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“Isn’t the hotel your place?”

“The hotel belongs to a lot of people. My place is… only mine.”

“Then yes,” I whisper. “I’d like to go to your place.”

“Pack a bag,” he tells me. “For the night.”

“You want me to stay?”

“Unless you want me to drive you back.” His gaze flickers over my face.

I shake my head. For once I’m not going to talk myself out of this. I want to go to his place. I want to stay over. “I’ll bring a bag,” I tell him.

“Good.” He smiles. “But I have to warn you, we’ll need to drive back first thing in the morning. I have a meeting at eight.”

“I guess this is a good time to warn you that I’m not a morning person,” I tell him, deadpan. “Without caffeine I’m a bitch.”

He laughs softly. And god, I could so easily fall for this man. “I don’t believe that. But I have a coffee machine. Just in case.” He inclines his head at the road. “You ready?”

I really am. “Yes. Let’s go.”

He sets the headphones back into place, and as the choir swells again, he laces his fingers through mine.

This time, when he pulls me into the night, I don’t hesitate.

“Say it again,” Theo says, a grin on his face as he turns onto a tiny road on the left.

“I’m not saying it again.” I roll my eyes. “I swear you made it up. Is this the British way of weeding out foreigners? Give everything an unpronounceable name, then laugh at us when we try to say it?”

“Go on.” The car tires rumble as we hit cobbled stones. Actual real cobbles, not the Disney kind designed to make something look old.

I let out a sigh, but I do it anyway. Mostly because I like hearing him laugh. “Mary Lee Bone.”

He coughs, trying to hide his laugh this time.

How the hell was I supposed to know Marylebone is pronounced Mah-ley-bon? I only said it because I saw on his GPS that’s where we’re heading. Theo’s house is a mile away from the hotel – but it still takes fifteen minutes for us to get there in his car.

And of course, I point out that we could probably have walked it faster.

“I needed the car for a couple of meetings and my lunch,” he points out. We pull up outside a garage. “And anyway, this way you get to keep warm.” He hits a button on a remote hanging from his dash and the door slowly rises. “You might want to get out before I pull in,” he tells me. “It’s pretty tight in there.”

He’s not kidding. No wonder British people drive small cars. It’s impressive he can get his into the garage without scraping the side of it.

I step out onto the cobbled drive and look around at the houses lined on either side. According to Theo, roads like this are called Mews and the houses are Mews Houses.

They’re all squashed together, painted a variety of colors and open right onto the street – no space for sidewalks. They’re like little dollhouse versions of Manhattan Brownstones.

Theo climbs out of his car and squeezes his way out of the garage, pulling his keys out to open the front door. He unlocks it without ceremony and then steps aside to let me walk in, his hand brushing the small of my back as I pass him.

The hallway is narrow but warm, with cream walls and dark wood floors, softened by a red-and-blue runner that’s seen years of footsteps. There’s a coat hook by the door already holding a scarf and a cream raincoat.

It doesn’t feel staged. There are books stacked on the floor by the stairs. A half-finished glass of water on the counter. It feels like a home – somewhere he enjoys spending his time.

“This house is beautiful,” I say as he takes my coat and hangs it next to his. “How old is it?”

“About two hundred years old, I think.” He takes my hand and leads me into a tiny kitchen. It’s nothing like the sleek, shiny type of home I expected him to have. Instead it’s all mismatched cabinets and open wooden shelves. Pans hang down from the ceiling on hooks. There’s a neglected fern on the window that overlooks a tiny backyard.

“Drink?” he asks.