Chapter 4
Chapter Four
REECE
The warmth from her fingers seeps through my sleeve into my arm. I know exactly who she is, and it isn’t just “Andi.”
I grunt. “Reece.”
She smiles, and something in my chest responds like a swarm of butterflies. I surreptitiously rub my sternum. Maybe indigestion from the fish and chips I ate earlier. I knew that food truck looked a little dodgy. But Grandad and I always had fish and chips when we ventured down to the river.
“How long have you lived in Notting Hill?” Andi’s eyes sparkle. Every woman under the age of ninety equates Notting Hill with the Julia Roberts, Hugh Grant movie. They envision romantic meetings with handsome strangers and celebrities. They don’t know anything about the race riots and slums of the middle of last century. Or the gentrification that started in the seventies.
“My grandad bought a place in Kensal Green when my mum was young.”
She leans closer, her faint, spicy perfume tickling my nose with orange, pepper, and—is that coffee? She sticks her lip out in an exaggerated pout. “So you don’t live in Hugh Grant’s house?”
I don’t bother answering that question.
Her hand falls away from my arm, and we ride in silence for a while. I steal a glance at her but can’t read her expression from this close angle. I let my mind drift. I have one more day here with my parents, then a flight to Seattle on Friday. My sister will pick me up in my truck—which I left with her against my better judgment—and I’ll drive back to Oregon. Speaking of Katie—I should probably get a picture with her favorite princess since I have the chance. Not that I want one for myself.
I glance at said princess, but she’s dozing. Her head bounces against my shoulder, and she startles. “Sorry.” She yawns. “I didn’t miss my stop, did I?”
“Not yet.” I glance down at her again. How did she expect to get home on her own if she can’t stay awake on the Tube? Shouldn’t she have a bodyguard or security detail? I jerk as a thought occurs to me. Will they think I kidnapped her? Maybe I don’t want to take her home. I should probably walk her to the nearest cross street and leave her there. I tap my phone and zoom in on the map.
She leans over my arm to stare at the screen. “These old houses are so interesting. Look at all those trees in back. You can’t see those courtyards from the street. They’re like hidden gardens.”
“Is this a hotel?” I tap the pin and it pops up the location.
“Kind of? The whole building is short-term apartments. We found it on FabStays.”
“We?” I can’t stop the question from popping out. “You aren’t alone?”
“No—” She draws the word out. “My… friend, Celeste, is traveling with me. We got—I needed a break. You know how traveling can be.” Her face goes a little pink.
“Too much togetherness.”
“Exactly.” She pokes my arm, then leaps out of her seat.
“Where are you going?” I can’t stop the gruff question.
“Nowhere. But you don’t get the full Tube-riding experience if you aren’t standing up.”
“You only have to stand if it’s full.” I make a show of looking up and down our empty car.
She wanders toward the doors and grabs a vertical pole as the train slows for the next station. “I don’t get to ride during the busy times, so I have to improvise.”
Is she getting ready to run? I have no doubt I can catch her if she does, but I stand and move to the doorway so she doesn’t get as much of a head start. I’ve made it my mission to ensure she gets home, and even she can’t stop me from completing that mission. I just hope I can explain that to “Celeste” when we get there.
To my surprise, she moves to the offside door, clearing the way for a small scrum of teens who clatter on at Victoria Underground. A few of them give her a double take, and she shrinks into the corner between the closed door and the seats. I step between them and the princess, shielding her with my body.
The kids get off again at South Kensington. As the doors close, I turn around and step back to give Andi a little space. “The full Tube-riding experience.”
Her gaze darts from me to the station sliding out of view beyond the doors. “You didn’t have to—those kids didn’t look dangerous.” She sounds breathless.
I grimace. “Except to the King’s English.”
She blinks for a few seconds, then chuckles. “You’re awfully grumpy for a young man.”
I purse my lips and don’t reply. I’ve heard that before.
She waves both hands at me, indicating my face. “Case in point.”
With an earsplitting squeal, the train’s brakes grip unexpectedly, and she tumbles forward into my arms. My free hand instinctively wraps around her waist, pulling her to me. Her fingers grip my belt and her face presses into my chest. I freeze—she feels so good in my arms. Her sweet perfume wraps around me again, washing away the metallic odors of the train and the lingering whiff of too many people, and I want to hold her longer.
But I don’t know this girl, and I’m not going to have time to get to know her. Aside from the complications of her royal status, I have no time for a relationship or even a flirtation. I’m only in town for a few more days. I set her back on her feet and step away.
“You should hold on if you insist on standing.” I turn to face the doors, ignoring the hurt that crosses her face at my curt rebuke. “We’re off next.”
When the train brakes again, she grips the pole tightly, bracing her feet against the momentum like a pro. She ruins it by letting go too soon and bumping her shoulder into the plastic divider that separates the seat from the open space, but I don’t comment. We exit the train in silence and head for the steps to Gloucester Road.
“I’ve been here before!” She points at the Waitrose store as we pass it. “We got some rolls and jam there.”
