“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’stime 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.
