Royal Holiday

by Guillory, Jasmine

  “Oh, just some good news about his painting. He’s more excited about it than anyone else, which is often the case for teenagers, I’ve learned.”

  Okay, that conversational gambit hadn’t succeeded in her goal to improve their vibe today. Fine, she’d let him take the lead.

  The day didn’t get much better. They drove down to the river and took a boat ride down the Thames—she took a lot of pictures, but after what Malcolm had said about her pictures with Maddie, she felt too shy to take any of him. Plus, it was freezing cold on that boat. Afterward, they stopped for tea, and they were a little more relaxed with each other, but when she made a reference to Julia’s scones on Christmas Day, he froze up again.

  From there, they went to Westminster Abbey, which she was excited to see; she was even more excited when the priest at the door smiled at Malcolm and waved them in past the long line of people waiting to get inside. But the whole time they walked through the huge, historic, gorgeous church, he barely spoke to her. For a while, she commented to him about the architecture, and the beauty of the church, and the facts she learned on the tour, but his responses were so brief it made her feel like he didn’t want to be there. At one point, they sat together silently and stared up at the altar. She looked at his unsmiling profile and tried to figure out what was wrong. Was he bored of playing tour guide? Or did he regret asking her to stay? Was that what this was about?

  She sighed as they walked out of the Abbey. This wasn’t why she was in thirty-two-degree London and not on her way to sixty-two-degree California. What happened to all of their fun banter and laughter? Why did Malcolm seem like he was on a forced march of sightseeing instead of a relaxed romantic visit, which is what she thought this was? And for the love of God, why hadn’t he seemed to even think about kissing her all day?

  She never should have stayed. Why had she listened to her daughter?

  Malcolm had completely forgotten he’d told Vivian that Miles had big news to share. When she’d brought it up, he’d said the first thing he could think of and changed the subject. He didn’t want to ruin their day and tell her the whole long Miles story. He didn’t want to get into their fight, or his subsequent fight with Sarah, and how angry and hurt he’d been about Miles’s parting shots at him. He just wanted to relax and have fun with Vivian and not think about his pain-in-the-ass nephew.

  Unfortunately, that was impossible. Every time he tried to relax, he thought of something he should have said to Miles, or a way he could have handled the whole situation better, or felt a wave of fury at Miles for throwing his life away like this, or got angry again with Sarah for not telling him in advance what Miles’s big news was, so he’d be prepared for it. Or, when he managed to forget about his family and turn his attention to the bright, lovely woman sitting across from him, she brought up Christmas Day, and it made all of his anger—at Miles, at Sarah, at himself—resurface.

  He wanted to apologize to Vivian for how preoccupied he was, but he didn’t want to get into a whole conversation about why. What was he supposed to say? Sorry, Vivian, I blew up at my nephew and laughed at him and his ambitions and he’s furious at me now, and it’s all my fault that he’s going to ruin his life just to spite me.

  No, he definitely couldn’t say that. And he didn’t want to lie to her. Better to say nothing at all.

  Plus, he was upset she’d decided not to stay with him. And he supposed he’d have to tell her about the surprise he had in store for her.

  The next few days were not going to be what he’d hoped for.

  Finally, they made it to their dinner reservation. He was pleased he’d gotten a reservation here for him and Vivian; the food was fantastic, the service was lovely, and it was the kind of London restaurant he wanted her to experience—an upscale Nigerian restaurant that was definitely not the type of place most Americans thought of when they thought of London. He really hoped she’d like it.

  The man who barged into the restaurant behind them, however, was going to make that very difficult. Just as Malcolm greeted the host, who he’d met many times, the newcomer pushed past Malcolm like he wasn’t even there. He slammed his hand on the host’s table.

  “Wilston-Jeffries, party of two. My secretary called earlier.”

  The host looked at Malcolm, then back at the guy. Malcolm knew his type all too well. The worst thing about his type was they almost always got their way.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment, sir.”

