Page 29 of Heavy Crown

“I can do that.” I nod to the tea-making station he’s setting up.

“Nonsense.” He grins. “The one thing I’m confident about after spending four years in England is my tea-making ability.” He opens a cupboard. “Even stashed some PG Tips in here earlier.” He removes the tea bags.

“PG Tips?” I shut off the oven and get out the cooling racks.

“The most popular tea in England—with good reason.” He flicks the switch on the automatic kettle and leans against the counter. “Prepare to be amazed.”

Over by the window is a two-person table, and I grab everything I can find from the kitchen to make it an elaborate high-tea setup. When I’m done, I survey the little plates, the silverware, the rack of scones, and the cream and jam I spooned into little bowls.

Alex brings over the teapot brimming with the hot beverage, and I cart over the milk and sugar. In silence, we cut and smear all the fixings on a scone each. Alex pours tea into my teacup and then into his own.

We both lift half our scone at the same time, and our gazes meet.

“Thanks for saving my life,” I whisper.

“Thanks for teaching me how to do a proper cream tea.”

His accent, unlike mine, is spot on, and a grin splits my face. “You’ll have to tutor me in accents.”

“Seems like a tough job. Not sure I’m cut out for it.” His dark eyes are filled with silent laughter.

“You’re underestimating your skills as a teacher.” I scan his handsome face.

“Not a skill I’ve been required to learn.” He smirks.

“If you ever decide to take up accent tutoring as a side hustle, you know where to find me.”

He chuckles. “Noted.” He raises his scone a little higher. “Shall we?”

“We shall, and if it isn’t the best scone you’ve ever tasted, I may have to hide my face in shame.”

“Don’t feel too bad. I’ve had scones all over England. I’ll be hard to impress.” One corner of his mouth quirks up.

Instead of answering, I take a bite. They’re good. Very, very good. When his teeth clamp over the buttery pastry, and his lips follow, I search his face for any sign of approval.

He chews and closes his eyes before groaning. “These are bloody good.”

My scone drops onto my plate, and I throw my hands above my head in victory. “Scale of one to ten?”

He draws the pastry back to examine it, and then his gaze meets mine. “I believe it might be an eleven.”

I grin before picking up my scone again and taking another bite. “I’ll accept your assessment.”

For a beat he stares at me, and there’s amusement and confusion on his face.

“What?” I ask. “Is there a weird aftertaste? Did you speak too soon?” They taste almost as good as the ones I used to make in my parents’ farm kitchen.

He points at me with what’s left of the scone. “You’re unexpected, that’s all.” With a shake of his head, he pops the last bite of his scone into his mouth. He takes a long sip of his tea, and then brushes off his hands. “I should go. I’ll arrange for someone to take you to your apartment tomorrow. Is there a time that works best for you?”

The teasing, thoughtful man is gone, and in his place is the business prince. It’s not the first time I’ve seen the abrupt shift in his attitude, but the switch jars me out of our easy camaraderie.

“Whatever works best for you and your staff.” I make a swirling gesture around the small apartment. “I’ll be here.”

“The property is safe to walk around if you’re going stir crazy. Stay away from the cliffs—for obvious reasons. I’m in Europe next week, but if you need anything before that, have a staff member, any of them, get in touch with me.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course. I’m sure I’ll be fine.” I rise with him. A ball of sadness is forming in my stomach. I didn’t expect us to become best friends, but I didn’t realize there’d be this definite cutoff, as though there’s no hope of seeing him again unless it’s critical. “Did you want to take any of this to go?”

He rolls down his sleeves and grabs his jacket from the back of a chair. “I’ll be in touch.”