But after the initial anger, and then embarrassment, subsides, I decide it’s probably a blessing in disguise that it didn’t work out today. My soaked, wheezing state isn’t exactly ideal for making a first impression with a prince.
Starting off toward the underground, I take my usual trains to Canary Wharf. Alexander won’t be on the bus tomorrow since it’s Thursday, but Friday will be the day. No excuses this time.
CHAPTER NINE
Friday starts out better right from the start. The sun is shining, and soft October rays cast a hopeful glow over my flat as I make my tea and go through a similar primping routine as before, sans the contouring. I opt for a charcoal-gray pantsuit this time, with the same red trench coat. Though I’m tempted to wear trainers based on the prior debacle, I make myself stick with heels so I’ll be more likely to actually board the bus rather than run after it while an onlooker records a video and turns me into a cautionary meme.
Turning on Taylor Swift’s “Love Story,” I cling to its optimism as I walk down the stairs of my building and out the door into the crisp autumn air. The weather and the melody seem to be reassuring me that it’s perfectly right and reasonable that I should live happily ever after with someone I fell in love with at first sight.
As I wait at the bus stop, I text Jules, just to make it that much harder for me to back out.About to introduce myself—wish me luck!
I expect that she’ll still be sleeping, but she replies a moment later.Yass babes, going to the window to watch.
Don’t you dare.
I look back at Marlow House. Red terracotta with cream molding, it’s three stories high, plus a squished fourth floor with tiny dormers popping out from the black slate roof. The top level used to be servants’ quarters, apparently, back when this entire townhome would have been owned by a single well-to-do London family, rather than spliced into six parts to renters just passing through. The aqua door was hardly wide enough for me to yank my suitcases through, but the novelty of the little mail slit and brass lion knocker makes up for the impracticality.
Triangular trims border the tall, narrow windows, and Jules’s face appears in the one adjacent to my own. She blows kisses and makes some raunchy gestures, and I want to hate her for it, but it just makes me love her that much more.
A 4 bus comes into view, cruising closer, too quickly but also not fast enough. Slowing down, it huffs to a stop right in front of me.
Alexander is there, in his spot. And this time, my body is prepared.
Nerves quivering but feet staying firm, I walk onto the bus. Tapping the contactless payment on my phone, I soldier on, up the stairs. I’m out of breath by the time I get to the top, and not from the incline.
My eyes know exactly where to go to locate Alexander, and he’s centered in my view as I start walking down the aisle. More than a phantom, more than a daydream. Here he is, in luminescent 3-D, right before me. Tall, dark, and as handsome as ever.
There’s just one problem. The seat next to him—myseat—is already occupied.
Another woman is sitting there, and though she and Alexander aren’t talking, or even brushing shoulders, I immediately suspect her of ulterior motives. She’s clearly trying to steal him from me.
Perhapsstealisn’t quite the right verb since I’m not technically with Alexander yet, but try telling that to my bleeding heart. It feels like betrayal, and it throws a wrench in my plan of oh-so-casually sitting next to him and watching his lips split into a demure and dreamy smile as he recognizes me as the elusive love of his life, here at last.
Alexander is looking out the window, which restores my confidence. He’s obviously hoping to find me sitting at my desk. He must be feeling dejected by my absence, wondering how he’ll possibly cope the rest of the day without our eye contact to get him through.
I like the notion that I’ll be able to cure his sadness, and I’ve come too far now to be derailed. So, still unnoticed by Alexander, I take a seat a couple rows behind him and bide my time.
The back of his head has a very nice shape, and his chestnut-colored hair, which has just a slight wave to it, promises to be fantastic to run my hands through. But I can’t help but notice that his scarf doesn’t look to be the sophisticated Italian thread I expected. It appears to be a hand-knit thing, reminiscent of the sweaters my mom still insists on making my brothers and me every Christmas.
No matter, though. It’s just a sign he doesn’t want to show off his privilege. And even a shabby scarf takes on a cultured quality when wrapped around the neck of a noble.
The daggers I’m shooting at The Other Woman must work because she alights a couple minutes later at the Angel tube station. Before anyone else can beat me to it, I hurry in to take her spot.
Pausing before I sit down beside Alexander, I soak in the sight. It’s surreal to be so close to him, to have my fantasies so close to being fulfilled. My heart physically palpitates as my stomach scrunches up, and I pause just slightly to revel in the fullness of it all. There simply can’t be anything more exhilarating in the universe than readying yourself to plunge into an epic romance.
Alexander is back to reading his magazine, somehow still oblivious to the fact that I’m right beside him. Or perhaps he’s already spotted me out of the corner of his eye but is too tactful to put me on the spot.
Either way, it’s clear I need to be the one to make the first move.
What I’d like to say is,“There you are, my love!”or“Darling! It’s me! After all this time!”
Those would be my lines in a movie. But what I end up squeaking out in a strangled, high-pitched voice is, “Excuse me, can I sit here?”
Some of the words stick together and others are spaced too far apart, but Alexander seems to understand me just fine. He looks up, and I wait for the recognition to dawn on him, for the relief to seep across his face that after weeks of eye contact, I’ve finally appeared. That his hopes and prayers have been answered. That he hasn’t been waiting in vain and now won’t have to stand outside Marlow House with a guitar and speakers, serenading me with love songs to win my attention, as no doubt he’d been contemplating.
But there’s nothing there in his eyes. Nothing except a blank, courteous stare.
And then he speaks. “Oh yeah, of course,” he says. “My bad—lemme get this backpack out of your way.” He lifts an old Jansport from the floor, stashing it on his lap. There’s actual duct tape around the frayed straps, with a “Respect Your Mother Earth” keychain dangling from the zipper.
