by Emily Evans
“Thirty?”
He nodded.
I stomped down to my room to change, but by the time I got there, my mood had shifted upward. I was going to dinner with Wythe. I went with a yellow and white striped sundress and white flats. Primping took a while and I had to hurry to meet him on time. My legs were going to look awesome after all this Westminster walking.
He was there waiting. Dark slacks, white untucked shirt, hair slicked back from his shower. It made me breathless. I leaped in with a class thought before I could flush and accidentally say something too flirty for our friendly peace treaty. “We should have thought about the next clue before giving her that puzzle. That would have been a good strategy. In front or not, we’ve got to think further than one clue at a time.” There. That sounded like I cared about the class. And I guess I did. I didn’t want Peppa to beat me. She was unpleasant. I didn’t want to let Wythe down.
He held open the door and gave the driver the name of a restaurant. “We’re going to win.”
“We’d better.”
That made him smile.
I got in first, and he followed me. My mind shifted back to upstairs, and my teeth clenched. What made Peppa think that was okay? “A towel. She opened the door in a towel. Who does that? Did you have some history where she thought that was acceptable?” I sounded annoyed, but I couldn’t help it.
Wythe held up his hands. Pop music sounded in the car, and the driver put up the privacy screen.
“Answer me, you voyeur.”
“Whoa. I’m not in control of her wardrobe.” He gave me one of those side glances that said he was amused at how jealous I sounded. I drew in a breath and vowed not to mention it again on the way to the restaurant.
The evening was still light outside, I’d enjoy the historic buildings on our route, the people walking along the sidewalks… and the handsome guy who sat in the car with me. The route was less than ten minutes. The car went to the left and took us to one of those UK specialties, a restaurant that didn’t look like a restaurant. A simple door with a small name outside. No flashing billboards for these folks. It looked like a private club. An entryway filled with tartan-covered furniture. Dark wood accents. Massive bar. We went past the main area down a side hallway. It was empty. Wythe started to lead the way, and I grabbed his arm. I wanted to ask a question in private. I shouldn’t ask this question, but I couldn’t let it go either.
He looked down at me and arched an eyebrow.
I huffed out a sigh. “If I weren’t here, would you be taking Peppa up on her offer?”
He jerked back a bit.
“Don’t pretend you don’t understand what she was offering.” The potted fern poked my calf, making me realize that I’d almost backed into it. I stepped closer to him. “Would you be all up on that?”
His eyes lit, and he pulled me to him. His lips landed on mine. He felt right, but I pushed against him, needing answers. He moved his mouth from my lips, traced my jaw, and up to my ear. “I wouldn’t,” he said. “I have my eye on someone else.”
His answer fixed the situation. A smile curled my lips, and I cut off the trembling, suddenly happy.
He grinned back at me. “Shall we dine well?”
I nodded.
“Do you know what ‘dining well’ means? Is it the obvious?” He grimaced. “Or is it some hidden poetic symbolism or something equally awful?”
I shouldn’t have giggled at the dismissiveness of such a wonderful literary tool, but I did. I’d gone from low to high. He did that for me. “I believe it means white tablecloth, silverware, china. I hope you picked out a great place.”
“We’ll see.”
I sat down at the round, dark wooden table while he held my chair. I loved his manners. I wanted to know more about him. Everything. “What’s in the fall for you?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Engineering classes. This time, I’ll make my own selections.”
We talked about jobs, our families, a sport called cricket, and travel. We’d gone through Mediterranean salads, T-bone steaks, and now we were onto dessert. Sticky Toffee Pudding, a spongy, syrupy cake, and hot tea. We’d dined well, conversed well, and I still wanted to linger. “Can you go to another country for engineering? Or is it one of those degrees that require specific English teachings?”
He arched his eyebrows.
“Like if you’re designing a bridge in Houston, you have to take into account hurricane strength, heat, humidity…”
“I’m free to go where I like.” His words said one thing, but his face said another.
