Shadows of the Past

by H. M. Ward

  I try not to laugh. “Fine, are you sure someone else can’t do it? I’m in the middle of something.” Oliver turns around and watches me.

  “You don’t want to know what I’m in the middle of.” There’s a distinct female giggle followed by kissing sounds.

  I make a face and hang up on her. I glance up at Oliver. “I got called into work. I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  He nods, and I think I’m home free, but I’m not.

  He suddenly asks, "Are you upset with me?"

  “No, not at all. I have to work.” I think he can sense the lie.

  He nods and shoves his hands into his pockets. Stepping closer, he says, “Right and this sudden urge to run has nothing to do with me?”

  “Nope.” I beam at him. “We’re all good, Ollie.” To show him how good we are, I lean in and kiss his cheek. “I better head home.”

  He grabs my wrist and whirls me back to him. “Fine, but next Monday I’m taking you out for tea. You’re mine all day. No working.” His voice is deep and confident.

  I stammer, trying to find the right words. “I, uh, this wasn’t part of the plan. I wasn’t supposed to work today.”

  “I know.” He smiles. “It’s all right. Next Monday, meet me at my hotel. High tea at three, my treat.”

  I stand there saying ‘uhhhhh’ too long. Oliver laughs lightly. “Run along. I don’t want your horrible boss to take it out on you.” He watches me and I swear he knows that I'm blowing him off.

  “Okay, I’ll see you next week.” Why did I just say that? Damn, he looks nice. Stop it, Kayla!

  Shoving thoughts of how nicely he fills out a pair of pants from my head, I turn the opposite direction to head for home. When I close the door, I find Emily standing in the kitchen making supper. Even the thought of her cooking terrifies me.

  When she was growing up, her family always had household "help," including a maid, a cook, and a nanny. She never had to do anything for herself, including cooking. She's not any better at it now, even after six years of living on her own. Usually cooking dinner is something that falls to me--her version of making us dinner is calling for take away. Approaching the stove cautiously, I steel myself against the disaster awaiting me.

  "Hullo," she says happily. "You’re just in time!"

  She looks up at me from her stirring, and I blurt out. "I went to the Palace and sort of freaked out."

  "YOU visited the Palace? As in Kensington Palace?" she asks in disbelief, mouth gaping.

  "Yes, Kensington Palace. It's really nice, and thanks for skipping over the freaking out part."

  She snorts. “You do that all the time. And ‘It’s really nice?’ Really? After years of living here, you finally take an interest in visiting the local landmarks and all you can say is ‘it's really nice?’ So, you were with Hot Guy again?"

  “Maybe.”

  “Getting tossed to the curb once wasn’t enough for you? There are lots of other guys in the city, believe me, I know.” Shaking her head, she turns her attention back to the pot she was stirring when I first came in. "Damn it all, now I've burnt it. Well, how 'bout Indian food?"

  “Bring it. I want to stuff myself and fall asleep.”

  She waves a finger in my face. “Not until Jenga!”

  “You’re a little crazy, you know that, right?”

  Emily grins. “Admit it, your life would be so boring without me.”

  CHAPTER 13

  By the time Monday arrives, I’m so nervous I almost bail on tea. I'm standing in my room, looking at the assortment of clothes in my closet and wishing I'd gone shopping. What does one wear to tea?

  Should I wear a dress? Something fancier? My normal jeans and t-shirt? I'm not sure and hate not knowing.

  "What are you doing, Kayla?"

  I've never been so glad to hear Emily's voice as I am right now. "Trying to figure out what to wear to afternoon tea. What would you wear?" I can hear the panic in my voice and try to contain it.

  "Whoa," Emily says with a smile. "Who are you and what have you done with my flatmate? YOU are worrying about what to wear?" I send her a death glare and turn back to fretting over my wardrobe, making her laugh. "Where are you going to tea?"

  I shrug. "I have no idea. I'm meeting him at his hotel, but that's all I know."

  "Oooh," Emily shrieks, clapping her hands together in glee. "I bet that means he's taking you to The Orangery!" I have no clue why she's excited. She looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to show the level of enthusiasm she has—which is about ninety-five on a scale of one to ten.

