“So we thought we’d bring a taste of England to you,” Louisa says. I wonder if the three of them rehearsed this, although it’s not unusual for all of us to finish each other’s sentences. “We’re here for the inn’s afternoon tea.”
My eyes sting as Louisa links her arm through mine, and the four of us make our way up the stairs. It’s been a dream of mine to visit England for as long as I can remember. My maternal grandparents were both from England; my Papa died when I was little, and my Grams passed away when I was thirteen, but I remember the stories she’d always tell about her childhood in the English countryside and her family’s frequent visits to London. She’d painted such a vivid picture, which planted a deep longing in me to visit the places she spoke of so fondly.
Before Grams died, I promised her I’d visit England someday. I thought for sure I’d go after high school, then after college. The years got away from me though, and while I’ve traveled a bit—a girls’ trip to Italy the year we all turned twenty-five, a Disney cruise with Stella eight years ago, and a cross-country train journey with Louisa five years ago, I still haven’t fulfilled my promise to my grandmother.
“We were hoping they wouldn’t have decorated for the holidays since Christmas is over a month away, but…” Stella points to a pair of giant evergreen trees flanking the front door, both of which are decked in colorful baubles and white lights.
I wave her off. “Don’t worry about it. I bet their decorations are gorgeous. Maybe I’ll get some ideas for my house.”
You don’t have a mid-December birthday without getting used to sharing your special day with tinsel, reindeer, and other holiday-themed decor. Amid the hustle and bustle of Christmas celebrations, Hanukkah gatherings, parties, parades, and endless festive events, my birthday was often forgotten or combined with holiday celebrations when I was younger. I lost track of the number of times I received joint birthday/Christmas gifts—often Christmas themed, which meant I only had a week or so to use them—or had birthday celebrations canceled because of Christmas festivities taking priority or winter weather wreaking havoc.
I used to resent it, but I learned to embrace it over the years. Now, whether the celebrations are meant for me or not, I enjoy the festivities of the season and see it as a way to prolong the fun. The people who matter most to me have always made sure my birthday gets a proper celebration. Besides, Louisa has it worse with her birthday falling on December thirty-first; by then, most people are broke, exhausted, on vacation, or wrapped up in ringing in a new year.
The girls usher me inside the inn and through the enormous front hall. My head swivels from side to side, taking everything in. Not much has changed since I was here nearly two decades ago; the inn still features the same ornate antique furniture, gleaming marble floors, and portraits of the Montrose family alongside beautiful landscape paintings of the English and Scottish countryside. Inside the door to the tearoom, we stop in the cloakroom to hang up our coats, and then the girls lead me to the far side of the room, where Wesley and Leland are sitting at a long table by the windows.
The guys hop to their feet as we approach. I have a minute to take in the table and the wall of windows behind it before they reach us, both of them greeting me with tight hugs.
“Very British of you,” I tell Leland when he kisses both of my cheeks.
“Thought you’d appreciate that,” he says with a grin. “I’ve spent a lot of time in England over the years, so when you finally plan your trip, hit me up if you want any help.”
“I’ll definitely take you up on that.”
Louisa leads me the rest of the way to the table, stopping in front of a throne-like chair. My eyes sting again as I take in the elaborately decorated table. Fine china dishes and teacups gleam alongside things I doubt the inn was responsible for, like the London-themed napkins sitting alongside the ivory cloth serviettes. Postcards from England, along with British chocolate bars, are scattered over the table.
“You thought of everything,” I say as my friends take their seats. I look around at their beaming faces, feeling completely overwhelmed with love. Fergus approaches from behind me and gives my shoulder a quick squeeze before he slides into the vacant seat beside Louisa. Even though Fergus and Lulu aren’t technically a couple (yet), I notice how everyone else is paired off. I don’t allow myself time to examine the tightness in my chest or the realization that I’ll need to get used to being the only single one in a group of coupled-off friends. These six people took half a day off work and arranged a thoughtful, meaningful celebration for me. I couldn’t be luckier.
I reach for my phone inside the hidden pocket in my dress, but it’s not there. My heart drops until I have a sudden memory of sliding the phone into my coat pocket when I got in Fergus’s car.
“Forgot my phone in my coat, and I need to document all of this,” I say to the table at large. “Be right back.”
As I approach the cloakroom, the sound of a deep, British-accented voice floats from inside. I wait and listen for another voice since the cloakroom isn’t very big and I don’t want to make it awkward by trying to squeeze in. When only the one voice continues, I peek inside to see a man hanging up a coat and talking into a phone that’s wedged between his shoulder and ear.
I slip inside and go straight to my coat on the opposite wall. The guy keeps talking and, even though he sounds exasperated at the person on the other end, I love a British accent, so I shamelessly eavesdrop.
“Don’t you think I know that? I’ll do it this evening when I get home.” He sighs during the pause that follows, and then says, “Yes, I realize it will be late in London by that time. I haven’t been gone so long that I’ve forgotten how time zones work. Anyway, I promised a mate I’d do this, and I owe him a favor. Believe me, I’d rather be anywhere else right now.”
With an attitude like that, I feel bad for whoever he’s here with. He ends the call abruptly and spins around. I suddenly realize I’ve been standing here in a daze, my own phone already in my hand, listening to this stranger’s conversation. Our gazes meet and I attempt a smile, but it dies on my lips when his eyes narrow and his stormy expression darkens further.
“It’s rude to listen in on people’s private conversations, you know.” With that, he strides past me and disappears through the cloakroom door.
I remain frozen in place for a moment before I shake off the encounter and return to the tearoom. I snap a few pictures of the table and my friends, noticing for the first time there’s an extra place setting beside mine.
I’m about to pull out my chair when Evie claps her hands, drawing my attention. She’s grinning and practically bouncing in her seat. “Here’s the second part of your surprise!”
A shadow falls over the empty seat at the table as someone steps up beside me. I catch a whiff of cologne, something subtle and pleasing to my senses. Even before I turn to see him clutching the back of the chair next to me with a white-knuckled grip, I know it’s the Brit from the cloakroom. I’m not sure what I expect as our gazes lock again, but it’s not the embarrassed contrition on his face.
Before I can speak, he leans closer to me, filling my nose with his mouth-watering scent. “May I speak to you for a moment?” he asks quietly. At my stunned nod, he smiles at my friends and murmurs, “Excuse us, please. My apologies.”
As we turn away from the table, he places his hand on the small of my back. I glance in his direction and he jerks his hand away. I didn’t necessarily mind it being there, I was simply surprised by his gentlemanly behavior. We stop a few feet away, just out of earshot from the table and out of the path of the servers who are coming and going.
“I’m so sorry about before,” he says, making a vague motion toward the cloakroom. “I was unforgivably rude to you. I’m having the month from hell and—and it doesn’t matter, I shouldn’t have been so rude. Your friends brought me here as a surprise so you’d have an authentic Englishman at your tea party, but I understand if you want me to leave.”
I mull over his words. “Are you hoping I’ll say you can leave? You already know I overheard your phone call, so you’ll know I heard you tell whoever you were talking to that you’d rather be anywhere but here.”
He winces, briefly closing his eyes and sighing. “Ah, yes. Not one of my finer moments. I swear it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the aforementioned hellish month.”
My lips twitch. I can’t help it. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone in real life say ‘aforementioned’ before.
