Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“Right, here goes. Pay attention. First, you split the scone in half,” I say. I pick my scone up, stand it on its side, carefully cut it in half, and place it back down. “Next, you spread jam on it.” I spread the jam in a thick, neat layer, and glance up, half-pleased, half-surprised to see Rhett watching me carefully. “Finally, it’s time to add the cream. Only the uncultured spread the cream first. There’s a massive debate about the right order, but it’s a no-brainer really. Jam first is the only correct way.”
Rhett watches as I finish my explanation. He leans forward with interest. “Jam first? I suppose I must obey the sacred rules.”
“Exactly,” I say, scooping up a large dollop of clotted cream on my spoon and spreading it atop the jam. “Voilà. Perfection.”
I slide a plate toward him, and he follows my instructions with careful attention. I can’t help smirking when he nods approvingly after his first bite.
“Not bad,” he says, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“It’s a matter of principle,” I say, feigning solemnity, though I’m laughing inside. “And now, Sir Rhettimus, we must chat. Let’s start with something simple. How about our likes and dislikes?”
He folds his hands, and leans in. “Lead the way, Madam Pippa.”
I love this game and how the small details emerge that can reveal a lot about someone, bits of personality that aren’t immediately obvious. “What’s your favorite book?”
“American Gods,” he says immediately. “Neil Gaiman. It’s dark, clever, and slightly weird.”
I grin. “You’re not kidding with the weird part. Are you?”
“Never,” he replies solemnly. “Yours?”
“Pride and Prejudice. Always. Jane Austen is a literary master. You just can’t beat it.”
We swap more likes and dislikes. Our favorite movies (mine is Pretty Woman, a cliché I know, but I love it. His is Twelve Angry Men), the worst movie we’ve seen (mine is Grease Two, his is Jaws the Revenge), and desserts we’d steal if no one was watching (mine is white chocolate cheesecake, and his is salted caramel profiteroles). The conversation flows effortlessly, laughter punctuating each exchange. There is something comforting about it. It is safe but exciting at the same time.
After a while, I suggest a new game - this or that – and Rhett nods his approval.
“Beach or mountains?” I ask.
“Beach,” he says without hesitation. “Sun, sand, waves. Mountains are fine for a honeymoon though.”
For some unknown reason, I gulp at the mention of a honeymoon, but I move quickly to cover my faux pas. “City or country?”
“City. Energy, people, life.”
“Tea or coffee?”
“Coffee.” His eyes twinkle. “But tea is an institution, obviously.”
I can’t help teasing him. “You clearly know your English culture, Mr. America.”
“I’m a quick learner,” he says with a grin.
And to my horror, I start laughing drunk like a hyena.
The conversation spirals into hypotheticals such as would you rather fight one horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses (we both agree on the one hundred duck-sized horses), favorite foods, and the worst first date moments we’ve survived. Each answer makes me laugh harder, and I feel like each glance we share carries a subtle tension. Beneath the playful banter, something is simmering. What, I cannot say.
I can’t help but notice small things about Rhett. Like the way he leans forward when he’s invested in the conversation, the way his eyes light up when he’s amused, how his big, beautiful hands move expressively while he talks. I’m fully aware of it all, and I catch myself hoping he’s noticing little things about me, too.
The scones are gone, our cups have been emptied, refilled, and emptied again, and still, we linger, unwilling to leave the comfortable, warm cocoon of the café. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, smudging my lipstick slightly, and watch him watch me, that sly little smile tugging at his lips.
“Next stop?” he asks, settling the bill.
“Buckingham Palace,” I say, standing up. “Let’s go grab a cab.”
Rhett falls into step beside me. At the edge of the street, I lift my hand. A black cab slows, and I wave at the driver. We climb into the cab, and I steal a glance at him across the seat. He’s relaxed, casual, and there’s that spark of amusement in his eyes, the one that makes my pulse do little stutters. The streets pass by in a blur of red buses, cyclists, and pedestrians. I point out landmarks, explaining bits of history or quirky stories about the neighborhoods we pass. He listens attentively, genuinely interested, occasionally asking questions, or teasing me when I get overly detailed.
I feel lighter than I have in weeks. This is supposed to be about George, about getting to know each other enough to make George jealous, yet somewhere along the way, it became about this too: the conversation, the laughter, the small moments of connection. I’m learning things about Rhett that I genuinely enjoy, and I wonder if he might just be doing the same thing too.