  When I just look at her blankly, she sighs, shaking her head in disappointment at my lack of reaction. "We need to educate you on the things to do in London, babe. You're a bloody awful visitor." I wave off her comments.

  "Yeah, yeah, whatever. So what am I supposed to wear? Is this okay?” I show her my jeans and black tee.

  Her eyes widen with surprise, and her mouth twists into a disgusted expression. "You are not wearing jeans to afternoon tea!" She rushes into my closet, pulling out clothes and shoving them back in when they aren't what she's looking for, muttering about Americans and their "awful taste in clothes." All I hear out of my closet is yucky sounds and ‘what were you thinking?’

  "You call these trousers?" or "This blouse is horrible!"

  She finally comes out with a pair of black pants and a white shirt with purple piping on the collar.

  "Put these on, I'll be right back." Emily leaves the room, and I hurry to put the clothes on. I don't want to be naked when she gets back--at least I don't want my lower stomach showing. Clothed, my body passes for young and carefree, but without my clothes I can't hide the stretch marks growing twins left behind. A guy might not realize what that means in the heat of the moment, but she will.

  Emily returns with an emerald green cardigan and a pair of black ankle boots. She hands them to me, crossing her arms over her chest and impatiently tapping her foot while I finish dressing.

  Glaring, she says, "Don't you dare wear a hoodie!" She grabs a gray peacoat from my closet and holds it out to help me put it on. A little scared of her now, I slip my arms in and spin around for her approval.

  "Perfect. Now, you just need to do something about all that hair."

  Once she's done torturing me, she lets me leave. No, really, she lets me leave. Emily may look like a soft-spoken socialite, but that idea of her couldn't be further from the truth. She scares me a little.

  Even with Emily's help and lecture, I'm outside the entrance to Oliver’s hotel almost twenty minutes early, looking like a lovestruck schoolgirl.

  Just when I see the top of his head coming toward me behind a group of tourists, my phone rings. The display reads: UNKNOWN CALLER.

  Crap. How’d they find me again? I changed my number after Barkley smashed my phone. The calls became too frequent.

  Wanting to silence it before Oliver gets here, I hover over the "DECLINE" button. Just as I go to press it, a guy walking past me bumps into my shoulder and I hit "ANSWER" instead. Crap. I can't just hang up; they'll call right back now that they know I'm here.

  "Hello?" My voice is suspicious, and I hope it's just a random telemarketer looking for someone other than me.

  "Hello. Is this Kayla O’Mally?" The male voice on the other end of the phone is American, and my heart stops for just a second. Thinking quickly, I try to adopt an English accent. Four years in Europe should make that easy, right? Wrong, so wrong.

  "May I ask who's calling?" I cringe hearing my pitiful attempt at the accent, and the guy on the other end tries to muffle his laughter.

  "My name is Eric. Your mother—"

  As soon as he mentions my mom I end the call. I don't know who he is, and I don't want to know what he has to tell me about my mother. I'm an awful daughter, but I just can't handle anything from home today.

  It hasn't been long enough.

  "Kayla?" Startled, I drag my eyes away from the screen--where formerly unknown Eric is now calling me back-
-and see Oliver standing directly in front of me. My mind is reeling, and now I'm wondering if my mom is going to start calling this number, too.

  Our eyes meet and he looks down at me, concern in his eyes as he says, "Are you all right? You're very pale."

  Great, twice in a row. He’s going to think I’m nuts. I know I'm sweating, and it feels like all the blood has drained from my face, but I still try to play it off.

  "I'm fine." He doesn't look like he believes me, but he thankfully doesn't press.

  Instead, he gallantly offers me his arm and I accept it with a shaky smile, allowing him to lead me down the street and into the gardens. We walk in companionable silence until we're standing in front of The Orangery.

  I suppose Emily guessed right. The building is stately and beautiful, with big windows, orange bricks, and white accents. I want to look at everything at once, but Oliver continues walking, taking us inside, into open white room with gorgeous natural light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. Long rows of white linen covered tables line each wall, with small bright green citrus trees scattered throughout, preserving the look of a Victorian greenhouse while serving as an elegant tearoom.

