Royal Holiday

by Guillory, Jasmine

  He unlocked his car and smiled at her.

  “How are you enjoying your stay at Sycamore Cottage? Other than Julia’s delicious food, of course.”

  She laughed.

  “You can’t separate those two things—I’m sure I’ll be talking about Julia’s delicious food for years to come. She made ham and cheese croissants for breakfast today—just because! I had one warm out of the oven.” She could still taste that first flaky, savory, buttery bite. “But everything has been lovely—the Duke and Duchess are very kind, and it’s a quite comfortable house. If only I didn’t have jet lag, this trip would be perfect so far.” She laughed. “But at least I can text my family and friends back home in the middle of the night.”

  When they got into his car, he flicked on the heated seats on her side.

  “Ah, but you’re on vacation,” he said. “You can supplement those middle-of-the-night wake-ups with a nice afternoon nap. I’ll get you back just in time for it.”

  She grinned at him.

  “First the nap, then more tea and more of Julia’s treats—I could get used to this kind of vacation.”

  Malcolm drove off the estate and toward the town. He suddenly realized he was actually alone with Vivian for the first time—every other time he’d seen her, they’d been surrounded by the many visible and invisible people who lived and worked on the Sandringham Estate. But now they were off the estate and alone in his car. It felt freeing.

  “There’s a pub right in town that’s perfect on a chilly day like today, if that’s okay with you.”

  She nodded.

  “That sounds wonderful. Though I may need a translator. You have all sorts of food here in England that I’ve never heard of in California.”

  He laughed.

  “Separated by a common language indeed,” he said. “But yes, I’ll be happy to translate for you if needed, though there will absolutely be some recognizable things like fish and chips and chicken pie on the menu.”

  She turned to him and pursed her lips together.

  “Chicken . . . pot pie?”

  He bit his lip.

  “Maybe not so recognizable after all!”

  She took her gloves off and tucked them into her pocket.

  “Well, this could be a very educational lunch.”

  They walked into the pub a few minutes later and were quickly seated at a small, round table by the fire. The chairs were positioned close to each other, both facing the fire. The table was just snug enough that their arms almost touched.

  Vivian took off that knit hat that had made him smile and tucked it into her purse. Her hair went every which way; he wished he knew her well enough that he could brush it back for her. She quickly unpinned her bun and smoothed her hair down with her hands before she picked up the menu.

  “Hmm, okay, yes, there are certainly some things I know on this menu. Fish and chips—you promised that, and you were right. Sandwiches—I know what those are, and those also come with chips, which I imagine are of the ‘fish and’ variety, and not the ‘bag of’ variety that we have in America. Ooh, and shepherd’s pie—that sounds like a very cozy-by-the-fire kind of December meal.”

  Her eyes twinkled at him over the menu. He smiled back at her and congratulated himself for having the good sense to ask her out to lunch.

  “I’ve had the shepherd’s pie here, and it’s delicious,” he said.

  She wasn’t done.

  “But then you have the aforementioned chicken pie—that could be anything, honestly. And there are pasties, which . . .” She pressed her lips together and looked up at him with a sly look on her face. “Well, I don’t think of food when I hear that word, let’s just put it that way.”

  He tilted his head.

  “What in God’s name do Americans . . . ?”

  She went on.

  “Scotch eggs—I think I know what those are, but I have no idea what a ploughman’s board is. Mushy peas—does that literally mean you take some peas and mash them like potatoes? Is that like baby food? And . . . oh yes . . . it’s here! Bubble and squeak. I thought that was one of those things that only showed up in books that got exported to America as a joke the entire United Kingdom played on Americans, but it’s really on the menu!”

  He put his hand down on the table.

  “Okay, look. I know you’re having your fun about our food, but you have a great deal of odd food where you come from, too. I’ve seen what you people do with sweet potatoes for your Thanksgiving dinners—how did marshmallows get there?”

  She let out that infectious chuckle of hers again.

  “No, you’re right, that’s disgusting, but I swear, we don’t do that in my family!”

  They grinned at each other.

  He knew why he liked Vivian so much now. Or, at least, one of the reasons. It was because she talked nonsense with him in a way no one else did. Everyone else (well, everyone except for his nephew) wanted him to be serious and sober and thoughtful. Sure, of course, he joked around with his mates, and he went out for drinks with his old friends from his Parliament and consulting days, but they all still groused about work, or took the piss out of one another, or bragged about themselves in that way where they tried to pretend they weren’t bragging, but everyone at the table knew they were.

  Vivian joked around with him like this about food, and wrote nonsense letters back and forth with him—whether to humor him, or because she enjoyed it, he didn’t know, but he suspected some of both. Most of all, he felt so relaxed around her, like he could be himself—not the Queen’s private secretary, Malcolm Hudson, but really himself.

  Their waitress came back over and asked them if they were ready to order. Vivian ordered the shepherd’s pie, he ordered the chicken pie—with a wink at her—and they both ordered pints of beer.

