I breathed in and made my first great step into London, which was quickly interrupted. Bryan grabbed my hand and yanked me back just as a car sped by. It was literally inches from my body. It was so close I felt the air rush by.
“I didn’t even see that car coming!” I gasped, my voice wobbly. My heart pounded, and my legs felt weak beneath me. I leaned on him for support. “I need to sit down. How about that bench?”
He let go of my hand once we were seated and pointed to the left. “Cars drive on the opposite side of the road. You looked the wrong way before crossing.”
“I hadn’t thought about it.” I bent forward and rested my elbows on my knees, waiting for my heart rate to fall. “Thank you for saving my life.”
“Anytime.” He flashed me a half smile. My insides felt like jelly, which I attributed to his smile and not my near-death experience.
While I focused on breathing, Bryan looked up the bus schedule and read off the times. After a few minutes, I felt better. We then made our way to the closest bus stop. It was less than a five-minute walk, and I felt safe with Bryan by my side.
“Have you been to London before?” I asked, starting a conversation as we waited for the bus. It gave me something to think about. Focus on him; forget about almost dying. He was a much more pleasant thought.
“Once on business. I didn’t get to do much sightseeing.”
“You seem to know all the tourist spots to go see.”
He took a step back and cleared his throat. “I have one more confession to make.”
I straightened up and tightened my grip on the strap of my bag. “And what’s that?” His last two confessions had been good confessions. What if this one wasn’t? I could see the bus approaching and was thankful. If I didn’t like his confession, at least the bus tour would be a change of pace. Or I could just skip the bus ride all together. I wasn’t committed to anything.
“I did some quick research before we met up today. My family is notorious for wasting time, and it’s particularly bad on family vacations. We’d think a plan was in order and then someone would complain, which would start the discussion all over again. So I try to have things figured out—a plan A, plan B, plan C, and so on—to avoid being like my family.”
“And?”
“And that’s the reason for the map and tending to be a little OCD about planning.”
My chest decompressed. That wasn’t so bad. “You’re a wealth of knowledge.” I stepped forward as the bus pulled up to the curb, Bryan right behind me.
“I’ll admit I wanted to impress you.”
My pulse quickened. His smile confirmed his sincerity.
“You wanted to impress me?” I repeated the words, pleased. It was flattering to have someone admit that. Somehow, it was easier for me to believe his words than when Joshua had said something similar on the show, probably because Bryan didn’t have to say it for the sake of the viewers. Or the cameras. Or the ratings.
We climbed the stairs to the top deck of the red bus. Bryan sat down next to me and angled his body toward me. He pulled the map out again, and on the backside was a list written in blue ink. It snaked around the print, filling in any trace of white space.
“Is that your master list of places to impress me?” His list of adventures was endearing. He had really done his research.
“These are my ideas.” He pointed at the scribbled words in the margins
“Can I see?” I reached over with an open hand.
“Of course,” Bryan said, passing the map to me. He then leaned closer and whispered, “But guard it with your life.”
I chuckled and rolled my eyes as I took it from him and skimmed his list. “The Sherlock Holmes Museum?”
“Yeah, I’ve always been a big fan of Sherlock.”
The bus pulled away from the curb and lumbered forward. The wind of the open air wasn’t particularly brisk, but I gripped the edges of the map a little tighter.
“What about you? Are you a Sherlock Holmes fan?” he asked.
“I enjoyed the movies,” I replied, but kept my eyes on the list. “Mews, rooftop bar, Dennis Sever’s House. I can’t say I’ve heard of that. What is it?” I looked over at him.
“It’s this cool tour of a house that is practically stuck in the Eighteenth Century.”
“Sounds fascinating,” I murmured, pouring over the list. “Oh, what’s this? The Mayor of Scaredy Cat Town.”
“It’s a restaurant that you enter through a vintage refrigerator.”
I brushed some hair out of my eyes. “I’m intrigued. These sound way more interesting than the normal touristy places I chose.” I handed the map back to him.
He took the map from me and rolled it, then let it loose before rolling it tight again. “I want to see the places on your list also.”
“We have a couple of days. Let’s see as much as possible.” I paused, catching myself on my words. I was unconsciously creating plans for us, yet my intent wasn’t to obligate myself to my new friend. I turned my face into the wind. I wanted to close my eyes and soak everything in. I wanted to live in the moment, without any expectations. Because expectations led to disappointments. But I could see how the day went and go from there.
“Sounds like a good plan,” Bryan said.
Parliament and Big Ben were astounding. Everything was greater, grander, and bigger than I had imagined. After three hundred and thirty-four steps up the tower of Big Ben and four hours trying to take it all in, I realized I was starving.
“Are you hungry?” Bryan asked.
“You read my mind. Yes, let’s eat.” I looked around to see if there was anything nearby that seemed inviting.
Bryan took out his phone. “Do you like fish? We could try the traditional British meal of fish and chips?”
“I’m glad you didn’t suggest blood pudding,” I joked.