  We pass a glorious display of tiny cakes, cookies, and scones on our way to our terrace table. The amazing smells making my empty stomach rumble loudly. Our waiter immediately brings out a three-tiered silver tower of cakes, sandwiches, and scones, along with jam, clotted cream, milk, sugar, and tiny white china pots of tea. He asks Oliver's preference of Laurent-Perrier Brut, Pimm's or Merlot Rosé Spumante.

  I don't hear his response, I'm so distracted by the dazzling smile he's aiming at me. I don't even realize he's asked me a question until he raises an eyebrow at me in question.

  Oliver asks, "Which would you like?"

  “I…I’m not sure.” Code for: I have no freaking clue. I must look trapped because he takes my hand.

  "May I order for you?" His blue eyes are soft and kind, crinkled at the corners in a way that makes me want to let him order me anything, anywhere.

  I give a grateful nod in response and he orders a glass of the Laurent-Perrier for both of us.

  There are so many things on the table I'm not sure what to think or where to start. I want it all—even the weird looking cakes that remind me of Play-doh.

  The waiter returns with our champagne and slips away discreetly, leaving us alone with our feast of fancy foods. Oliver lifts his glass and gazes over it at me, prompting me to blushingly raise mine as well. “To a fun filled day of London’s finest.”

  I clink my glass to his and set it gently back on the table, not sure if I’m part of the finery. The way he said it makes me wonder, but then I rule out anything because of the friend declaration.

  I decide the sandwiches are a safe start, and since I haven't eaten, I take several different ones even though I have no idea what they are.

  I bite excitedly into the first and discover... salmon. I can only imagine what face I made, because as soon as I take the bite Oliver starts to laugh. I manage to chew and swallow because spitting it out would be the worst manners ever, but it's so slippery and gross.

  "I take it you're not a fan of salmon?" he asks, trying to keep his laughter contained.

  The sour face I'm making gets worse the longer I have the fish taste in my mouth, and he begins to laugh out loud with abandon. "Poor little American Girl just can't handle decent food."

  He's teasing me, I know he is, and just to be a pain, I act like I'm angry. "Decent food? That was not decent food. Fish should stay in the ocean."

  Anxious to remove that sexy smirk from his face, an idea comes to me. One that is probably going to get us in trouble, but I don't care. Taking a small piece of the fish off my sandwich, I act like I'm studying it, and then toss it at him. It hits him on the nose and his eyes widen in shock. Covering my mouth with a hand I try to keep my snickering quiet, but he looks royally - ha - pissed, and I just can't do it.

  When I start to laugh outright, his eyes narrow, and his head tilts to the side, contemplating his next move. I know it's going to be bad when he smiles devilishly at me, distracting me. He moves a finger around his plate, but I can't see what he's doing for the towers of teacakes.

  Suddenly, Oliver's hand moves and something slimy lands on my cheek. I saw it coming, but the cold still makes me jump. I put a hand up to my cheek and wipe the wet away. When I pull my fingers back, they're covered in a buttery substance.

  "You did not just do that!" My voice shrieks through laughter.

  "You started it," he says, sticking his tongue out and acting much younger than I know we are. I form a piece of my scone into ammunition and throw it at his face. The jerk catches it in his mouth. What a show-off!

  "Yum." He licks his lips. "I think it tastes better coming from your fingers." He smiles deviously, both sides of his mouth tipping up, his mouth too wide for it to be a smirk, then throws a piece of something else at me. I'm not as coordinated as he is, and it bounces off my nose before landing on my plate. My nose feels cold and sticky.

  I stick out my tongue, acting like I'm just going to lick the stickiness off and watch his eyes get wider the closer my tongue gets to my nose. Giggling uncontrollably, I wipe it off with a napkin before picking up the piece he threw and put it in my mouth.

  "Mmmm," I moan loudly, closing my eyes and acting like it's the best thing I've ever eaten. When I open my eyes, he's breathing a little heavier, and I start to feel self-conscious.

  Suddenly, a throat clears beside us. We both look over to see the waiter glaring at us.

  "Sir," he says looking at Oliver and completely ignoring me. "I'm sorry, but we're going to have to ask you to leave." He looks down his nose at Oliver before he continues, but Oliver just smiles at him.

