6. Lili
Lili
" Y ou're gripping that steering wheel like it personally offended your ancestors," James observed from the passenger seat, his voice cutting through the silence that had stretched between Edward and me since we'd left the staff quarter twenty minutes ago.
I insisted on moving out of the blue suite the night before, it felt freer to stay somewhere with a normal size of bathroom.
I glanced at Edward in the rearview mirror, noting how his knuckles had gone white against the black leather, how his jaw was set in that particular way that meant he was either solving complex legal problems or plotting his escape from this exact situation.
Given that he'd spoken exactly three words since picking me up—"Good morning" and "Ready? "—I was betting on the latter.
"I'm driving," Edward replied through gritted teeth.
"Yes, but you're driving like you're transporting nuclear waste through a minefield."
"Perhaps because I am."
I caught James's eyes in the mirror as he glanced back at me, one eyebrow raised in amusement. The man was clearly enjoying himself far too much.
"I can hear you both plotting my character assassination, you know," I said, trying to inject some levity into the situation. "And for what it's worth, I don't glow in the dark. Not usually, anyway."
James laughed, a rich sound that filled the car. "See? She has a sense of humor about it. Unlike certain brooding barristers I could mention."
"I don't brood."
"Edward, mate, you've elevated brooding to an art form."
I watched Edward's reflection in the rearview mirror, noting the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Was that almost a smile? Before I could be sure, he'd schooled his expression back into its usual mask of polite indifference.
"Our first stop is the National Gallery," Edward announced, clearly trying to change the subject. "I thought you might appreciate the collection."
"Sounds perfect," I said, meaning it.
But what I didn't add was that I'd appreciate it a lot more if he'd actually look at me when he spoke instead of addressing the windshield like it was the most fascinating thing in London.
The National Gallery was impressive—grand columns, sweeping staircases, and enough marble to build a small city. I stood in the entrance hall, craning my neck to take it all in while tourists flowed around us like water around stones.
"It's beautiful," I breathed, pulling out my phone to snap a quick photo.
"Mind the flash," Edward said automatically, then softened when he saw my confused expression. "Some of the paintings are light-sensitive."
"Oh!" I quickly adjusted my settings. "Sorry, I didn't know. We don't have many paintings this old in Texas."
"None of them are older than the eighteen-hundreds," James interjected with a grin. "Edward's being precious about it."
"I am not being—" Edward started, then caught himself. "I simply believe in preserving cultural artifacts."
"Of course you do." I couldn't help smiling at his earnestness. "So, what should we see first? I'm guessing y'all have strong opinions about that."
"I thought we might begin with the Renaissance collection," Edward said, already moving in that direction. "The Turner wing is also excellent, though perhaps more accessible for—"
He stopped abruptly, and I raised an eyebrow. "For what?"
"Nothing. This way."
As we walked, I noticed people staring. Not at the paintings—at us. Or more specifically, at Edward. A few even pointed, whispering among themselves.
"Is it just me, or are people looking at us funny?" I whispered to James.
"The Grosvenor name does carry a certain weight," he replied diplomatically. "Edward's something of a public figure."
"Public figure?"
"Billionaire lawyer from one of Britain's oldest families," James explained. "He's been in the papers a fair bit. Usually for winning some impossible case or attending charity galas."
"Billionaire?" The word came out as a squeak. "As in, actual billions? With a B?"
James nodded, clearly enjoying my reaction. "The Grosvenor family's been accumulating wealth since before America was a country."
I stared at Edward with new eyes.
No wonder he carried himself like he owned half of London—he probably did. And here I was, living in his family's staff quarter, working for a small shopping channel, crushing on a man so far out of my league we weren't even playing the same sport.
"The Dutch masters are just through here," Edward said, apparently oblivious to my minor existential crisis.
We spent the next hour moving through the gallery, with Edward providing commentary in a way that was somehow both educational and passionate. When he talked about art, his whole demeanor changed. The stiffness melted away, replaced by genuine enthusiasm that made my chest tight with admiration.
We paused in front of a Van Gogh self-portrait, the artist's intense blue eyes seeming to follow us. "He painted this just two years before his death," Edward said softly. "After he'd been rejected by virtually everyone who mattered in the art world."
