To Play or Not To Play

by Emily Bow

  Again with that? I strove to lighten the mood. “There was no handle on the front door.” The black steel door of Number 10 was famous for not having a handle.

  “That’s because it cannot be opened from the outside.” Peppa smiled tightly. “We don’t let just anyone in.” She checked her list. “You’re the last of the interns. American.” Peppa checked her tablet again. If I was the last one on the list, why was she still checking the tablet? Her morning must’ve been going as poorly as mine. Her words were tight, and I didn’t know if my American nationality or my tardiness caused the disapproval. Lateness in Britain was a sin. They didn’t have the same five-minute grace period allowed in America. And apparently, this was really bugging her.

  Peppa smelled like disapproval, cucumbers, and rosemary. Why would she buy perfume that smelled like a garnish? I don’t know. Mine was a pear-honey note perfume I’d gotten for Christmas when we came over to see my grandparents. I didn’t love it, but I could shop for a new one here. One to remember my summer by. Scent and memory are linked. Like that guy’s cologne. If I got a whiff of it again, that lovely showered-guy-and-ocean cologne, I’d be transported right back to the closet. Lovely.

  Peppa cleared her throat as a hint that it was my turn to engage in this terrific conversation.

  “Here to serve.” My voice came out husky from early morning disuse. I knew I should have flown in the day before, but I hadn’t wanted to leave America any sooner than I had to. I also knew I should be grateful for this opportunity, but I’d wanted a White House internship, and my twin had tricked me out of it. Now, I was here. In my dress. Ready to go. Hiding a guy in a closet.

  It was life in the dorm all over again. Though it had never been me hiding a guy. I hadn’t been ready to go there until my last boyfriend. I didn’t want to think about him now. I had to move Peppa away, so this guy could escape without her notice. “What are the odds of my getting breakfast?” Yeah, I was hungry enough to put it out there. I was that weird jetlag hungry. I didn’t know if I wanted toast or a steak or both. Two birds, one stone. I’d eat and save the guy. Pancakes, maple syrup, melted butter… My stomach rumbled. “Anyone here big on waffles?”

  Peppa didn’t coo over my hunger or feed me like a Texan would have. She drew in a sharp breath and shook her head. “Breakfast ended at 8:30 for those who were here.” Her blonde bob fell in front of her eyes, and she tucked it behind her ear, showing her perfect skin and minimal makeup, making her appear more like she was my age.

  Weird how we’d probably both just graduated college and she looked corporate-sophisticated and corporate-angry already. I didn’t know what I looked like, but it wasn’t that. I undid my hairclip and re-spun my hair up in it.

  Peppa eyed me like I’d flipped up my skirt and straightened my garter. “The assignments are being given out in the state dining room. As stated.” Peppa pointed a buffed, unpainted fingernail toward the yellow corridor. “So, that’s where you should be. Don’t you think?”

  Oh, I thought a lot of things. I finished off my hair and turned that way. “Are they?” Whatever. Look at her buffed nails. My nails would never be unpainted. Even chipped and in need of a file, there would still be color. Me and my painted nails would tote papers to ambassadors. That was going to be my summer job. “I already know my assignment. Paper Runner. Assigned to the American Ambassador.” I tried to make my voice sound enthused, because what choice was there? That’s the kind of assignment they gave graduates with literature degrees. Errand runners. Yay.

  My exhaustion was sucking my mood down like quicksand, and it was getting hard to fake it. I pulled out the toothy smile again, wishing I had some Vaseline to slick on my teeth as a reminder to grin, like beauty contestants used. Beauty contestants, and people who worked with Peppa.

  Peppa’s mouth pinched. She saw through me.

  I dragged from my purse the security badge the guard had given me. The photo showed me, all travel weary. My hair was in its messy brunette bun, my eyes shadowed. Had I known they’d snap photos on day one, I would have done my makeup on the plane. I should have known. Same as school badges and job badges—photos get taken early, when you least want them. When a combination of sick anxiety had kept you up all night and uncertainty over what to wear had left you a bit off.

  I was so off today. I clipped the badge to my collar—yep, this dress had a Peter Pan collar. Wearing the badge made me official though. Hopefully, it would stop Peppa from looking at me like she could throw me out. That’d be the quickest roundtrip ever.