It clicked for me. “How would it look if the leader’s own children don’t go to school in England?”
He finished off his pudding. “Not good.”
“I admire your direction as far as jobs go. I’m getting a Lit degree. A love of books. Anyone going to pay me to be a reader?” I took a sip of my after-dinner tea. This class or summer moving along had me thinking in a real way about what I’d be doing later.
He pursed his lips. “You could work at a publishing house. A literary agency. A kindergarten classroom. Be an audiobook narrator.”
“Got it. Open my mind and see the possibilities.” Publishing meant New York or the West Coast or… London.
“Don’t decide. Volunteer. Intern if you can afford it. Even if you can’t. How else will you know what suits? It’ll be easy for you. Choosing a firm will be difficult for me. Government contracts in play and the like.”
Actually, that was rather amazing advice—an internship at a place where I’d actually consider working. That would help me know what I wanted. My sister knew she wanted to work in business operations for a large corporation. And she knew what it would take to get there. I’d always hemmed and hawed and stated random plans that weren’t real, just to keep up. But because my plans hadn’t been real, I hadn’t looked into them, couldn’t back them up. I’d sounded wishy-washy while my sister had sounded like a go-getter. Maybe some people could pick their one dream job at this age and have it work out. People like me had to try it before they bought it.
“That’s a lot of thinking over a little statement.” His accent broke apart the word “little” in a way we didn’t break it with American accents.
I liked it. Most of the time he sounded normal to me, but every now and then something hit me like this. He sounded interested, and his suggestion resonated with me. He resonated with me. “It’s good. You’re good for me.”
“That or the fine meal is making you think well.” He didn’t hold out his hand and take mine. But at least he wasn’t rejecting my friendship. He was being playful and redirecting me back to the class. It was something.
“Fine. Fine. Back to your game. Thinking well to me means thinking of a favorite quote. I bet that would buy us a clue. A favorite quote, by another female writer.”
He stared. “I got nothing. We can Google it.”
“‘It is never too late to be what you might have been.’ George Eliot.”
“I like that one. George is a female author?”
I snickered. “George was a woman. But to be fair, I’ve been confused about your authors before, too. I thought Evelyn Waugh was a woman.”
“She’s not?”
“Nope.”
We recorded our quote with the fancy dining table in the background and sent it off. We also threw in #LivingLiterature because I liked how it sounded. The professor’s puzzles seemed to be more about understanding quotes and presenting real-life interpretations rather than truly solving clues. The richness of a long-ago author’s words enriching a moment in the here and now. That defined classic.
I loved that Wythe was opening up to me again. Talking about his future. Talking about my future. I toyed with my warm teacup and then put it down in the saucer, dropping my hands to my lap. I twisted the napkin between my fingers and then looked up at his handsome face through the candlelight. “I should intern again next summer. You could, too. In the U.S. Save your local firms from any impropriety.”
He blinked.
“Go for a small non-international firm. Or work for the state. Like TX-DOT, the people who do the roads.” I was greedy and selfish going there. I didn’t care though. I would love his moving to Texas. “You’d get your work experience. Your mom wouldn’t be accused of bias…” I said it all in one go and then stopped, letting him mull that over.
His jaw tightened, but his gaze was steady on me. The lack of instant denial meant he was thinking about it. The lack of flippant remarks meant he was considering it. That made me really happy, and I floated on the thought of Wythe in America as we left the restaurant and took the quick ride home. We went through the family entrance and were climbing the steps to household level when Wythe paused. Not a kiss goodnight kind of pause, but a pause.
“That play you want to go to… Harry Potter.”
“Yeah?”
“I got tickets for the matinee.” He looked away. “We can go there. You can get your last point. We can do that instead of going to the maritime lecture.”
His offer made me realize I was more concerned about being with him than getting that internship point. I shouldn’t question a gift horse, but I was going to. I felt too much about this, about him, not to ask. “You’ve been against it all summer. And then you were terrifically mad at me. Why now? Why with something I want to do?”
