Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92411 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“I never felt like I saw one hundred percent of Jed. Yeah, he was easygoing and charming and super friendly. He was everyone’s best friend within five minutes of meeting them. But that was only part of him. The rest he kept hidden. Even from me.”
“You think he’s a secret serial killer and the police are closing in, and that’s why he ran back to Iowa?” She laughs heartily. But I can’t. Not because I think Jed’s got a trail of dead bodies in his wake, but because I think it’s so sad he would have proposed marriage to me and not felt he could show me his whole self.
There’s a knock on the door, and I spring to my feet. I don’t want to talk about Jed anymore, and I’m grateful for the interruption. “Hang on, I have to get the door.”
I open the door and am greeted with a huge bouquet of flowers. “Miss, can I bring them in? There are several vases.”
“Several vases of what?” Melanie asks. “What’s going on?”
I flatten myself against the wall as three porters bring in roses of every single color. I’m immediately transported back to the walled garden. There’s only one person who could have sent me these.
“Someone sent me flowers,” I say.
“Show me,” she asks.
I turn our call to video and point the camera to where the porters have placed the flowers on the dressing table in front of the TV. They’re wonderful. I scan the vases for a card before the porter hands me an envelope.
I tip him and they leave, the envelope growing hot in my hand.
“Who are they from?” she asks.
I open the envelope. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen his handwriting before. I love the way he exaggerates the “y” in my name, and in the word “lovely.”
“Tuesday?!” Melanie splutters.
“Ben,” I say as I read the note again to myself.
Lovely Tuesday
I’ll pick you up at seven.
B
My heart lifts up, up, up.
His first dinner with a woman, and my first first date in a very long time.
“Ben? The hotels guy? What, as a thank-you?”
“Maybe,” I say. “He’s taking me to dinner tonight.” I flip the phone around so I can see her face. Her eyes are as wide as the Hudson.
“Oh, so you and he . . .” She pulls her mouth into a smile, sucks in a breath, and nods. “This is good.” She pauses. “Tell me everything.”
“There’s nothing much to tell. I got to know him a little while we were away, and he asked me out and I said yes.” I’m understating it, but that’s all I want to share for now. I want to keep the rest between Ben and me.
“Don’t go falling in love with him and moving to London.”
I laugh along with her, but there’s no humor in it—at least, not for me. I guess I’m feeling more . . . open to possibilities in a way I wasn’t before coming here. I’m dating someone new. I’m in a different country. My future isn’t mapped out anymore, but instead of feeling terrified about losing my job and apartment and fiancé, I’m excited about what’s next.
But first, dinner.
Chapter Twenty-One
Daniel De Luca’s most successful film, Dinner for Two, takes place in a restaurant where he plays a chef. Julia Alice plays a waitress who comes to London to study at the Royal Academy of Music. Daniel is hot-tempered and foul-mouthed, and Julia hates him. Everyone does. But Julia isn’t scared of him, even though he tries to intimidate her. When she dares to tell him the sauce he serves up with the duck is bland, plates fly. Literally. It’s probably my favorite scene from any Daniel De Luca movie. I love it so much that for my fifteenth birthday, my mom and dad took me to a Greek restaurant in Albany just so we could smash plates. It was my favorite birthday ever.
There’s no way Ben could know any of that. But still, here we are in front of the blue-and-white awnings of what looks like The French House, the restaurant in Dinner for Two.
“Do you recognize it?” he asks me. His brow is slightly furrowed.
“Of course I do,” I say. “I just didn’t think it was actually a restaurant. I assumed it was made up for the movie.” My gaze catches on the sign above the door that says The French House. I don’t remember seeing the restaurant on the Daniel De Luca map. I would have definitely put it on my London to-do list.
Ben frowns and leads me inside.
The restaurant is empty.
I glance at Ben, but his expression gives nothing away.
The host greets us with a dramatic bow. “Mademoiselle, monsieur, let me show you to your table.”
Doesn’t he want to know our names? I know Ben has a Wikipedia page, but he’s not Daniel De Luca himself.