He curled his lip in disgust and summoned his best British accent: “Let us speak no longer of this blood pudding and, instead, go in search of friendlier foods such as fish and chips with a dash a malt vinegar, perhaps?”
I giggled at his impression. “Indeed,” I replied in a similar fashion. “Although, I’m not quite sure what malt vinegar is,” I whispered, accent still going strong.
“Me, neither,” he confessed, then proceeded to Google “the best fish and chips place around,” which returned several options. We chose the closest one.
The restaurant wasn’t a sit-down institution with waiters and menus. It was like a café or food stand, where you went to the counter and ordered what you wanted off the big, hand-written sign behind the clerk. Shortly after ordering, we were handed paper plates with a heaping amount of food on it—thick, cut potatoes and a huge serving of deep-fried fish.
I looked at the large piece of fish and then at my plastic fork and knife. I wondered how I was going to manage cutting it without the utensils snapping.
“Mine looks like Asia,” Bryan said, holding up his piece of fish. Then he recoiled and dropped it on his plate. “Ow, hot!” He shook his hand and blew on his fingers. “Maybe I’ll start with the chips first.”
“No ketchup. Just vinegar, huh?”
“I hear that is the native way.” He picked up a glass bottle of dark vinegar from the counter and shook some onto his fries.
I watched as he took a bite. “What do you think?”
“It’s good.” He nodded and took another bite. “Here’s our answer about the difference between malt vinegar and regular vinegar. This one is brown and has a very different taste.”
“And it doesn’t taste too strong?” I imagined the bitter and powerful taste of white vinegar.
Bryan chewed his food while shaking his head. “Nope. In fact, it’s really good. This is the best food I’ve had since breakfast.”
&nbs
p; As I took a tentative bite, my phone whistled. A text message. “Excuse me.” I glanced at it quickly. Text me when you can, my sister had written. I decided to put it off until tonight. If it was that important, she would have added 911 or ASAP.
Chapter Four
You were right. This is really good,” I said after taking my first bite of fish. It was flaky and deep fried and the best I had ever tasted. And the malt vinegar complimented the taste.
“The British couldn’t be wrong after all these years, could they?” Bryan licked his fingers before wiping them on a napkin.
I pointed to his wrist. “Can I ask about your bracelet?”
He examined it. I could see it had letters on the beads that spelled BRYAN. “This was a gift from my five-year-old niece. She gave it to me for good luck on my trip.” He wagged his eyebrows. “I think she was worried I might forget my name while I was away. I told her I’d take a picture in London to prove how much I loved it.”
“Your niece has some skills. Has it brought you good luck?”
“Maybe. I’m still trying to determine that.” One side of his mouth lifted. “And I haven’t forgotten my name, either.”
I played with the straw in my drink. “You’re a nice uncle to humor a little girl’s wishes.”
“It’s a small sacrifice to make so I remain her favorite uncle. Besides, five-year-olds take pinkie promises pretty seriously.”
That was endearing. “Is there stiff competition?”
He shook his head and then cleared his throat. “Actually, no. I’m her only uncle.”
I spread my hands out. “No worries then, right?” I paused for a beat. “So, kilts.” I wiped my mouth with the napkin. I picked up a thick, salty fry, eager to try it. “How come you’re going to a kilt convention?”
I wondered if he was Scottish. Having that kilt in his suitcase didn’t automatically make him Scottish.
“I work for a kilt company.”
Before I had a chance to answer, he added, “Completely serious—I promise.”
“Really?” I was intrigued. I hadn’t ever met anyone who worked for a kilt company.
He wiped his fingers and picked up his drink. “Totally legit.”
“I bet you get asked that all the time.”
He nodded. “I have the business card to prove it. Want to see?” He reached to his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed me a card.
I put down the fry hovering midway to my mouth, wiped my hands with my napkin, and took the card. “Just Right Kilts,” I read aloud. “Bryan Edwards, Marketing.”
He chuckled and looked right at me. “I work on the ad campaigns.”
I wondered if he modeled for the ad campaigns.
“And you’re based in America?” I may have betrayed my ignorance, but Americans and kilts didn’t seem to be a common pair.
“Yes.”
I shook my head in mock shame. “I need to get out more often.”
He continued munching on his chips, which I took as a sign that he wasn’t bothered by my questions. Or that he was letting me off the hook about the kilt thing. It gave me time to digest what he was telling me. Meanwhile, many more curiosities came to mind. For instance, how did he get into the business? What did he look like in his kilt? And probably the most burning question: what was traditionally worn under kilts? I had heard all sorts of answers on the random occasion the topic came up. It took me a second to realize I was still holding his business card. “Can I keep this? In case I ever need to buy a kilt.”
His face changed. His lips pursed as he raised a brow.
“For my dad,” I added quickly.
He shifted his weight in the chair. “Um, this may sound unbelievable, but I kind of need that back.”
It was my turn to raise a brow. “Seriously?”
