The light changes and the car begins moving again. “Did you say something about email?”
“That was off the record.” I’m angry with myself for being careless with my tongue. I don’t want anyone except Amanda to know I’ve been trying to get in contact with Art.
“Ma’am, for what it’s worth, I’m always onyourside. What I was going to say is that if Arthur is the person you sent the email to, he’s always been hopeless with checking it. If you want to get through to him, a call, text, or in-person visit is best.”
“I’d give anything to see him in person, but that’s highly unlikely to happen. I’ll have to ring him.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure.” Bruce’s voice is smug.
That’s when I finally notice that we’re headed in the opposite direction of the palace stables. We’ve traveled to the far end of Whitehall behind Horse Guard’s Parade. The street narrows considerably. Bruce makes a turn, and we slip into an underground car park.
My pulse quickens. “Um, Bruce, where exactly are we?”
“Great Scotland Yard.” He cuts the engine and turns around. “Arthur normally works out of the stables here or at the Bow Street station. I’m taking a gamble, but I think it’s more likely he’ll be here today.”
“You’ve brought me to see him?” I sputter.
“Yes. I can’t stand to see the pair of you so gutted and miserable. It’s high time you two hurried it along and reconnected.”
“But what if somebody sees us? I can’t have you risking your neck for us too. We’re already in enough trouble.”
“I don’t care about me, I’m on my way to being semi-retired anyway.” Bruce brushes me off and directs us to a lift fifteen meters away. “I care about you two. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that the bond you and Arthur have developed is special. I want to see you both happy.”
Many questions are racing through my head about Bruce. About Arthur. About what I’m going to say to the man I’ve been dreaming about seeing again.
The lift dings and we arrive on the ground floor. As the doors open, I immediately smell hay, mud, and horses. We pass several rubbish bins, oversized bales of hay, and a forklift. Like a duckling following her mother, I trail Bruce as he leads me up a ramp past a stable block containing about twenty stalls. A bay and a dapple horse have stuck their heads out of their stalls, watching us curiously as we walk past.
“How many horses are kept in here?”
“There’s room for nineteen Met Police horses and two City of London ones. Greater Scotland Yard happens to be the largest stable in this area. Bow Street has room for about twelve horses.”
As we reach the last stall, I see the door is wide open. The lead of a dappled gray is clipped to a post. A man is inside the stall with his back turned to us, mucking it out as the horse munches on some hay. He’s in black riding trousers and a black top. My pulse begins to pick up.
“Arthur,” Bruce calls.
“Dad? What are you doing here?” He pivots around and drops the broom. It falls to the ground with a clatter.
Dad? Bruce is Arthur’sfather?I blink a few times in shock. My eyes dart between the two men. All the signs have been there. There share a similar height and hair color, but physically, Art seems to have taken more after his mum than Bruce.
“I brought the princess to see you. It’s high time you two worked things out. If you need me, I’ll just be down here, feeding Yoda a couple treats.” He whistles theStar Warstheme as he heads to the opposite end of the hall.
For several long moments, we stare at one another, still not believing we’re both here. Our chests rise and fall. It’s only when the dapple horse stomps his hoof that the spell is broken, and we rush toward one another in a fierce embrace. Our lips meet, and time around us seems to stop. It’s as if we’ve both been wandering aimlessly through the Sahara Desert, and just in the nick of time, we’ve encountered an oasis.
Art’s arms wrap around the small of my back and pull me in so I’mtight against his chest. The fabric of his shirt is coarse against my cheeks. It smells as if he’s recently laundered it. It’s a fresh, crisp scent.
I’ve missed these full, silky lips, the laugh lines around his mouth, and being held by his strong arms. I never want to let go. We continue to drink greedily from each other as if we’ll never reach our fill.
When we do finally break apart for air, I tilt my head up and manage a quiet, “Hi.”
“Hi,” he replies, continuing to hold me close, stroking the side of my face lightly with his thumbs.
My throat constricts. “Art, I’m so, so, so sorry.”
“Ali, you have nothing to be sorry for.”
“Yes, I do,” I emphasize. “This mess we’re in is all my fault.”
“No, it’s really not, it’s allmyfault. I should’ve been the one who realized something was amiss at Locked in London. I failed you when I didn’t catch the bloke who was taking our photos.” His tone is stoic and his body stiff.
