He’s right about that. “Then why bring it up now?”
“I’m dying to know if the thing about the treasure map on the back of the Declaration of Independence is real,” Benito deadpans.
I roll my eyes, avenging the many times he’s done the same to me. “I wouldn’t know, they don’t let you touch it.”
Benito looks down at the menu again. “I didn’t plan on saying anything, but I felt weird knowing and not telling you.”
I try to wrap my head around the fact that my safe hamlet where nobody knows me or my past is not so safe anymore. “Does everyone here know who I am?”
“I’m the mayor, not a telepath.”
I sigh.
Benito lowers his voice. “I doubt it. I only know because I worked as an advisor to a lord in the House of Commons and it was my job to keep tabs on the U.S. and our ‘special relationship.’”
“Ourwhat?”
“Special relationship,” he says again.
“You love to say things again instead of explaining, don’t you?”
“I wasn’t sure if it was my accent, I know Americans struggle to understand dialects outside their own.”He tries again, putting on an American accent. “The special relationship between the U.S. and the U.K.”
I laugh, because he sounds like a Southern belle, and while it’s a spot-on impression, it doesn’t suit him. “Oh!Thatspecial relationship!” I respond, mockingly. “That was a pretty good accent.”
“I went to boarding schools my whole life and they were stuffed with Americans. My best mate in year 10 was an oil billionaire’s son from Dallas. He spoke exactly like Owen Wilson.”
Despite his standoffish demeanor, I can’t quite picture Benito getting along with trust fund kids. I knew them well from a lifetime in Los Angeles, but it’s hard to picture Benito skiing the Swiss Alps or schmoozing on a beach in St. Barts. “I thought I heard a little bit ofYou, Me and Dupreein there.”
Benito cocks his head. “Really? Of all his roles?”
The waiter returns and asks for our order. I haven’t looked at the menu at all. I plan to eat my way through every restaurant in La Musa, but it’s overwhelming.
Benito motions for me to put my menu down. “Io gradirei i ravioli, invece la signora prenderà le linguini al tartufo.” The waiter nods and walks away. He turns to me. “I ordered you the truffle pasta. Truffles are an Umbrian specialty. Don’t worry, no meat.”
“Thank you,” I say, momentarily touched that he remembered my dietary restrictions.
“I wouldn’t want you to ask to speak to the manager when you find meat in yourcarbonara.”
I exhale. “My Italian might not be fluent, but I do know there’s meat incarbonara.” I refill the wine glassto numb the pain of knowing we have a long lunch ahead of us. “How long did you live in London?” I ask, hoping to steer the conversation into a neutral zone.
Benito takes a sip of his wine. “A while. I went to university in Cambridge and then I stayed.”
“You went to Cambridge?”
He nods.
“Wow. So, you’re smart.”
“No, I’m a legacy.” He says it quickly, like it’s a reflex. “My father and his father and his father’s father. . .”
The father who is gone but not dead. “Oh. I mean, I’m sure you got in on your own too.” I smirk. “Old institutions never play into nepotism.”
He looks at me pointedly. “I think it’s much more impressive to get into one such institution on your own merit rather than familial connections.”
Are we talking about my congressional past again? If so, he’s teetering on the edge of a compliment, and that’s not really our dynamic. “So, boarding school, Cambridge, London. . . you’d only be in La Musa for holidays and summers growing up, then?”
“I didn’t realize this was a hearing, Congresswoman,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “I yield my time.”
