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“Then I’ll come to the fair with you,” I say. “That’ll solve the whole not being in the same building thing.”
She blinks at me slowly. “Why would you do that?”
I shrug. “Sounds like it’ll be a fun afternoon.”
She narrows her eyes, clearly not buying it. “It’ll be fun forme. Less so for someone like you.”
And there it is again. An underlying bite that colours her tone. It feels like she’s trying to say something – something she feels she can’t voice out loud – but I can’t figure out what it is. She doesn’t give me the chance to ask.
“The weather is going to be nice, though,” she says quickly. The redirect is obvious. “You should head out, see the sights. The London Eye is usually a good one in the sun.”
The only thing I want to see in the sun is her.
“Nah, you’ve sold me on the fair,” I say, ignoring the scowl she shoots me. She’s really quite an expressive woman. “And besides, if you do happen to see something you think might be a good fit for the club, I should probably be there to approve it.”
It’s a flimsy excuse.
I know it.
She knows it.
“I don’t need your approval, Hawthorne.”
“I know you don’t,” I tell her honestly, because she’s right. Amber doesn’t need orwantmy approval when it comes to anything. It’s a strange feeling going from being the person who has to sign off on everything from milk deliveries to important press releases, to being around someone who clearly couldn’t care less about my opinions on the intricacies of their job.
I don’t think I mind it though.
“But humour me,” I continue. “Let me still act like I’m the one in charge around here.”
“As long as we both know it’s just an act.”
“I’m well aware, sweetheart.”
She laughs, and the sound vibrates along my bones. Such a beautiful laugh.
“So I’ll come then?” I ask. “To the fair, with you?”
“Yes, Hawthorne,” she says with a dramatic, long-suffering sigh. “You can come.”
* * *
It’sthe first genuinely warm and sunny day I’ve had since landing in the UK. The sky is blue, the few sparse clouds in the sky are a blinding white, and the sun is shining high above us.
It’s not hot exactly – probably no higher than 68F – but everyone is dressed like we’re in Spain or Greece.
Amber included.
My throat goes dry as I spot her in the queue for the fair. She’s wearing a short yellow summer dress. I think there’s some kind of pattern to it – maybe spirals or clouds – but I barely register it. I can only focus on the way it hugs at her waist, accentuating her subtle curves, or the way the soft breeze makes the hem flutter around her thighs and full hips.
She looks gorgeous. Like she was made to be in the sun. Her warm brown skin is practically glowing and when she looks up and sees me staring at her, I swear her smile could rival the sun.
“I was just starting to wonder if you’d bailed on me,” she teases as I push through the small crowd to join her in the queue.
Never.
“Sorry, got a bit turned around on the tube.” My hotel is within walking distance from the club and, aside from that one evening when I locked myself out, I’ve not had much use for London’s expansive underground network yet.
“I thought New Yorkers were supposed to be good on the underground. Don’t you have a subway there?”
