Awestruck.
It hit me then why I felt like I knew her. She had the same coloring and wide smile about her of this early nineties soap star that my mum watched when I was a child. Something about how her lids sat low on her eyes gave her a sleepy look and, combined with her low, raspy voice, was alluring. She was impossible to look away from, not that I wanted to. My gaze was eager to capture every detail of her that wasn’t covered by her heavy winter coat.
“This is a little awkward,” she said in her American accent.
“Don’t worry. This happens all the time,” I said.
She tilted her head. “You’re British?”
That didn’t usually come as a surprise. I have played Americans, even a Russian once, but Adam Abbots was undoubtedly my most famous role. People often yelled, “To be human is to endure!” as I walked down the street, and I’d salute back as I had inTerraformative.
“I am. Londoner, I’m afraid.”
“Huh.” She cocked a hand on her hip. “You know I have a friend …” Then she waved her hand through the air as though erasing what she said. “Never mind. You don’t know him.”
“No. I might. All ex-pats here in the US know each other,” I said. “We have a group chat where we are remiss over the lack of beans on toast and the strict dental regime.” Her glorious mouth split open into a huge smile, revealing a perfect set of pearly whites. I gestured to her mouth. “Case in point.”
She self-consciously brought a hand over her dimming smile. I cursed myself.
“Well, now this makes things even more awkward,” she said.
“Excuse me.” A group of at least a dozen geriatric tourists was headed right where we blocked the walking path.
I stepped out of the way under an awning of another tourist shop, gently guiding her by the elbow. My hand hummed with warm energy when I made contact, even through her jacket, and she glanced where my hand briefly touched.
A passing senior dropped her map, and I quickly grabbed it and returned it to her.
“Thanks, doll,” she said, patting my arm and then catching up with her group.
I returned to the cove with the mysterious, beautiful woman. Sparkling white lights hung around us, closing us off.
“Yep. Super awkward.” The stranger looked at me with gleaming light reflected in her eyes.
“Why is it awkward?” I asked, my voice lower, as somehow this setting made our conversation deeply intimate.
“It appears that you’re both funny and polite.” She gestured to the passing group, avoiding my eyes as she said it.
“I’d think that would be a good thing. I’m a professional after all.” I gave what I hoped was my most Harrison Evans, good-natured smile.
Her mouth hardened, and her eyebrows slashed down. “Are you admitting to being a professional shoplifter?”
My smile dropped. “Excuse me?” I glanced around, worry growing. “You didn’t stop me for a—”
I couldn’t even finish the question. It felt absurd now.
“Empty your pockets, buddy. And I won’t alert the authorities.” Her eyebrow raised with a teasing reprimand, but my pulse thumped in my throat.
“I amnota shoplifter, I assure you,” I said, holding her gaze with all seriousness. This would not be tomorrow’s headline.
“You know, I believe you. But still. Humor me,” she said gently.
I checked the first pocket of my Mac: a crumpled receipt and a rock Collette found for me and told me was lucky. I proffered my loot.
“See?”
“Nice rock. Other one.” She crossed her arms and tapped her foot.
Earbuds case, phone, keys to George’s and …