“You’ve been working hard at this class, though you didn’t want to do it. You’ve done it, and I’ll get that point for you. You and me at the Palace Theatre.”
That would do it. I’d have three solid points. I’d be considered a photo-worthy intern. The reality hit me. My heart sped up. It was everything. I’d be with him. I’d get my last point. My summer would be a total success. I didn’t plan on calling Felicity until I got that last point. It would be like jinxing it or something. This was amazing, unexpected, wonderful news. I wanted to bounce on my feet. And scream, but I didn’t.
“You still here?”
“You’re sure? Scratch that.” I nodded fast. “Thank you, Wythe. This internship… my sister…”
He held up his hand. “I’d rather not know.”
Okay, so it was still a sore point with him. I could accept that. “Just know it matters to me.”
He nodded.
I was happy. I was. But… there was a big part of me that wanted to go with him for no other reason than to be a guy and a girl out for a show. A date. A date that would end with a kiss. A date that would show him he mattered more than the internship.
“There you are,” Peppa said from the top of the steps. Her position implied that she’d been waiting for us. “I found out earlier that Vihaan gave me the wrong quote for you two. A quote about dinner. Ha. As if that would be right.” She rolled her gray eyes.
I looked at the big clock. It was late. Later than I’d thought it would be, nearing midnight. Wythe and I had lingered longer than I’d thought. “And you waited up to tell us?” I asked, annoyed that she was interrupting my good news, good mood, and good night with Wythe.
“I’m sure you saw the professor’s texts; therefore, you know this couldn’t wait.”
We hadn’t. Well, I hadn’t; my attention had been on Wythe during and after dinner. “What’s the correct information?”
“With final answers due in tomorrow, it seemed right to correct Vihaan’s mistake as soon as possible.” Peppa said it all in a casual voice, as if she hadn’t delayed our figuring out the final clue by hours. “I didn’t want you to be behind in class the way you are with the internship.”
It steamed me, but the frustration wasn’t unfamiliar. This kind of trick and a dig was something Felicity would have done.
Peppa must have recognized I was losing my patience, because she opened her palm as if preparing a speech. “‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.’ Jane Austen.” Peppa shrugged. “Sorry for the delay.” She walked off. It was not okay. I looked up at Wythe to see if he was feeling the same outrage. Wythe had that glazed literature look in his eyes.
I looked at Peppa and decided, in case she was spying on us, to annoy her. I pulled Wythe’s head down, so I could speak in his ear. “I got nothing. Let’s sleep on it and meet in the morning.”
He nodded. “After tomorrow, you’ll never have to read me literature again.” His tone was teasing, but he didn’t really seem that thrilled.
“I promise nothing.”
He gave me a slow smile, and we separated on that level, so I could go up to my room.
In bed, as I turned the page on my unicorn-shape-shifting novel and relaxed into my pillow, it hit me. A great answer, which was just what I needed right now. Maybe even the ultimate literary answer. The British Library. The library had Jane Austen’s desk and books by all the authors we’d been quoting. That was it.
Excitement spun through me. I knew where we’d go in the morning to finish this class, and our answer was going to be wonderful. And Wythe would be grateful. And we’d go to the play, and I’d get the internship point. It would be perfect.
Chapter 19
The driver dropped us off on Euston Road right after an early lunch. We had plenty of time to get our photo and then make our way over to the theater for the play. Today was working out great. I climbed the steps to the British library, Wythe beside me. A woman in her mid-sixties rushed past us, tying a unicorn hat on her head. I paused for a second and then kept moving, I’d seen stranger things in London.
We got inside. A noisy line to the right consisted of visitors from their late teens to retired seniors, each person wearing a version of a unicorn costume. From as little as the horn on a blue-haired lady to as much as a full-fur white body costume on at least twenty of them. Most of the women wore wreaths of pink roses around their necks, making the whole lobby fragrant, and letting me know exactly who they were. They were Unicorn Romance fans.