  Peppa nodded at my name badge. “I’ll be looking into your assignment. Jobs aren’t final until you arrive. The packet said that.”

  And there had been a packet. A paper packet. Very old school. And a giant PDF in an email. Page one had clearly stated my job—Paper Runner. I had read as far as page one. Now she was implying I might not be a Paper Runner.

  Jeez. My assignment couldn’t be worse than that.

  Could it?

  A tingling of anxiety shoved at the jetlag and a desire to defend myself rose with it. “The plane was late. Blame your airline.” Oh. I knew the Southern ‘You catch more flies with honey’ behavior rule, but I ignored it. I ignored that truth because pleasantries were lost on people like Peppa. She was like a kitchen garbage disposal for pleasantries. I could tell. My efforts would’ve been wasted, crushed up, and washed away.

  Peppa’s mouth curved at my response, my defensiveness. She’d sensed weakness.

  I reined in my ill temper. Don’t make an enemy here. That would make this one long London summer. I shifted on my feet and hiked my purse strap higher.

  Say something nice.

  I could think of nothing. What a welcome. This was on her. “Point me toward the sessions room. Please.” I knew I sounded grumpy but couldn’t make myself stop. Low blood sugar, a lack of sleep, and Peppa trying to control me stoked my temper.

  “You’ll want to go in the back so as not to disturb.” Peppa checked her computer. “Go through the double doors from the small dining room into the state dining room to get your assignment and room sorted.” She pointed again and stared at me until I moved.

  Rude pointer. Rebellion stirred in my American heart, but I fought it down and headed out without saying anything.

  I should have looked at the map, which was probably page two of the packet. I took directions from a guard after going the wrong way, twice. Once I reached the right hallway, the dining room was easy enough to find.

  I went through a metal detector and two more security checkpoints. Both areas had been very modern compared to this room. Golden wood paneling covered the walls of the small dining room and the floor. Yellow-and-cream-striped curtains matched the striped fabric on the chairs. And most importantly, a table had been set at the far end with food, juice, and coffee. I was in the right spot. Me and one other intern.

  The guy from the closet stood beside the table. He’d made it out.

  I smiled. He was going to be so grateful to me. I strode forward.

  He placed a triangular scone onto his plate.

  Breakfast and him. Success.

  I moved in. “Hi.” A tray of picked-over light brown pastries faced me. Scones: dry, dense. I shuddered and snagged one. “Be careful with these. You could chip a tooth.” Who knew what kind of overseas dentistry he’d find here? I owed him the warning after his lending me a hand this morning. Not that I wouldn’t have gotten out of it on my own. I would have. If anything, he’d hampered me and made me think crazy thoughts. I breathed in, taking in the breakfast aromas. My emotions and my body were totally under my control now.

  The guy arched an eyebrow slightly darker than his golden hair.

  Whoa. He was attractive. Model handsome. And that look. It must’ve been his signature expression. I stepped closer. He had half a foot on me and was built beneath his navy blazer. Hello. I had to know more. Who are you and where are you from? “Was your flight late, too?”

  He looked me over in that guy way, w
ith wicked, wild blue eyes. His gaze lingered on my chest, which he’d seen quite a bit of this morning.

  My insides trembled. Maybe it was hunger. Maybe it was jetlag. But that wild look called to me, and my heart pounded to build up blood flow to run to him. My muscles tightened, and my legs turned to jelly. Come on, gravity, come on, scone, hold me down. My reaction to him was ridiculous. The scone crumbled in my fingers.

  He shook his head, making his blond hair, overlong on top, slide in front of his face, and he turned his attention back to the food.

  Okay. No love connection on his end.

  Yet.

  I was hungry, too. He didn’t own the table. Hunger pounded on the walls of my empty belly. My sick reaction to him had just been hunger. That happened. I placed the scone on a china saucer. That was another difference from America. We typically used paper plates—decorated paper plates, but paper nonetheless. But hey, we recycled.

