“A real knight in shining armor, protecting me from things that aren’t real,” she says with a playful grin.
“I consider it my most important duty,” I reply, and we both laugh softly.
We watch on, as a member of our tour group is tried for witchcraft and found guilty before she can so much as open her mouth. The tour guide tells us that our time is over, and we should be grateful that we have survived the nightmare tour.
We head towards the exit, and his voice follows us, reminding us not to be too cocky because anything could happen before we reach the safety of the exit. A horror-movie laugh rings out, and the sound of footsteps approaching behind us follows it. Pippa isn’t the only one to scream at this and the group rushes forward. I glance back. Only the tour guide is there, watching and laughing quietly.
As we exit into the brighter lobby, Pippa looks around, her hair slightly mussed, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“We survived,” she declares. “And you didn’t even scream too much.”
“I think you did enough of that for both of us,” I reply.
She laughs easily. “The real world feels impossibly mundane now compared to the close calls we’ve just survived.”
We cross the lobby, ignoring the gift shop by silent agreement, and for a moment, I allow myself to enjoy the warmth flowing between us. It’s a feeling of heat, laughter, and the subtle pull between us that neither of us can deny.
Yes, Iwillhave her. And soon.
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 oldschool, 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?”