I studied the swirling brushstrokes, the haunted expression. "He looks like someone who understood what it felt like to be an outsider."
Edward turned to me sharply, something flickering in his expression. "Yes. He did."
Our eyes met, and I wondered if he was thinking what I was thinking—that sometimes the most beautiful things came from the most painful places.
Then someone jostled me from behind, pushing me forward, and suddenly I was pressed against Edward's chest.
"Oh! Sorry, I—" I looked up at him, my hands flat against his suit jacket. He was so close I could see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes, could smell his cologne.
"It's fine," he said softly, but his hands had come up to steady me, his fingers warm against my arms.
We stood there for a heartbeat too long, awareness crackling between us like electricity. Then James cleared his throat somewhere behind us, and we sprang apart like we'd been scalded.
"Right," Edward said, his voice rougher than usual. "Shall we continue?"
"I still can't believe you've never had proper afternoon tea," James said as we settled into a cushioned booth at Fortnum & Mason. The tea room smelled like Earl Grey and old money—polished silver and hushed conversations.
The elegant space was decorated in that particularly British way, with fine china and tiered stands laden with delicate sandwiches and pastries that looked too pretty to eat.
"We have sweet tea in Texas," I protested, smoothing my skirt as I scooted into the booth. "Granted, it's usually from a Sonic Drive-In, but still."
Edward made a sound that might have been amused. Might have been horror. It was hard to tell.
"The Earl Grey is excellent here," he suggested, flagging down a server.
"I'll try it." I watched him order with the kind of natural authority that came from growing up in places like this. Everything he did seemed effortless, from the way he held his napkin to how he addressed the staff with just the right amount of courtesy.
When our tiered stand arrived, I stared at it in fascination. The stand looked like something from a fairy tale, complete with doilies and tiny silver spoons. Tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off, scones with jam and clotted cream, and pastries that looked too delicate to touch.
"Where do I even start?" I asked.
"Bottom tier first," James said, reaching for a cucumber sandwich. "Savory to sweet. It's traditional."
I picked up what I thought was a delicate cucumber sandwich, but apparently grabbed it with the grace of someone who'd never seen afternoon tea before. The filling shot out both sides like a culinary explosion, landing not just on my dress but somehow on Edward's perfectly pressed shirt sleeve.
"Oh, for the love of—" I lunged forward with my napkin, but in my panic, I knocked my teacup with my elbow. Earl Grey went flying in a graceful arc, heading straight for Edward's lap.
"No, no, no!" I dove to intercept the spill with a handful of napkins, which resulted in me practically crawling across the table—and effectively giving Edward what could generously be called a very personal napkin-dabbing experience.
"Lili," he choked out, his hands catching my wrists. "It's fine. Really."
The position we'd ended up in was compromising. Me leaning over him, our faces inches apart, my hands frozen in his lap with the tea-soaked napkins.
The elderly ladies at the neighboring table were staring with a mixture of horror and fascination.
I became acutely aware of every detail—the warmth of his hands on my wrists, the way his breathing had changed, the intensity in his eyes that had nothing to do with spilled tea.
"Perhaps we should take this to go?" James suggested, signaling the server with barely contained laughter.
That's when I heard it—the rapid clicking of cameras.
"Bloody hell," Edward muttered, looking over my shoulder toward the entrance.
I turned to see a small crowd of photographers pushing through the elegant tea room, cameras raised.
Their lenses were focused directly on us. The clicking got closer, more aggressive. Other diners were starting to turn, some pulling out phones to record the scene. I felt like an animal in a zoo, trapped and on display.
"Edward Grosvenor!" one of them called out. "Who's your friend? Is this a new romance?"
"This way," Edward said, his hand finding mine with surprising gentleness. His fingers were warm and firm, and despite the chaos, I felt safer.
But the photographers were closing in, and other tearoom patrons were starting to stare and point. One man even had his phone out, clearly recording.
Edward led me toward a side door I hadn't noticed before, and James followed closely behind. We moved quickly through what appeared to be service corridors. Edward was clearly familiar with the layout.
"In here," Edward said, pushing open what I thought would be an exit.