  Oliver looks properly chastened, but when our eyes meet, he winks. "My apologies," he studies the man's name tag, "Lionel. We'll just be on our way." He stands, pulling out a long wallet and putting a few bills on the table.

  As we walk out, the manager rushes up to Oliver, “Mr. Jackson, it’s so nice to see you again. Are you leaving already?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid something has come up.” He smiles at me, gesturing for me to walk in front of him.

  The man is acting like Oliver is very important and appears slightly horrified. “Please, can I make amends for Lionel? He’s unaware of our select guests. Please, both of you come back this way and I’ll have your tea drawn in the private room. It’s a beautiful view and offers a private place to try new things.” The man looks discretely at me and I feel silly for starting a food fight.

  Oliver looks at me. “What do you say? Maybe we can find something you enjoy?”

  “I can make you something if need be, I’ll wait on you personally the rest of the afternoon. Anything you like, miss, just let me know. Sir, if you’ll follow me?”

  I lean into Oliver and whisper, “Who are you? You should have been tossed out.”

  “Likewise, American Girl. I can’t take you anywhere.” He grins as we are seated in a private room. Lionel, who looks like he swallowed a sheep, brings in our tea and champagne.

  “Sir, madam, I’m terribly sorry for the misunderstanding.” He bows and turns, leaving us alone.

  “I think we got put in the kiddy corner. I hope you’re happy.” Oliver scolds me, teasingly.

  I pick up the little purple cake and toss it at him. “Don’t throw those!” He leans sideways and catches it before it hits the floor, then pops it in his mouth. “God lord, woman! Your aim is horrendous.”

  I laugh. “The purple cake is that good?”

  He nods and picks one up, holding out for me. Being the dork I am, I lean forward and bite it. It’s flakey and sugary. “I thought this was going to taste like Play-doh.”

  “I figured as much.” He takes a plate and puts a scone on it. “Here, try it with these.” He hands me the clotted cream and jam.

  “What do I do with it? Dunk it?”

  He laughs. This must be l
ike watching someone try to eat a taco the wrong way. To him, it seems normal, but this thing looks like a biscuit and at home we dunk biscuits.

  “No, split it open. You put some of this and then that.” He points at the preserves. I do as he says.

  “What is clotted cream? Is it like sour cream?” I hope not. I grimace and stop to look at him when I’ve got both sides slathered in something.

  “Taste it and find out.”

  I raise it to my lips and giggle. “I’m not feeling brave after the fish.”

  “It’s not fish, love. Bite it.” The way he says those last few words makes my tummy flutter.

  I bite into the bread and am surprised. All three of those things together are good. “This is yummy,” I say with my mouth full, pointing at it.

  Oliver laughs and leans back in his chair. “I could watch you eat all day.”

  “Yeah, let’s not.” I swallow hard and take a sip of the champagne.

  Oliver remains silent, his gaze locked on me as I pick through the little cakes and sandwiches, looking for something I might like. I take a nibble of one and then another.

  “Eat something, pervert. You can’t just watch me the whole time.” I laugh nervously, picking up a little purple cake and setting it down on his plate.

  He lifts it to his lips, and slowly bites down. His eyes remain locked on mine and the way he does it makes me melt. My stomach twists and I feel like I’m in a free fall. “Holy hell. No wonder why people like tea.” My face burns bright red as soon as I say it.

  “I think that was out loud, Kayla.”

  I laugh and try to hide behind the tower of cakes. “I noticed.”

  “What part of it was ‘holy hell’?” He pushes the tower to the side and arches an eyebrow at me. “Was it my lips or my mouth that interests you?”

  My heart slams into my ribs and I stare at him, holding a little cake haphazardly in my hand. I try to blow it off. He’s messing with me again. Fine, I’ll screw with him. I laugh lightly and smirk. “Oh, it’s the whole thing. A tiny cake draws attention to the lips and then the way you swallow. Just watch.” I pick up a little cake and slowly bite down like he did, closing my eyes, savoring it before I swallow. When I open my eyes again, Oliver is tense and breathing harder.