  Malcolm liked a lot about his job. The diplomacy, being involved in national politics and foreign affairs, the history, the people he worked with (well, some of them). But the number one best thing about his job was when guys like this one thought they could push past him and treat him like nothing, but everyone else around him knew he worked for the Queen. Like he’d said to Vivian when they were at Sandringham, he had complicated feelings about the monarchy, but it was excellent for him in situations like this one.

  The host turned back to Malcolm.

  “Please, follow me, sir.”

  Wilston-Jeffries beckoned his date.

  “Come on. This way. I think our table is over there.”

  The host stopped him.

  “Just a moment, sir. Your table is not yet ready. Wait here.” He turned away without another word. “Mr. Hudson? Please, come with me.”

  They were seated at a table in the corner of the restaurant, and their waiter immediately brought over glasses of champagne.

  “I believe you enjoy this vintage, sir,” the waiter said.

  Vivian wiggled her eyebrows at him and picked up her glass.

  He hadn’t brought Vivian here to impress her with his consequence. She’d been at Sandringham for days; if she was impressed by anyone’s consequence, it certainly wasn’t going to be his.

  But . . . it had been really nice to be kowtowed to with her by his side, he had to admit.

  Unfortunately, the asshole from earlier was seated at the table next to theirs. The waiter glanced at Malcolm and silently shook his head in apology.

  “Where’s the injera? I don’t see it on the menu. Does it just come with all of the dishes?” Wilston-Jeffries asked the waiter.

  The waiter took an almost imperceptible moment to answer.

  “We don’t serve injera, sir. That’s an Ethiopian bread; it doesn’t come from our tradition.”

  The man huffed at his date.

  “I was looking forward to introducing you to injera and teaching you how to eat with it!” He turned back to the waiter. “Well, what’s your spiciest dish? I want it really spicy, you know, like the kind you’d have.”

  Malcolm looked at Vivian, who was staring straight back at him. Her eyes were huge, and he could tell she was fighting back laughter. Maybe this guy wasn’t going to ruin their dinner after all.

  The waiter pointed at a line on the menu.

  “It’s this soup, sir. However, we advise—”

  “No need for advice. I know it all. And add some of your hottest peppers to it!”

  The waiter nodded.

  “And you, ma’am?”

  His date requested something much less spicy, and Malcolm saw the man puff out his chest like a bird. Vivian’s cough seemed like much more of a chuckle, so he could tell she saw it, too.

  They’d both spent so much time focused on the table next to them and not their menus, that when the waiter came over to their table, neither of them had decided what to order.

  “Shall we start with some wine while we decide?” he asked Vivian, who nodded.

  Malcolm picked a bottle of wine at random to give them more time.

  Vivian leaned forward and lowered her voice.

  “Okay, I love spicy food, but now I absolutely can’t ask what’s spicy and what isn’t. I don’t want to be that guy.”

  Malcolm now had to cough/laugh himself.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve been here before. I can tell you. The menu has changed since the last time I was here, but I honestly think you’ll like everything, an
d if you’ve never had Nigerian food before”—he looked at her questioningly, and she shook her head—“I think this will be a fun new experience.”

  She smiled at him. This was one of the most genuine smiles she’d given him all day. He was suddenly grateful for the pompous ass next to them for breaking the tension between the two of them.

  “I’m happy to try anything. All that walking around today made me starving. I can’t wait.”

  He smiled back at her as the waiter returned with their wine.

  She lifted her glass and clinked it with his, and his shoulders lost some of their tension. Maybe the next few days would be good after all.

  “Sir, ma’am, are you ready to order?”

  Malcolm raised his eyebrow at Vivian, and she smiled up at the waiter. They ordered everything that looked good to both of them, and he was suddenly starving. He’d barely eaten at lunch, because of how preoccupied he’d been, and Vivian was right; they had walked around a lot today.

