is a literary master. You just can’t beat it.”
We swap more likes and dislikes. Our favorite movies (mine is Pretty Woman, a cliché I know, but I love it.
His is Twelve Angry Men), the worst movie we’ve seen (mine is Grease Two, his is Jaws the Revenge), and desserts we’d steal if no one was watching (mine is white chocolate cheesecake, and his is salted caramel profiteroles).
The conversation flows effortlessly, laughter punctuating each exchange.
There is something comforting about it. It is safe but exciting at the same time.
After a while, I suggest a new game - this or that – and Rhett nods his approval.
“Beach or mountains?” I ask.
“Beach,” he says without hesitation. “Sun, sand, waves. Mountains are fine for a honeymoon though.”
For some unknown reason, I gulp at the mention of a honeymoon, but I move quickly to cover my faux pas. “City or country?”
“City. Energy, people, life.”
“Tea or coffee?”
“Coffee.” His eyes twinkle. “But tea is an institution, obviously.”
I can’t help teasing him. “You clearly know your English culture, Mr. America.”
“I’m a quick learner,” he says with a grin.
And to my horror, I start laughing drunk like a hyena.
The conversation spirals into hypotheticals such as would you rather fight one horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses (we both agree on the one hundred duck-sized horses), favorite foods, and the worst first date moments we’ve survived.
Each answer makes me laugh harder, and I feel like each glance we share carries a subtle tension.
Beneath the playful banter, something is simmering. What, I cannot say.
I can’t help but notice small things about Rhett.
Like the way he leans forward when he’s invested in the conversation, the way his eyes light up when he’s amused, how his big, beautiful hands move expressively while he talks.
I’m fully aware of it all, and I catch myself hoping he’s noticing little things about me, too.
The scones are gone, our cups have been emptied, refilled, and emptied again, and still, we linger, unwilling to leave the comfortable, warm cocoon of the café. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, smudging my lipstick slightly, and watch him watch me, that sly little smile tugging at his lips.
“Next stop?” he asks, settling the bill.
“Buckingham Palace,” I say, standing up. “Let’s go grab a cab.”
Rhett falls into step beside me. At the edge of the street, I lift my hand.
A black cab slows, and I wave at the driver.
We climb into the cab, and I steal a glance at him across the seat.
He’s relaxed, casual, and there’s that spark of amusement in his eyes, the one that makes my pulse do little stutters.
The streets pass by in a blur of red buses, cyclists, and pedestrians.
I point out landmarks, explaining bits of history or quirky stories about the neighborhoods we pass.
He listens attentively, genuinely interested, occasionally asking questions, or teasing me when I get overly detailed.
I feel lighter than I have in weeks. This is supposed to be about George, about getting to know each other enough to make George jealous, yet somewhere along the way, it became about this too: the conversation, the laughter, the small moments of connection.
I’m learning things about Rhett that I genuinely enjoy, and I wonder if he might just be doing the same thing too.
The palace comes into view, the impressive gates gleaming in the sunlight, the guards standing stiffly at attention.
“Look at that,” I say, spinning slightly for effect. “Isn’t it incredible?”
“It sure is,” Rhett says, and I can tell he means it. But honestly, I’m more focused on how easy it is to be with him, how natural it feels to share this moment.
“Come on, Sir Rhettimus,” I say, smiling as he hands the cab driver the fare and tells him to keep the change. “Let’s go explore.”
He grins, leaning back slightly, and I feel like maybe we are both thinking the same thing, that the day is far from over, and somehow, it feels like everything is falling perfectly into place.