Looking around at my meager accommodations—a double bed, small chest of drawers, and a nightstand with a lamp—I smile. It’s definitely not The Ritz … or even the Holiday Inn … but it’ll do. All I need is a bed to sleep in and somewhere to shower. I don’t plan on spending much time indoors. My plan is to spend every day exploring London—watching theater, browsing old book stores, sitting in cafés for hours, reading... or doing absolutely nothing.
“It’s fine, Mother.”
“Are there other people staying there?”
“Well, I’m sure there are. I got in late last night, so I came straight here, and my hostess showed me to my room.”
“And by hostess, you mean …”
“A woman. Yes.”
She’s being ridiculous. It’s what she does best. We sit in silence on the phone for a few minutes—her probably stewing over my careless attitude and me stewing over her need to treat me like I’m the ten-year-old.
“I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too. Be safe out there! Don’t talk to strange men … or men in general. Oh, and Meg, honey, whatever you do,” she pauses, her tone softening a little, “have fun.”
“I will,” I say with a smile.
“I just don’t understand why you couldn’t have found something fun to do inside the continental United States—”
Oh, brother. Here we go again.
“OK, Mom! Hanging up now. I love you. Tell Dad I love him and to not worry. I brought my mace.”
I make one more quick phone call to check on Noah but try to keep it short and sweet. For one, my phone bill will be outrageous, and for two, I don’t want Noah to get sad that I’m so far away. I figure I’ll go with the out-of-sight, out-of-mind strategy, but he sounds like he’s having fun and is totally distracted by the remote control car his dad bought him. Way too busy to talk to his old mom. Hearing him happy makes me happy but also a little sad, because I miss him something terrible.
Pulling out my notebook, I look through the different travel notes I made on the plane—things I want to do and see—and try to get a game plan for the day. Once again, I’m hit with that feeling of realizing I’m alone … and free … and it feels good.
I grab a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and my toiletries and head to the community bathroom the hostess showed me last night. Fortunately for me, it’s just across the hall from my room.
I knock on the door, but no one says anything. Just to make sure, I press my ear to the wood. I can’t hear anything, so I crack it open and peek in. How embarrassing would it be to walk in on a complete stranger and then have to see them for the next three weeks? Seeing that it’s unoccupied, I go in and start the shower. The knobs are weird, so it takes me a few minutes to figure everything out and get the temperature right.
Before I undress, I go to lock the door but realize there isn’t a lock, just a tiny brass knob. Crouching down, I look for a button or something … anything that would secure the door shut, but there isn’t anything. I stand there for a second staring down at the knob and then back at the shower. There’s no way I’m getting in there, naked, without peace of mind that some stranger isn’t going to walk in on me. When I was in college, my roommates and I would hang socks or towels on the door to signal that a room was otherwise occupied. Surely that’s a universal sign.
After hanging a hand towel on the outside knob, I finally undress and hop in the shower, making quick work of washing my hair and getting rid of the stench of airplanes and travel. The small bathroom begins to steam up, and I decide I’m clean enough, so I shut off the water and reach for the towel, but it’s not where I left it. I blindly feel around just outside of the curtain where I know I left it hanging, when it suddenly appears out of thin air, pushed into my hand by an unknown force.
Startled, I quickly pull the shower curtain back and see green eyes staring back at me.
“Looking for this?”
Completely caught off guard, I squeal like a little girl and yank the shower curtain closed.
A melodic laugh fills the small space. It’s deep but boyish.
“Did you not see the towel?” I’m somewhat perturbed at this point, and the fact he’s laughing pisses me off, raising my voice a good octave. Are there not common courtesies this side of the Atlantic?
“I was just grabbing my bag that I left earlier. My apologies.” There’s still humor and mirth in his tone. I can tell he doesn’t think it’s a big deal that he just saw me half-naked.
“You should knock. Or say something. Are you some kind of ninja? I didn’t even hear you come in.”