  “I just can’t help it—I have an extraordinary palate and a very high spice tolerance. Many people have commented on it.”

  Wow, the guy next to them was still on about this. Vivian stared straight at Malcolm, her lips sealed together and her eyes dancing. Malcolm did all he could not to smile back at her.

  “Um . . .” He had to think of something for them to talk about, so they wouldn’t spend all of dinner laughing at this man. “What was your favorite thing we saw today?”

  She winked at him and smiled.

  “I really loved Westminster Abbey,” she said. “Partly because it was beautiful, and there was so much history there, but also because despite all of that, and all of the tourists, it still felt like a church, if you know what I mean?”

  He poured more wine into her glass.

  “I do,” he said. “I’ve been to famous old churches when there are too many people there, and it feels like just any kind of building—like it’s divorced from its original purpose. But Westminster Abbey still feels like a church to me, too, despite the long lines and many tourists walking around. It’s one of my favorite places in London.” He looked down into his glass of wine. “Sometimes, when I used to work in Parliament and was having a hard day, I would walk over there, go inside, and just . . . sit in one of the pews for a while. I don’t know if I was praying, or meditating, or whatever you would call it, but it felt like having the centuries-old stones around me would help. I don’t know if they gave me perspective, or just absorbed my stress, but whatever it was, it made a difference.” He shrugged. Now he felt silly for confessing this to her. “That probably sounds . . .”

  “Smart? Relatable? Like something more of us should do?” She nodded. “Yes, it sounds like all of those things.”

  He reached across the table and touched her hand, just for a second.

  “Thanks. I should probably find a way to do something like that more often.”

  She nodded.

  “Me too. I used to go to church pretty regularly, but I got busy and out of the habit. I miss it. It gave me that time of peace that you’re talking about. Life can get so”—she sighed—“overwhelming sometimes, with everything going on in the world, then dealing with difficult issues at work, and then always family. It helps to take time for yourself, though I don’t take my own advice on that as often as I should. I do go on long walks, which is a good break for me in that way.”

  He laughed.

  “I could tell. I could barely keep up with you this afternoon! And I know you usually go on walks in much more moderate temperatures than London in December.”

  She looked down, then back up at him. He loved how, despite her directness, she occasionally got shy with him.

  “I was just in Norfolk in December, don’t you remember? London weather is balmy compared to that.”

  The appetizers arrived at the table next to them. They both looked sideways at the table.

  “Please let us know if your starter is to your liking, sir,” the waiter said.

  “Oh, I’ll make it very clear, don’t you worry about that,” their neighbor said.

  He took a spoonful of his soup.

  “Hmm. It’s all right, but I thought I made it clear that I wanted something very spicy,” he said to the hovering waiter.

  The waiter nodded.

  “You did, sir, you did. I would give it a few more spoonfuls before you judge.”

  The man huffed and ate a few more spoonfuls in quick succession.

  “Ah.” He nodded. His bald head shimmered under the restaurant lights. “That’s better. Very spicy, just as I like it.”

  The waiter bowed.

  “Very good, sir.”

  The waiter came around to their table and filled up their water glasses. Malcolm kept glancing over at their neighbor, and he noticed Vivian did, too. He ate a few more bites of the soup, but his face got pinker and pinker. After a few minutes, he put his spoon down.

  “Well,” he said to his date, “finally, a place where they listen to me about how I like my food to be served.” He picked up his full water glass and downed it. “I’m sure most people couldn’t handle even a bite of this soup.” Sweat formed on his forehead and dripped down his face. His head got even shinier. He picked up his date’s water glass without asking her and drank all of that, too. “Waiter! More water over here!”

  Vivian looked at Malcolm, her eyes wide. Malcolm could tell they both knew exactly what was going on.

  The waiter came over, with such a bland look on his face that Malcolm knew—if he’d had any doubt before—that the staff was just as irritated by this guy as he was.