  “So, you said this is your first trip to the U.K., but do you do much traveling elsewhere?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “I wish I did. I always learn so much when I travel, no matter where I go. But no, I spent years as a single mom and never had the ability to travel much. Even after Maddie was grown up and I could take the time”—she shrugged—“I don’t know, I think I somehow thought of travel—especially international travel—as one of those things other people did, you know? I did go on one trip with a bunch of my girlfriends over ten years ago now, and I had so much fun. Plus, my sister has had a lot of health problems in the past few years, and I haven’t wanted to leave her.”

  “She’s on the mend, I presume, since you’re here?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “She is, thank God.” She laughed. “She told me I wasn’t allowed to keep texting to check in on her, because I need this break, but it’s hard. I’m not used to relaxing.”

  He leaned back.

  “Then you should travel more often,” he said.

  The waitress brought them their beer, and Vivian thanked her.

  “I wish I could,” she said. “But I found out a few weeks ago that I might be moving into a new job; my boss is retiring, and he wants me to be the one to take his job. It’s not guaranteed, I still have to apply for it, but his support has a lot of weight.”

  “Congratulations,” he said. “Will you accept it if it’s offered?”

  She looked surprised at the question.

  “Oh, of course. It’s a huge vote of confidence in me, and I’m so grateful for it. And I’m so glad I’ll be able to serve as an example and mentor to the younger black women in my field. It does mean I’ll be working a lot more, though, and doing very different work. One of the things I love about my job is all of the direct work I do with patients, and I won’t be doing that nearly as much . . . or maybe not at all.” She sighed, then smiled. “But we’ll see—maybe in a few years once I’ve settled into this job, I can do more traveling.”

  She took a sip of beer and changed the subject.

  “Is your family upset that you won’t be back to London until Christmas Day?”

&
nbsp; He laughed.

  “Miles is, at least, but only because my sister is driving him up a wall. You see, he’s spending this year before he goes off to Oxford living at home and taking a series of art classes. Sarah was never a fan of that idea, to put it mildly. I had to help talk her into it, and one compromise I got Miles to make was to live at home for the year. And Miles deserves this; he’s always had exceptional grades, and he got excellent A levels . . .” He saw the confused look on her face and backtracked. “Right, I forget, that means nothing to Americans. A levels are the exams students take here in what you would call high school—they’re in all different subjects, and they are crucial for university admissions.”

  She lifted her glass to him before she took another sip.

  “Good job, Miles. And I’m impressed you got them both to compromise like that.”

  Malcolm smiled.

  “It wasn’t too difficult. Miles has loved art since he was small, and he had his heart set on spending a year really diving into it. And when he got into Oxford and they agreed to let him start next year, that calmed Sarah down some. He loves painting so much, and had always wanted to be able to have more dedicated time than just a month or so in the summer to work on it.”

  She smiled at him.

  “You’re very proud of him, aren’t you?”

  Was it that obvious? This woman was far too easy to talk to; it was dangerous.

  “I’m sorry, was I bragging? I didn’t mean to. I just—”

  She laughed and shook her head.

  “Brag away. I brag about Maddie all the time.” She leaned back against her chair. “He seems like a good kid.”

  He nodded.

  “He is. We spend a lot of time together—he sometimes uses my flat as a refuge from home, and I take him on fishing trips once or twice a year. Stuff like that.”

  He smiled when he thought of their last fishing trip, early the previous summer. Miles had made him laugh so hard he’d almost fallen into the water.

  “But you were saying, Miles and your sister?” she prompted him.

  He took a sip of his drink.

  “Right. The two of them have always had friction, and even though Sarah wanted him to live at home this year, I think it’s making their relationship worse.” He shook his head. “He keeps hinting at a surprise he has to tell me about at Christmas, and if it’s that he’s planning to move in with his girlfriend, Sarah is going to explode. I never understand why she gives him so much hell; he’s a teenage boy, and he’s a good kid.”

  Vivian touched his arm.

  “I’m sure he is, but didn’t you say his father died when he was young? I know you’ve helped out, but being a single mom is tough; your sister likely has a lot of worries and burdens she doesn’t share with you.”

  He had helped Sarah out a lot, but being an uncle was a lot different than being a father, he knew that.

  “That’s probably true. You and Maddie have ended up with a good relationship, it seems?”

  She nodded.

  “We have, but the teenage years were rough. The mouth on that girl! We fought all the time.” She laughed. “It’s funny when I think about it now, but oof, the years between when she was thirteen and sixteen I fantasized about running away from home a few times a week. But now we’re very close, and I’m really glad I came on this trip with her.”

  He put his hand on her arm. He’d been wanting to touch her since they sat down.

  “Well that’s good, because I’m glad you’re here in England with Maddie—and me—too.”