He laughs before replying. “Again, I’m sorry. Won’t happen again. From now on, I’ll know that a towel on the door knob means a beautiful lady is in the shower.”
My mouth twists as I try to hide my smile and the blush on my cheeks. I’m even more thankful for the shower curtain between us.
“Thank you.” I can’t really remember the last time someone called me beautiful.
I hear the door shut a few seconds later and decide it’s okay to come out of hiding. Pulling the curtain back an inch, I see I’m alone, so I hurry out of the shower, dry off, and dress in record-setting time.
After my hair is dry and I’ve loaded my backpack with everything I feel like I’ll need for the day, I creep into the hallway. The thought of meeting those green eyes from the bathroom puts me on edge a little. I know, in the grand scheme of things, it’s not that big of a deal, but I’d still prefer to not be faced with my peeping Tom any time soon.
The stairs creak as I walk down. Listening carefully, I try to get my boundaries. I can hear a television on in some part of the small house, but I don’t hear anyone talking. Lucy, the woman who owns the flat, was sweet and inviting. She made me feel right at home … and old. She can’t be more than mid-twenties—a young, fresh thing. Her loose long hair, and bright colored clothing, gave off a free-spirited vibe. I think someone would have to be to rent the rooms of their house out to complete strangers.
When my foot hits the last step, and the layout of the flat takes shape before me, I do a little shimmy and a silent squeal.
I’m in London!
I want to scream it from the rooftop.
I’m staying in a flat in Notting Hill. No alarm. No curfew. Nobody I’m responsible for, besides myself. Just me.
“Hello, again.”
Shit.
I jump and grab at my chest. I thought I was alone, but the same silky voice from the bathroom greets me as I turn toward the kitchen.
“Could I interest you in a cuppa?” he asks in a fake English accent, holding out a tiny porcelain tea cup, with his pinky out.
I can’t help but giggle, letting my heart attempt to go back to its normal pace.
“I’m sorry again for barging in on you like that this morning.” He sets his tea cup on the counter and brushes crumbs of toast from his pants. “I’m Dylan Harris,” he says, sticking out his hand for me to shake.
“Meg Williams,” I say in return, taking his hand. Sometimes it still feels weird using my maiden name again, but better, freeing.
I didn’t get a very good look at him in the bathroom earlier. I was too busy covering my girly bits. But now that I’m really looking at him, I can’t stop. His hair is tucked under a beanie, but I can tell from the pieces that flip out from under it that it’s an auburn color. And his eyes. Wow. I’m stunned by how green they are … and translucent, almost sea green. And his jaw is so … defined … and young. Definitely young. Like, really young. If it weren’t for the bit of scruff on his face, he’d probably look even younger. Nineteen? Maybe twenty?
I swallow deeply at the feeling in the pit of my stomach when our stare-off lasts longer than necessary.
I’m probably old enough to be his mother.
If I were sleeping around when I was fifteen.
I could’ve been sleeping around when I was fifteen.
He probably wasn’t even born when I was fifteen!
“Nice
to meet you.” I slowly retrieve my hand and reach for a mug for some coffee. Looking around, all I see are tea bags and not a coffee pot in sight. “No coffee?” I ask, feeling my mood drop a little.
“Uh, no. Lucy doesn’t have a coffee pot. And by the look on your face, I’d guess instant is out?”
“Yeah, no to instant. I mean, is that even coffee? I guess, maybe if we were in a zombie apocalypse it’d be acceptable, but not while the world is still virtually zombie free.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “I kinda thought you’d say that. I had you pegged for a real coffee drinker” He smiles, and it’s sly and sexy, making my stomach do a flip.
“Oh, really?” I ask, wondering if he’s saying that because he thinks I’m old. Or is he trying to make conversation with me? I can’t tell, but I can stare at those green eyes for a little longer. That, I can do.
Stop it, Meg!
“There’s a great little bistro down the block. I could show you where it’s at if you’d like. I was just getting ready to head out for the day.”
I should say no. I should definitely say no.