He cringed. “I ordered new business cards before I left for this trip, but they didn’t arrive in time. I only have about twenty cards, and I need them for the convention.”
I smirked. “Are you sure you just don’t want me to know how to get ahold of you?” Despite my harmless quip, his expression remained unchanged. I sank into my seat and looked around the shop—anywhere but at him. What just happened? I coughed before offering an explanation. “I’m kidding about that—”
“I’m not making that up,” he stated.
The collision of comments broke the awkwardness of the moment.
Bryan cleared his throat. “Enough about me, kilts, and business cards. What about you? What do you do for work?”
I picked up a chip and watched as a drop of vinegar dripped off the end. “I own an upcycled vintage furniture store that I inherited from my grandma.”
“Upcycled vintage furniture?” His head tilted to the side. “What does that mean?”
I held my palms up and shrugged. “It sounds more complicated than it is. Basically, I take vintage stuff, paint it, repurpose it, and sell it. When my grandma was alive, the store was more antiques. When I started helping her, it evolved into what it is now.”
He nodded slowly. “Where’s your shop?”
“Lewes, Delaware,” I answered.
“Delaware? I don’t think I have ever met anyone from Delaware.”
Believe it or not, I heard that a lot. “And I’ve never met anyone who works for a kilt company,” I teased.
“Did you grow up in Delaware?”
“Yes. What about you?” I didn’t hear any sort of regional accent in his voice.
“I grew up in Oregon. Right now, I live in Ohio.”
Not too far from me. And there I was again—forming plans and expectations where none existed.
“Do you travel here often for business?”
“The first time I came here was to set up for a tradeshow,” Bryan replied. “The work was more manual labor, and there wasn’t much time for sightseeing. Now that I’m in marketing, I have more time for sightseeing. Is this your first time in London?”
“Yes. I’ve always wanted to come. I hadn’t done much traveling up until a few months ago.” I froze, realizing I might have just opened myself up to the possibility of discussing Joshua.
“You did some traveling? Work or pleasure?”
I didn’t know what to call taping Desperately Seeking Mrs. Right. “A little of both, I guess.” I gave a weak smile, wondering exactly how much I should tell him. “I was in a short-lived relationship, and we did some traveling. I had too many expectations about the relationship and ended up disappointed when things didn’t turn out as expected.”
“It happens, right?” His voice was so kind that it put me at ease. His eyes met mine, and I knew he understood. There was a moment of silence before he spoke again. “I’m already full.” He surveyed his plate of food, only half eaten.
“Next time we should share a plate instead,” I blurted out, only to catch myself. Jumping to conclusions again, Phoebe.
His face brightened. “You’re probably right.”
My hand went to my neck, which suddenly itched. I asked myself what happened to that one—maybe two-day—fling.
“It’s not every day I get to spend time in London with a nice girl I just met.”
I blushed. “Thank you.” I soaked in the emotions his words evoked. “And how is it you’re still single?” I paused abruptly. What if he isn’t? “You are, aren’t you?” I glanced at his left hand, reconfirming there was no ring, no tan lines, even though I had checked once before. But just because he didn’t have a ring didn’t guarantee he didn’t have a girlfriend.
His face turned red, and he looked down. He cleared his throat before finally speaking. “Yeah, I’m single. And I don’t really know how to answer the rest of your question. Maybe I just work too much?”
“You’re a workaholic?” I pointe
d at him with a chip from across the table. There was a lot to be said for a chip that kept its form. “How come? Can’t stay away from the kilts?”
“I try not to. I don’t want to be.” He shrugged. “I got this promotion into marketing last year, and it sort of became a habit.”
“But you’re here for vacation?”
“Yes, and then the convention in Edinburgh.” He hesitated. “And some other stuff.”
I wondered what the other stuff was, but based on this tone, I didn’t feel like it was my business to ask. “Did you bring work along with you to do? Because of the workaholic thing?” I assumed that’s what he meant.
“No. I’ve turned off my cell phone. I told them not to call me, even if it’s an emergency. Once I’m at the convention, then I’m back on the job.”
“So, you’re a recovering workaholic, and that’s why you’re taking the vacation,” I surmised.
“I’m trying. Some of that recovery includes not thinking about work. What do you think? Is that enough shop talk?” It was a rhetorical question. He pointed to my plate. “Are you still hungry? Should we go find a crumpet?”
“What exactly is a crumpet?” Another foreign food I had heard of before, but with more mystery behind its contents than fish and chips.
“I’m not quite sure.” He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and punched a few keys. His eyes scanned the screen. “A crumpet is a flat, round cake that is porous and eaten toasted with butter.” He studied it for a few seconds before turning to show me. “It looks like an English muffin to me.”
“It does. But I’m pretty full. Maybe we can save it for later? We still have the rest of the bus tour ahead of us, and who knows? Maybe riding around on top of a bus can work up an appetite.” I stood up and gathered our trash.
Desperately Seeking Mr. Right (Destined For Love: Europe) Page 3