  He slid his hand into hers, and she smiled at him. She brushed her thumb back and forth across the back of his hand, and he felt his whole body relax. He leaned in closer to her. He could smell her perfume now. He liked that he’d never smelled it before now, that only people who got this close to her could smell it.

  “Malcolm, I—”

  “Shepherd’s pie is just what you need on a day like today.” The waitress appeared and set a plate down in front of Vivian. Malcolm’s chicken pie with a side of mushy peas followed suit. They quickly released each other’s hands. Malcolm looked down at his food. What had Vivian been about to say?

  “Do you need another pint, ma’am? Sir?”

  They both shook their heads and picked up their forks.

  “Well, I’m right here if you do. Just give me a wave.”

  Vivian took a bite of her shepherd’s pie. She finally looked in his direction again, though she didn’t quite make eye contact.

  “She’s right. This was just what I needed today.”

  Was it just what she had needed right at that moment, though? That’s not what he had needed right at that moment.

  Instead of saying that, he took a bite of his chicken pie.

  “I’m glad you like it,” he said. “If you want to try my chicken pie—not chicken pot pie, mind you—you’re welcome to take a bite.”

  She cast her eyes over his plate and then looked up at him with pursed lips.

  “I do have to admit that doesn’t look like chicken pot pie, though I will say I’ve only ever had chicken pot pie once and didn’t enjoy the experience, so I’m not an expert. But if those are the famous mushy peas . . . they look exactly like peas that got cooked for way too long and then mashed up.”

  He scooped some of the peas onto his fork and held them out to her.

  “That is as may be, but you still have to try them. You can’t leave England without sampling mushy peas; I think they hold you back at customs if you don’t answer that question in the affirmative. Come on, taste them. I promise, they’re better than they look.”

  She rolled her eyes at him but obediently opened her mouth. He smiled at her and slipped his fork inside her lips. Her lips closed over the peas, and she closed her eyes. He watched her face as she chewed, a smile dancing around her lips the whole time. After a few seconds, she opened her eyes and finally looked straight at him.

  “That was disgusting,” she said.

  “Absolutely foul,” he said. “But aren’t you glad you experienced it?”

  She laughed, then he laughed, then they were both laughing so hard they had to put their forks down.

  Vivian finally picked her fork up and took her second bite of shepherd’s pie.

  “This, in contrast, is delicious, but now my stomach hurts so much from laughing I can barely eat,” she said.

  And she was still flustered by that moment right before the food had come. He had definitely been just about to kiss her, right here in the restaurant at lunchtime. She’d experienced men leaning over to kiss her plenty of times, and she’d even been pleased about it most of those times, so why did this not-even-a-kiss-but-almost-a-kiss have such lasting effects on her?

  Maybe because up until now, she’d pretended to herself that this flirtation was just that—something light and easy and relaxed—and that the attraction she felt building for Malcolm was something neither of them would ever act on.

  And now it seemed like it was a matter of when, not if, they would.

  He was still sitting just as close to her, though they weren’t quite touching anymore. She wanted to scoot her chair over just a tiny bit, so that her leg in her practical black pants was just against his leg, in his very nice gray wool pants. Instead, she kept eating her shepherd’s pie.

  He reached over with his fork and raised an eyebrow at her. She didn’t like to share food, but she nodded anyway. He took a forkful of shepherd’s pie.

  “Yeah, that’s just like I remembered it,” he said. “I haven’t had it here for years—usually when I’m up here I eat either on the estate or at my hotel, but it’s nice to know this place is still as good as I thought.”

  She glanced at the clock over the fireplace when they were almost done eating.

  “Did you say you had to get back for a call at two thirty? Because it’s almost two.”

  He looked at his watch and sighed.

  “One of the benefits of working over the holidays is there’s n
ever an issue when I take long lunches, but one of the downsides is I always wish they were longer.” He waved at the waitress and asked for the bill.

  He took her arm again when they left the pub as they walked back to the car. It felt so natural to walk with him like this. The way their arms fit together, the way their strides matched each other’s, the way her shoulder rubbed against his arm; it all felt so easy and familiar.

  She’d only known this man for three days—what was she even thinking? How was it possible for her to be this relaxed when she was this close to him? She had no idea, but she was.

  He opened her car door for her, and she shivered when she got into the car. He smiled at her.

  “Don’t worry, the heater in this car works quickly.”

  He started the car to drive the short distance back to the estate. She watched him as he drove with one hand lightly on the wheel, one on the gear shift, his warm brown eyes straight ahead. He had such a kind face. An attractive one, too, obviously, but part of the reason she’d been so immediately drawn to him had been the way his eyes smiled at her, the way the lines on his face crinkled when he laughed, the way he could share a joke with her without saying a word.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, without looking at her. “I just have to do this.” He pulled over suddenly, right after a big row of trees.

  She looked behind them, expecting to see a police car or something, but there was no one.

  “What is it?” She turned back toward him.

  He shook his head and took his seat belt off, then hers.