  My stomach ached, but I still wasn’t eager to bite into the scone. Eyeing the other option, a tureen of breakfast beans, I gave in. I broke off a corner and chewed on the dry, barely sweet pastry. Just like Mom used to make.

  He was watching me. I could feel his gaze.

  “That’s not how you eat a scone,” he said in a clear British accent.

  I tilted my head. Growing up in Texas with a British mom, I’d heard my fair share of English accents. More than my fair share. His voice was something else. Educated. Contained. The opposite of his wild eyes.

  American Eagle, help me, but it worked for me.

  He took the broken piece of scone from my fingers. Just that light touch made me hold in a shiver. He slid a butter knife covered in red jam through the middle and scooped a fluff of white cream on top. He held it out to me. His gemstone blue eyes went to my hand, meaning for me to take the scone.

  I leaned forward and bit into it while he held it.

  Just like a bride with her groom.

  Yum.

  Chapter 3

  Strawberry jam. Cream. Yum. The sugary rush of pleasure hit my taste buds, distracting me from eyeing him like I wanted to taste him, too. The scone was good this way. Great, actually. “Mmm,” I said around the small mouthful. The sound contained as much surprise as it did appreciation. “Delicious.”

  His gaze went to my mouth, and his impossibly bright blue eyes glinted.

  I checked for contacts but couldn’t discern any edges. Those blue eyes were all his. And he was going to be all mine. I was here for six weeks. I could make that happen. My thoughts should have shocked me, and maybe when I got over the jetlag, they would. But for now, they didn’t. He was an unexpected summer treat, and I wanted him. I was weirdly certain about that.

  I took the scone from his unresisting fingers. Ooh, la, la. Had we been lying against some British-blue pillows while he handed me this, now that would have been a morning. “Who knew the British could cook? My mom’s British, and she can’t cook or bake. And she never serves scones like this. Never.”

  He handed me a glass of milk. “Mine doesn’t cook either.”

  The milk was room temperature, as expected given the unnatural British fondness for warm drinks. Temperature aside, the drink was rich, creamier than white milk back home and somehow better. Delectable.

  I nodded toward the double doors that went into the state dining room. I couldn’t hear anything from the other side. That was either due to British restraint or because they hadn’t started yet. “What are you in for? Which group?” I eyed him up and down. Intelligent. Athletic. Gorgeous. Visit the British Isles. “I’m guessing Tourism?”

  He frowned and shook his head.

  “Public Relations? Paper Runner?” My voice showed my doubt.

  “Household,” he said.

  That was the worst. I grimaced for him as I finished off the last bite of the newly yummy scone. Who knew? Douse a dry rock with cream and jam, have a hot guy hand it to me, and a scone became a treat. My day was looking up. My summer was looking up. Way up.

  Hunger abated, I wiped my fingers on a white cloth napkin and glanced at the door before sharing my thoughts. “The household’s the worst internship job. You must have signed up later than me.” The taunt in my voice shouted sucker at him. Guys liked a challenge, and I wanted to challenge him.

  “The Prime Family’s lovely.” His voice was dry and rehearsed. “A wonderful example for Britain.”

  Prime. Ha. “The Prime Family? That’s what we’re calling them?” I took another drink of milk and smiled, my mood restored. “You’re going to end up babysitting their lovely darlings. Maybe changing nappies.” I nodded toward the table. “Or milking their long-haired cows and boiling bottles over a gas flame.”

  “Doubtful.” His face scrunched in manly disapproval. “How old do you think their children are?”

  No clue. I hadn’t bothered with the reading material. I was lucky I could even name the British Prime Minister and doubted many other Americans could do as well, much less name their offspring. I hadn’t planned to come here. When my sister tricked me into the internship, I’d been so angry, I’d refused to look at the material or do research on what an internship for the British government would entail. I knew I should do it, but I couldn’t make myself. Pretty much all I knew right now was that I was at Number 10 Downing Street, home and office of the British Prime Minister.

  “Any other stereotype you want to hit?” he asked, like he wanted to pull me back from my thoughts, like he wanted my attention on him.

  I’d play. “Maybe you’ll get to hold their umbrellas. Pet their short-legged Corgis. Or sniff disdainfully at their enemies.”

  He laughed, a quick short laugh, and his eyes flashed, showing off that wicked light.