There are dozens of Waitroses in London—she could still be wildly lost. “You know how to get home from here?” If she does, I should leave her now, before I encounter any security personnel. I’m not worried about being labeled a kidnapper, since we’re clearly returning to her apartment, but they might not take kindly to a stranger showing up at her place of residence.
She slides a hand between my arm and my body, squeezing my bicep gently. “Please don’t desert me.”
I frown at her. A few minutes ago, she couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. Now she’s desperate to keep me in tow. “Why not? You said you didn’t need my help.”
She flushes and looks away. “That was before I got on the wrong train. Now I’m doubting all my decisions.” Her tone makes me think she’s questioning more than just the route home. Like maybe she’s regretting some major choices in her life.
I can’t help her with those, but I can make sure she finds her apartment. I give a jerky nod. “Fine.” I pull her hand from my arm and drop it. She makes a little noise, whether of disappointment or surprise, I’m not sure. I move to her right side, so I’m between her and the busy traffic on Cromwell Road. “Let’s go.”
She gives me a long look, her brows pulled down, then smiles and grabs my arm again. “Chivalry is not dead!”
I growl. I’m not her knight in shining armor. I’m just a guy whose mother would murder him if he left any girl stranded on the sidewalk. No matter how much this good deed might disrupt my life.
Like much of London, this section is made up of narrow, multi-story buildings built as a single block. Tall columns mark off entrances every few yards, with deep wells and railed stairways down to the below-grade entries between. We walk past the Park Hotel, purple flags bearing the name hanging limply from the poles mounted on the porticos over the double doors.
In the next block, another hotel has dark blue awnings over the bay windows and gold-topped spindles on the iron railings between the tall columns. Across the street, scents of garlic and fresh bread waft out of an Italian restaurant doing a brisk business, if the full tables on the sidewalk are any indication. It’s not terribly late, and people chat and laugh over their after-dinner cappuccinos.
Cars whiz by, and a red double-decker bus pulls to a stop to pick up passengers just past the restaurant. We wait for the light, then walk in silence past a modern brick apartment building, the boxy blank structure ugly next to the graceful Georgians. A little farther on, the massive curved glass wall covering the facade of the Marriott hotel appears.
“Look.” Andi points at a small blue plaque hung between two bay windows on the next stretch of buildings. “Alfred Hitchcock lived here. Do you think this is where he thought of Rear Window? I’ll bet there’s a courtyard back there, and you can see into the neighbors’ apartments.”
I squint at the plaque. “It says 1926 to 1939. He was probably a kid. Too young to write movie scripts.”
“No, he was born in 1899.” She squeezes my arm and pulls me away from the plaque. “I did a report about him in school. Besides, he was a director, not a writer.”
“You’re the one who said?—”
“Oh, look, a red door! Just like yours.” She points at the next stoop.
“You remember that?”
“Of course.” She gives me a mock frown. “I’m very good at remembering details.”
“Except where you live.”
Her eyes twinkle. “But I don’t live here. I’m just visiting.” She stops at the crosswalk, even though the lights across Knaresborough Place are green. “And look—there’s my door.”
I look along her arm to the building across the street. The first floor is faced with horizontally grooved white stone with the familiar columns denoting the entrances. Above, brick covers the narrow strips of wall between the white-edged windows. I check the stoops and breathe a sigh of relief. No burly security men waiting for us. I consider leaving her here, but she drags me across the street. “Come on.”
We get to the entrance which has two tall white columns standing guard over the steps, but she pulls me past. Two yards later, she stops in front of an identical entry emblazoned with the house number. “This is me.”
“You got your key?”
She nods solemnly. “I’m good. We left it here in case we got separated.”
“You left it here? Under a potted plant?”
She frowns at the plant-free steps. “Of course not. The house manager uses little lockboxes inside the hall, so we left it there.”
We. I want to ask if Celeste is her friend or a security detail or a romantic partner, but it’s none of my business. Besides, I’m leaving the day after tomorrow and will never see her again. But I can’t make myself leave. We loiter awkwardly on the sidewalk at the base of the steps. I should go before anyone asks questions, but I hesitate, wanting to prolong the evening for some reason I can’t define. Or don’t want to examine. “Right. How do you get inside?”
“Card reader beside the door.” She raises her phone, open to an app. “It’s like tapping the Tube turnstile.” She bites her lip, then nods. “Thank you for rescuing me. And for bringing me home. I guess I should?—”
“I’ll wait until you get inside.”
She bites her lip again. “You don’t have to. I’m good.”
“No. I insist. My mum would expect it.”
She smiles a little at that. “Tell your mum she did a good job.” She pats my arm, then turns and climbs the five steps. “Thanks.” She pauses on the stoop.
I cross my arms and wait.
With a sigh, she taps her phone against the little black panel, and the door clicks loudly. She pushes it open and steps over the threshold. Turning, she puts out both arms to demonstrate. “I’m in. You may go now. Thank you.”
That’s it. I am dismissed. I bow mockingly and head back to the Tube station, wondering if I should have asked for her number.