I can’t help but notice small things about Rhett. Like the way he leans forward when he’s invested in the conversation, the way his eyes light up when he’s amused, how his big, beautiful hands move expressively while he talks. I’m fully aware of it all, and I catch myself hoping he’s noticing little things about me, too.
The scones are gone, our cups have been emptied, refilled, and emptied again, and still, we linger, unwilling to leave the comfortable, warm cocoon of the café. I tuck a strand of hairbehind my ear, smudging my lipstick slightly, and watch him watch me, that sly little smile tugging at his lips.
“Next stop?” he asks, settling the bill.
“Buckingham Palace,” I say, standing up. “Let’s go grab a cab.”
Rhett falls into step beside me. At the edge of the street, I lift my hand. A black cab slows, and I wave at the driver. We climb into the cab, and I steal a glance at him across the seat. He’s relaxed, casual, and there’s that spark of amusement in his eyes, the one that makes my pulse do little stutters. The streets pass by in a blur of red buses, cyclists, and pedestrians. I point out landmarks, explaining bits of history or quirky stories about the neighborhoods we pass. He listens attentively, genuinely interested, occasionally asking questions, or teasing me when I get overly detailed.
I feel lighter than I have in weeks. This is supposed to be about George, about getting to know each other enough to make George jealous, yet somewhere along the way, it became about this too: the conversation, the laughter, the small moments of connection. I’m learning things about Rhett that I genuinely enjoy, and I wonder if he might just be doing the same thing too.
The palace comes into view, the impressive gates gleaming in the sunlight, the guards standing stiffly at attention.
“Look at that,” I say, spinning slightly for effect. “Isn’t it incredible?”
“It sure is,” Rhett says, and I can tell he means it. But honestly, I’m more focused on how easy it is to be with him, how natural it feels to share this moment.
“Come on, Sir Rhettimus,” I say, smiling as he hands the cab driver the fare and tells him to keep the change. “Let’s go explore.”
He grins, leaning back slightly, and I feel like maybe we are both thinking the same thing, that the day is far from over, and somehow, it feels like everything is falling perfectly into place.
Chapter Eleven
Rhett
Pippa is almost bouncing on the balls of her feet, craning her neck and scanning beyond the ornate gates into the wide expanse in front of the palace. Her enthusiasm is contagious.
“You look like a kid at a theme park,” I tease.
“I am a kid at a theme park,” she shoots back, grinning her infectious grin. “Except the rides are the guards, horses, and the people taking selfies with the King’s Guard.”
I shake my head indulgently. “Fair enough. What’s the plan? Are we going to do a guided tour, or are we just wandering around like complete tourists?”
She tosses her hair over her shoulder and gestures broadly at the palace. “Wander around first. Absorb the magnificence. Then I’ll educate you.”
“You’re going to educate me?” I echo, arching an eyebrow.
“Yes. Buckingham Palace 101. You clearly need it.” She smirks.
I feel like I’ve signed up for a masterclass in history and charm all in one package.
Pippa takes my arm as we walk along the outer perimeter. The gold detailing on the gates gleams in the bright afternoon sun. Tourists line the perimeter of the palace. Cameras flash, and excited kids tug at their parents’ hands, their eyes wide with awe.
“Imagine living here,” she says dreamily. “All that history. All that marble. Those gates alone must cost ten times the price of my apartment.”
I glance down at her, catching the sparkle in her eyes. “I think the better question is: could you handle it? The guards, the tourists, the endless tours?”
“Obviously,” she says without hesitation, puffing her chest out. “I’d probably make a very charming queen. Queen Pippa. Everyone would love me. All the tea, all the scones, all the royal pomp and circumstance, and I’d do it all while looking effortlessly regal.”
I laugh. “Regal?”
She shoots me a sidelong glance, mock offended. “You’re not a very charming man, are you?”
“No,” I agree. “But you’re not exactly regal either.”
We are nearing the statue of Victoria Memorial. Pippa leans on the rail and strikes a pose.
“Not even with this giant gold monument as my background?” she asks cheekily.