“Sure. That’d be great.” I smile and nod, tossing my backpack over my shoulder.
I watch as he rinses his cup out and puts it on the sideboard by the sink. He has a backpack of his own that he picks up by the front door. His jeans are faded and worn, and he’s wearing a tattered Green Peace shirt that looks like it came from the ‘70s.
You know, the decade in which I was born.
“So, what brings you to London?” I ask as we close the front door behind us and walk out into the sunshine.
“A little holiday,” he replies casually as we continue to walk. “How about you?”
“Same.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. You?”
“Yep.”
It’s a beautiful summer day, and I’m hit with the same excitement from earlier. The sidewalk ahead makes me feel like I’m looking through a kaleidoscope—each door we pass a different color, baskets of flowers hanging from some of the windows, and funny little cars lined along the street. I feel like pinching myself again.
“Do you travel a lot by yourself?” he asks. His shoulder brushes mine and I feel a spark of something. It makes me swallow hard before answering.
“No. This is a first for me. How about you?”
“This is my second time backpacking across Europe. I was over here for about a month after I graduated high school a few years ago. I loved it so much, I came back. Seemed like a good thing to do to help me clear my head and figure out what I want to do before I graduate from college.”
“So you’re what? Twenty?”
“Twenty-two. Just had a birthday last month.”
At least he’s legal.
Stop it, Meg!
“What brought you here?” His gaze turns toward me, but I’m already watching him, lucky that I’m not stumbling over my own two feet because I can’t seem to tear my eyes away.
“Like you, I needed to get away and clear my head.”
“Are you in college?”
The laughter that erupts out of me is over the top, but I can’t help it. I stop in the middle of the sidewalk and rest my hands on my knees until I can catch my breath. The absurdity of the morning must be catching up with me, along with the bit of jet lag and lack of coffee. I’m laughing like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. “Ah, I needed that. Thank you,” I tell him, wiping under my eyes.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, only that I was probably in college while you were still in diapers.”
Now, he’s the one stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. “Stop.” He says the word like I’m pulling his leg. “You can’t be that old.”
Yeah, that old. Thanks for the reality check, stud muffin.
“I didn’t mean it like that!” His hands come up and grip my shoulders. I want to tell him to stop touching me, but something about him—those green eyes, his honesty, and sincerity, lack of concern for anything except this beautiful day, this moment—makes me let my guard down. It’s so weird because I just met him, but I feel like he’s an old friend. Not in age, but time.
“I only meant that you don’t look a day over twenty...one...twenty-two,” he says, the same smile from earlier playing on his lips. “I mean, twenty-two is where it’s at.”
“Yeah, sure.”
He slowly lets go of me, and we begin to walk again.
“I’m serious.”
“Thanks.”
“So you’re not twenty-two?” he asks playfully.
“No, definitely not twenty-two. I barely remember what I was doing when I was twenty-two.”
We walk past a few more shops and colored doors before he says, “Do you mind if I ask how old you are?”
“No. Age is just a number, right?” I ask him, shrugging my shoulders, because that’s usually how I feel. I never let age bother me or really give it much thought. So I don’t know why I am right now. “I’m thirty-five.”
We let that sink in as we finish making our way down the street.
The place Dylan takes me to is so perfect. It’s exactly what I’d imagined in my mind—white tables and chairs out on the sidewalk, large openings into the bistro, more hanging baskets with flowers, and the rich smells of breakfast coming from inside.
“You’ve had coffee here before?” I ask as we sit at one of the tables out on the sidewalk.
“Yeah, I like tea, but I’ve gotta get my coffee fix. There’s actually a Starbucks not far from here I can show you later, but I thought for your first morning in Notting Hill, you’d like it to be authentic. Besides, this place has a great full English breakfast.”
It’s like he knows me. “Thanks for bringing me here. I’m sure you have your own agenda for the day, so don’t feel like you’ve gotta stick around.”
