london derby #2
He turns to me, brow raised. “It’s just a big wheel.”
“Glass pods. Swinging in the sky. Nope.” I cross my arms.
“Swinging?” He laughs. “You barely even feel it move.”
“It’s a death trap.”
“It’s slow, Addison. Even slower than walking.”
“Oh, good. More time to plummet to my death.”
He points toward the slowly rotating pods. “But it’s iconic. It’s part of the experience.”
“I’d like to stay alive,” I shoot back. "Can staying alive be part of the experience?"
He laughs softly, then steps closer to me. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Addison,” he says, his voice low and steady. “Trust me.”
I blink. It’s not just the words. It’s the way he says them. It’s not a line. It’s a promise.
“Fine,” I say, heart pounding for possibly an entirely different reason. “But if I faint, it’s on you.”
“Noted.”
The queue isn’t long, though I can’t decide if that’s a blessing or a curse.
It doesn’t allow me much time to psych myself up for this, but it also doesn’t give me time to think of a way to back out.
Before I know it, we’re stepping into one of the glass pods and the doors close behind us.
There’s no going back now. I grip a railing like I’m holding on for dear life.
“See, we’re barely moving,” Oliver says beside me.
“That’s worse!” I say, forcing out a laugh so I don’t cry. “It’s so slow and I can see everything. I hate this.”
To my surprise, Oliver doesn’t laugh. Instead, he moves behind me. I feel his chest brush against my back as he anchors himself, placing both his hands on the rail, one on either side of me.
“Breathe, Addison,” he says softly, his voice brushing my ear. “In… hold… out.”
I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths, trying to get air into my lungs. It takes a few tries, but I start to match his rhythm.
“That’s it. You’re okay,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
And weirdly, I believe him.
“Open your eyes,” he whispers.
When I open my eyes, the city opens around me like a secret. The view is stunning. The Thames sparkles, glittering like broken glass. I let out a breath I didn’t even know I had been holding.
“You see it now?” Oliver murmurs, his cheek brushing mine.
“I see it,” I say softly, the tension leaving my body with every exhale. “Thank you, Oliver.”
“Of course,” he says nonchalantly, though I can see him fighting a smile in the reflection on the pod. My body relaxes, but he doesn’t pull away, and I don’t let go.
We find a small pub not far from the London Eye, tucked down a narrow street. It’s old, charming, and smells like a mixture of beer and fryer oil.
“Alright,” Oliver says, pulling my chair out for me. “Time to get you some proper fish and chips.”
He orders our lunch and two pints of beer without even asking, and I don’t protest. It just feels like he knows me already, like he could order for me and actually pick something I’d like.
The food arrives, and it smells incredible. It looks even better. Crisp batter, thick golden fries, and the mushy peas I’m still a bit suspicious of. I dig in as Oliver watches me expectantly, like he’s waiting for my assessment.
“Okay,” I say, swallowing my food. “This is really good.”
“Good.” He reaches for a little bottle of malt vinegar and shakes it over his plate, and without asking, over mine too.
I wrinkle my nose. “Seriously?”
“Trust me.” His smile curves, slow and confident, like he already knows how this ends.
I pop the vinegar-soaked fry into my mouth like it’s a dare.
Fuck. It’s delicious.
“Damn it,” I mutter playfully.
He smirks. “I told you.”
As I chew, I glance up at the wooden sign over the bar. The Red Boot.
I swallow and grin. “Can I ask a question that might offend your entire country?”
He looks up, wary but amused. “Go on.”
I gesture toward the sign. “What is the deal with the pub names? It’s like you pull a random animal and a random household object out of a hat and name the pubs.”
Oliver snorts. “It’s not like that.”
“Oh, really?” I lean forward, counting off on my fingers. “The Crown & Lion. The Flag & Bear. The Dog & Elbow.”
“That last one’s not even real.” He pauses, then frowns. “Shit. You might be onto something.”
It’s weird how not weird this is—me and him, sitting and talking over food like it’s normal, like it’s something we do all the time. He reaches over and steals a fry from my plate, hoping I don’t notice.