  “Certainly, sir. Is your soup to your liking?”

  Their neighbor grabbed the water glass almost before the waiter had finished pouring.

  “Mmmhmm,” he said as he drank both glassfuls on the table again.

  Malcolm grinned at Vivian and poured them more wine.

  Vivian was going to explode from all of her held-in laughter. This man next to them was clearly about to faint because of how spicy the food was, but he wouldn’t confess it for the life of him. If he hadn’t been so terrible before, she would have leaned over and told him that drinking water just made spicy food hotter, and instead he should eat some rice or bread or dairy to soothe himself. But instead, she just drank more wine and watched the show.

  “You’ll have to tell me how you like the food,” Malcolm said, when their starters arrived. “I hope it’s not too spicy for you.”

  She took a bite, then grinned at him.

  “It is very spicy, but it’s perfect, thank you. Just enough to wake up my taste buds and make me a little giddy, but not enough to bring tears to my eyes.”

  Malcolm looked away from her and coughed again. Their neighbor currently had tears streaming from his eyes, which he was attempting to disguise with his napkin. Even his date couldn’t stop staring at him. The best part was that his bravado wouldn’t allow him to stop eating the soup completely, so every so often he would take a deep breath and eat another spoonful, and his face just got redder and redder.

  “Cameron, are you feeling all right?” his date finally asked him.

  “Fine. Fine, couldn’t be better,” he said, his shirt wet with sweat.

  She sat back and nodded and didn’t say anything else for a second.

  “Well, I only asked because I’m not feeling that well. Would it trouble you too much if you took me home now? It’s possible something here didn’t agree with me.”

  Ohhh, that was good. This woman knew how to deal with difficult men. Vivian shook her head. That was probably not a great thing for her; it most likely meant that poor woman had dealt with far too many difficult men in the course of her life, and she knew how to get them out of a situation they’d caused without injury to their ego. But still, she’d done it very well.

  “Oh, of course I can take you home now! It’s this restaurant, I’m sure—I knew there was something wrong with this place as soon as we stepped foot inside. Waiter!”<
br />
  The waiter was at his side within seconds.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “We have to leave immediately. Something was wrong with my guest’s meal, and she isn’t feeling well.” He threw his credit card down on the table. “Please bring us the bill this moment.”

  The waiter bowed.

  “Certainly, sir. And of course, there’s no charge for your food, only for the drinks.”

  The man gulped another glass of water and waved him away.

  Moments later, the waiter brought over the bill, and the man signed his name and raced to the door, without bothering to wait for his date. She followed him slowly, and stopped to thank the waiter on her way out. Vivian hoped this poor woman cut this guy loose after tonight.

  As soon as the door closed behind them, Vivian and Malcolm looked at each other and burst into laughter. Vivian was just winding down when she looked over at Malcolm and saw the tears streaming down his face, and that started her up all over again.

  “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I just can’t stop thinking about how he kept drinking all that water.”

  She wiped away her own tears.

  “I can’t stop thinking about how much pain he’ll be in later tonight.”

  Malcolm practically howled at that, which just made Vivian laugh harder.

  Their laughter finally subsided when the waiter came over and set a dish in the middle of their table.

  “Compliments of the chef, and his apologies for”—the waiter cleared his throat—“any unpleasantness earlier. I hope you’re both enjoying your meal?”

  Vivian beamed at the waiter.

  “It’s wonderful, thank you so much. I’ve never had Nigerian food before, and everything we’ve had so far is delicious. Please thank the chef for me.” She paused. “And it’s the ideal amount of spice for me.”

  He grinned at her.

  “Happy to hear that.” He nodded at Malcolm and disappeared.

  Any awkwardness that had lingered from the afternoon was now long gone. For the rest of the dinner, he told her stories about when he’d worked in Parliament, she told him stories about her funniest cases, and their accidental touches of each other’s hands and knees got more and more frequent.