“Actually, I just take every day as it comes. I don’t really make an agenda or a schedule. Just whatever I feel like doing when I wake up, that’s what I do. And if an opportunity presents itself, I jump on it.”
The way those words leave his mouth makes me want to jump on him.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Besides being sexy, entirely too sexy for his age, I like the way he looks at things. I’ve always been drawn to the free-spirited. I think I see it as something I lack, so I crave it in other people. I’m trying to be more like that … less planning, more living.
I don’t remember guys being this confident and sexy when I was twenty-two.
I just smile over at him.
He pulls some sunglasses out of his backpack and puts them on.
Oh, wow. I might need to excuse myself for some alone time.
“What did you wake up feeling like doing today?” I ask.
“I didn’t really have anything in mind until I saw you.” His boldness is startling. Does he mean what I think he means? No. I’m sure my sex-deprived self is now making things up. Perhaps I’m hallucinating … or maybe it’s a dream? Maybe I’m still on the plane sleeping, and I haven’t even landed in London yet. Yeah, that’s it.
“Meg?”
Snapping out of my crazy inner thoughts, I look up at him and decide if I’m dreaming, I don’t want to wake up.
“Sorry.”
“Sophie here wants to take your order.” He smiles again, glancing down and over the top of his sunglasses, but pointing up to a young girl waiting patiently.
I feel completely mortified that I’m having these crazy thoughts and didn’t even see our waitress walk up to the table. My face is hot, and I’m flustered, completely unnerved by the man … boy … guy … boy-man sitting across from me.
“I’ll have a coffee and the full English breakfast. And a water, please.”
Sophie takes Dylan’s order and I try to busy myself with people-watching while I attempt to regain my composure. This is crazy. I’m a grown-ass woman. I need to start acting like it and quit tripping over some young guy who probably views me as his mom now
that he knows how old I am.
“Beautiful,” Dylan mutters.
“What?” I ask.
He coughs into his hand, but behind it is a smile that pushes his cheeks up into the rim of his shades. I kinda wish I had a pair of my own. I’d like to be able to stare at him without him noticing.
“I said it’s beautiful today.”
“Yes, it is. I don’t know why, but I’m surprised. In my mind, I pictured it to be grayer, foggier … maybe a mist in the air.”
He laughs lightly, sitting forward and resting his elbows on the table. “Yeah, I think a lot of people do. I’m not sure how much truth is behind this, but I heard that Londoners have tried really hard to cut down on the air pollution, and that’s helped with the fog that used to blanket the city.”
“You sure seem to know a lot.” I wasn’t thinking about my words in a sexual manner before they left my mouth, but as he gives me a cocky smile, my mind takes a sharp turn to Gutterville.
I wonder how much he knows. Surely he’s not a virgin.
He can’t be a virgin, right?
Sexy guy like him. Full of charm and charisma. A smile that could melt Mother Teresa’s panties.
Oh, my God. What is wrong with me? Now, I’m bringing religion into this. Stop it, Meg!
“Well, I’m a good listener.”
“I can see that.” I will the blush off my cheeks and think about dead puppies and bad coffee … anything to get my mind off of Dylan and sex.
“And I like to learn random facts,” he adds. “I guess if I was more passionate about one specific thing, it’d be easier to decide what I want to do after college.”
“I guess the best advice I ever got was to go with your gut. Don’t overthink it. But, more than anything, do what makes you happy, even if that means you won’t have the highest-paying, most glamorous job.”
“That’s good advice.”
“I’ve been around the block a time or two.”
“Oh, really?” he asks, his eyebrows shooting up over the top of his sunglasses. “Well, that’s good to know.”
“No! Not like that!” Laughing into my hands so I can hide the embarrassment on my face, I don’t see when the waitress walks back up with our food. Suddenly, a whiff of deliciousness hits my nose, and my mouth is salivating. Uncovering my face, I look down to a plate overflowing with sausage and eggs … and things I’m not exactly certain of … but it all smells so good.
What the Heart Wants: An Opposites Attract Anthology Page 9