“What’s that?” Wythe stared and looked away. “Not our clue, is it? Why are they dressed like that? Why are they here?” He sounded perturbed and amused.
I shrugged like I didn’t know, but I knew. It was definitely a gathering of Unicorn Romance enthusiasts. A tingle of interest hit me. I went to the guard desk. “What’s going on?” I asked, arching my eyebrows. “Is book two out?”
Wythe stared at me from beneath his eyelids.
I shifted on my feet and ignored his questioning look.
“Unicorn romance. The author’s doing a signing.” The thirty-something guard had a cigarette deep voice, but he wasn’t put out by the questioning. “There’s no signup if you want to join them.”
Heat flushed me, but I did want a copy of book two. I was almost finished with the first novel. I wanted to ask what time the author would be there and if a costume of some sort were required. It looked as though it was. I tried to think of how to phrase the question.
The guard winked. “You can wait here with me if you like. I can get you to the front of the line.”
I was so tempted.
“We can’t stay,” Wythe said. “May I ask a question?”
Just ask already, don’t ask if you can ask. And we might have time to stay. Do this thing, go to the signing, then make the play. That would be quite a day.
The guard nodded, but he didn’t look as enthusiastic to answer Wythe’s questions as he had mine.
I turned my back on them to check out the crowd. A rolling series of “neighs” went through the group, and as people joined the line, they knocked unicorn horns. Just like in the books. It was a mandatory greeting amongst the shape-shifting sect. It identified them as human. It was like seeing my book come to life. And it gave me a fun kind of thrill.
“Where’s the Jane Austen section?” Wythe asked in his deep voice.
The guard was giving him directions, but I stopped paying attention after “upper and lower ground floor” and “Sir John Ritblat gallery.” Wythe could figure it out; this was his country and his lingo.
Th
e front part of the line was doing a left-hoof side stomp, a gesture reserved for events of great celebration, like a wedding. I was so jealous.
I snapped their photo. This one would not go to the professor. He’d probably drop me a grade just for possessing a unicorn shape-shifter novel. He’d drop me two points if he knew how poorly written it was and how much I enjoyed it anyway.
“Come on.” Wythe led me away. “‘Where’s the Jane Austen section?’” He snickered. “Words I’ve never said before.” He looked back at the queue. “You’re reading that book, aren’t you?”
“Nope.” I walked faster to cool my flushed face. “Come on. You’re going to love the Jane Austen exhibit.” When I crossed the threshold, the literary treasures caught me and drove out thoughts of embarrassment and unicorns. Works credited to Shakespeare. Leonardo Di Vinci sketches. The Magna Carta. I wandered from one glass case to the next. Amazing. London could be really freaking amazing. This city knew to celebrate unicorns and history all under the same roof. So cool.
“Kira.” Wythe said my name in the way someone did when they’d been saying it more than once.
“Yes.”
Wythe grinned. He’d never looked more handsome than he did in this room. Him, all these treasures, unicorn enthusiasts outside. There was no place I’d rather be.
“I’ll bring you back, I promise. But, the quest, you know—we were thinking Jane Austen’s desk would be a good ultimate spot.”
We’d agreed on that after a little online research on the ride over. A desk where literary works came to be. “Yes.” I went to his side. We should send in our final answer. I wasn’t sad about it. It was good. Finish this class. Go to a play tonight. Life in London was awesome. The desk itself was mahogany and small. “Incredible, isn’t it? Jane Austen’s desk. Does this feel right for our final answer?” I had a moment of doubt. Peppa had given us the clue, after all. Then I shook it off. Desks were where great works were created. This was a great guess. Wasn’t it?
Wythe scrunched his face, and then grew thoughtful. “It’s small. Not epic. The glass tower of books out there is significant though. Six stories. UV-filter protection humidity control. Let’s send this, and then a picture with that.”