  I loved it. The wild look made my insides melt and made me want to make him laugh again. Think. Think. I could spin keeping calm and carrying on.

  He looked at me expectantly, not yet reining the wild back in.

  Heels sounded against the floor outside the doorway, clicking, and then muted by the rug. I hated that we were being interrupted.

  Peppa stood in the doorway like a PE coach with a clipboard. Who used those anymore? She did.

  The thin older lady beside her was middle-aged. She wore a suit, looked super polished, and didn’t pay us any attention. She focused on her smartphone like someone with places to be.

  Peppa focused on us. She stiffened. “Wythe.” She nodded to the guy with familiarity and a slight bit of deference—clearly due to his hotness. He was worth appreciating.

  Wythe. That was his name. She said it almost like with. I had no doubt that when I’d say it, I would drawl it out more like Y-ath. I couldn’t think of an excuse to say it aloud just then, but I wanted to.

  Wythe nodded but took his plate over to a table and chairs. He glanced briefly at the older woman and then dug into his breakfast as if we weren’t there. Isolating himself in a room of people. Weird talent. I so wanted to join him.

  Peppa looked at me with her control-freak gray eyes. The color of rain on a sidewalk. What was that smell of rain called? Petrichor? She had petrichor eyes. “Kira. You should really go into the session now. Really.” Her voice held a tight edge, and her nostrils flared like Trapper’s did when I held up a smelly dog bone. Peppa wanted me to leave her alone with the cute Wythe.

  No.

  Darn it. Okay. I owed her after my stellar entrance. But just an apology. I didn’t owe her the guy. Grr. Now I was Trapper, possessive over the tempting bone. “Sorry about before.” I shrugged. “Jetlag. Shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

  Peppa’s petrichor gaze didn’t shift away. “These things have a way of working themselves out.” She crossed the room and opened one of the double doors, and a rush of sound came through. She made a shooing motion like I was a cow balking at the gate. “It would be appropriate for you to go in now.”

  People who said the words and did the motions. Yuck. The control freak had forced my hand. I scooted inside like a herded cow, and Peppa sh
ut the door behind me, not following. Yep, Peppa wanted to be alone with the gorgeous Wythe, and she’d taken her shot. Oh, well, I would keep calm and carry on by myself. Farewell, my love. I’d catch him around the house while toting an attaché case of important papers, while he was toting a diaper bag. I wouldn’t let that interfere with my view of his manliness. Blow up those gender norms, Britain.

  Wythe.

  I’d find him again. I’d make a point of it.

  In front of me, the room was packed with about fifty interns, all about to blow their summer after college. Half were guys, half girls, all early to mid-twenties, all wearing suits or conservative dresses. My modest pink dress fit in perfectly. I swiped at my hair, making sure the strands were tucked in.

  There was an empty seat in the front row, same as there would’ve been in America. Though the chairs were smaller, wooden, and worn. I strode up there and scooted over to the empty seat. “Pardon me. Sorry.” I’d picked up the use of sorry from Mom and knew I sounded right at home.

  I took an open chair by a lanky guy in a navy suit. He wore his name badge centered on his left jacket pocket and had an eager-to-learn look.

  I pulled out my phone.

  The guy shifted toward me.

  Was he annoyed I was late? Please. No one here was doing anything but chatting.

  He got closer, somehow revealing he’d worn too much woodland cologne and not enough shower. My scone turned over in my stomach. Dude, extra cologne never covered up the fact that you skipped your shower. Never ever. Meet people. Shower that morning. Simple math. No wonder he was on time.

  I angled slightly away and checked my phone notifications. There was an email from Felicity. Can’t sleep. Knew you’d be up. GMT and all. I visited the White House Rose Garden on arrival. The White House. Wow. I can see myself standing there for the August summer picture. Top-tier interns get to stand in the top row. I’ll be there.

  Top tier was for suck-ups. My anger at my twin steamed from my toes to my hair. We’d planned to refuse these internships. One in London. One in D.C. Refuse. Not go. Instead, she’d snagged the American internship and sent me overseas. And she assumed she’d beaten me like always. Shoved it in my face.