Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
The view is pretty impressive at the very top. I glance down at the Thames, and out over the city, then at Pippa, standing there with her hair catching the sunlight, her eyes wide, and her mouth slightly open in awe. And my pulse quickens. I want her. God, I want her so much it feels like a fist in my guts.
“You look,” I say softly. “Completely adorable.”
“I think you mean breathtaking,” she says with fake solemnity, though I see the blush creeping into her cheeks.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I meant,” I reply, grinning.
As we descend slowly, the shadows lengthen, and the city begins to light up. Pippa leans against me again, and I let it all happen; the proximity, the warmth, the easy laughter. I think about the day we have shared so far - the Dungeon, the café, Buckingham Palace, and now this - and I realize that nothing about this day feels fake anymore. Even the charade of getting to know each other has a strange, honest magic to it.
“You know,” I say quietly. “This might be the best day I’ve had in a long time.”
She glances up at me, a mischievous glint in her eye. “You mean with me as your ridiculously charming sidekick?”
“Exactly,” I say, smiling. “You make even the most awfully touristy things fun.”
She laughs. “Did you just use the word awfully in the most terrible British accent?”
I smile. “When in Rome …”
The capsule slows and stops at ground level, and the doors open.
“Come on. Let’s feed you,” she says.
Chapter Thirteen
Pippa
The smell hits me before anything else. Salt and vinegar mingling with the faint hint of fried batter. It’s an unmistakable smell, one I love. My stomach growls with hunger, which is perfectly convenient since Rhett and I are standing in front of a tiny, blue and white, fish and chip shop near the river.
“Authentic fish and chips to cap off the day,” he says, grinning down at me.
“Yup? So authentic they wrap it up with old newspapers like they used to in ye olden days.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, greasy fish wrapped in newspapers is really quite charming.”
He laughs, that easy, infectious laugh that has me melting every time he does it.
When we reach the front of the queue, I order for us – two portions of haddock and chips with lots of salt and vinegar, mushy peas, and two cans of Coke. The girl behind the counter makes up our order quickly and efficiently, asking if we want them wrapped or open. I tell her open and she nods. When the order is ready, we each grab a Coke and our steaming hot fish and chips with a layer of newspapers beneath waxed paper. We step back out onto the Thames walkway. The sun is dipping low, casting golden reflections across the water, and the air smells faintly of the river mixed with fried food.
I watch Rhett take a bite of his fish.
“Well?” I ask expectantly.
“Good. Very good. Eating these out of the old newspaper really does make it feel authentic.”
“Like you’re a proper Londoner now.”
He nods with a full mouth, and I take a bite of my fish and pause for a moment to moan with pleasure at how delicious it is.
“Authenticity is everything. Real fish and chips like real Londoners, and not forgetting that walking along the river bank eating them is the real magic.”
He nods sagely. “Yup. This is how real love stories start with fish and chips in our hands, the wind in your hair, and the city lights reflecting in your eyes.”
I almost choke on my chip. “Wind in your hair? It’s barely blowing.”
Rhett dips a chip into a little pool of vinegar that has formed in the corner of his tray with exaggerated seriousness. “You’re missing the metaphor,” he says, grinning. “Just go with it.”
We walk side by side, laughing, the crunch of crispy batter between our teeth and the occasional squawk of a seagull punctuating our conversation. Somewhere between the greasy fingers and the sun glinting off the water, our talk turns inevitably to our fake relationship.
“So,” I say, nudging him lightly with my elbow. “We need to be on the same page in case anyone asks us a question. Let’s get the official timeline sorted first. How long have we been together?”
He gives me a sidelong glance. “Hmm. By my calculations, it would be approximately eight hours of concentrated fun, give or take a few minutes of panic in the Dungeon.”
“Eight hours?” I repeat. “I was thinking longer. It doesn’t have to be true. It’s all fake anyway. It just has to be feasible.”
“Fine,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “How long have you and Mr. Dependability … I mean George … been estranged?”
“Nearly six weeks,” I say mournfully.
“Ok, then, how about a month?”
I nod in agreement. “Month is good for me.”