“Excuse you,” I say, my mouth full. “Those fries are mine.”
“You caught me.” He smirks and pops it into his mouth. “Plus, they’re chips.”
I finish my meal and wipe my hands with a napkin. “Thank you for showing me around, Oliver. This has been really fun.”
He looks at me, and something flickers in his expression. “I’m enjoying it too.”
“You know… if you’re ever in New York, I’ll repay the favor. Full tourist experience.”
“Deal,” he says quickly. He smiles, but it falters.
“What?”
He leans back in his chair. “You’re not going to stay?”
I swallow, the question catching me off guard.
“My contract is only for this season,” I say, because that’s the truth. “Plus, that’s rule number two. Never stay anywhere longer than a year.”
“Right,” he says, shaking his head like he’s pushing a thought away. “Shall we continue our tour?”
“Lead the way, Captain.”
The second half of our day is jam-packed with more landmarks, and if I wasn’t having so much fun, I might actually notice how tired my feet are. My tote bag is now full of trinkets from our travels—a magnet from Covent Garden, a shirt from Trafalgar Square, and some cheese from Borough Market.
We’re walking through Hyde Park as we make our way back to a Tube station to retreat for the day.
“There’s still so much more you could see. Museums, theatre, or—”
“Maybe we’ll just have to do this again then,” I say quietly.
He smiles at that, but then stops walking. “Hold on.”
“What is it?”
“The light’s perfect right now,” he says, stepping back and gesturing to the way the setting sun hits the water and greenery behind me. “Let me take a picture of you.”
Before I can protest, he takes my phone from my hand and opens the camera.
“Alright.” I smile, feeling warmth flushing my face. I pose and wait for him to take a few photos. I notice how he smiles as he examines each one.
That’s when a middle-aged woman taps him on the shoulder. “You two are adorable. I’ll take a photo of both of you.”
We both freeze, and before either of us can say anything, my phone is in her hands and she’s gesturing for Oliver to join me.
She’s too sweet and determined to correct, so Oliver moves next to me and slips an arm around my waist, pulling me closer to him.
The heat of his hand through my shirt sends a shiver up my spine.
“Smile!” the woman directs. I grin, easy and natural. “One more!”
Just as she raises the phone again, Oliver leans in near my ear. “Look like you tolerate me, yeah?”
I laugh—full, stupid, unfiltered laughter—right as she takes the next photo.
“Oh, beautiful!” the woman exclaims, handing my phone to Oliver. “You two make such a lovely couple.”
Both of us start talking at the same time, and way too fast. “Oh, no—we’re not—”
She waves us off like she doesn’t believe a word and strolls away. We head in the other direction, both giggling at what happened.
“That’s one for the scrapbook,” Oliver says, grinning as he shows me the photos.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, trying to sound casual, even though my cheeks are on fire. “Definitely one to show the grandkids.”
By the time we reach my apartment, the sky is almost completely dark. I’m exhausted in the most perfect way—feet sore, cheeks still warm. Oliver walks me to my door, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed. The most relaxed I’ve seen him, come to think of it.
“Thank you again for today,” I say, turning to face him. “I’m sorry your rest day turned into the London Marathon.”
He shakes his head once, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’m not.”
Two words. I’m not. The way he says them, the way he looks at me, does something to me. A low flutter in my stomach. I open my mouth to say something, but close it just as quickly.
There’s a pause. It’s not awkward, but it’s not comfortable. It’s one of those moments that feels like it could easily tip into something if one of us leaned in just a little bit closer.
“Well, I’ll see you at work,” I say finally, breaking the spell.
“Yeah,” he says, but it’s soft. Like he’s wishing he said something else. Like there’s more he didn’t say.
I smile. “Goodnight, Captain.”
He glances at me, and there’s that look again—like there’s something flickering just beneath the surface. “Goodnight, Addison.”
I slip inside my apartment, close the door behind me, and lean against it.
I really want to break one of my rules.
Fuck.