Page 32 of One Weekend in London

If Papaw could see this...

“How did you know I love—”

“I’ve got my methods, haven’t I?” He smirks, looking entirely too pleased with himself, undoubtedly recalling the background check he ran on me. “There isn’t much I don’t know about you, but whatever I have yet to learn, I’ll soon discover.”

Feigning offense, I narrow my eyes. “Stalker.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, reading my playfulness for what it is. “When it comes to you, Sadie Winslow? Proudly.”

We untwine our hands and laugh, the sound as natural as breathing, before tucking into the feast with gusto. On the first bite, not surprisingly, the flavors explode on my tongue like a Winslow-style Fourth of July fireworks display.

I can neither help nor stop the moan of pure bliss that escapes as I devour the blackened shrimp and creamy grits, then take a bite of a perfectly cooked fried green tomato. Whatever he’s paying his chef, he needs to double it.

Pronto.

“Sweet mercy, this is good,” I mumble after swallowing and dabbing my lips with the ritzy napkin stowed next to my plate. “I think your chef may have just ruined me for all other food. But please don’t ever mention that to my papaw or he’ll throw a conniption fit the size of Alaska, since he considers his cooking to be the crème de la crème of the South.”

Rhys chuckles, spearing a bite of his own. “I’ll be sure to pass along the compliment to Louis and keep your sentiments to myself when I meet your family.” That has me stopping mid-bite. The thought of Rhys meeting my family is both terrifying and pleasing.

I think I’d like that. A lot.

Despite their often-bullheaded behavior, something tells me he could hold his own against my overbearing and overprotective male cousins. All frickin’ seven of them. Papaw, though, he’s the wildcard of the bunch. But even so, he doesn’t worry me much. I’ve had him wrapped around my pinky finger since the day he first held me in his arms.

Eli calls it the Sadie Effect.

“Though I must say,” Rhys adds, his eyes darkening before my own, causing me to freeze, “the sounds you’ve been making while eating are giving me all sorts of vivid ideas.”

Not missing the emphasis he puts on the word vivid, I flush, heat rushing to my cheeks. “Behave, Mr. Kensington. With the shore still being visible, we’re literally in public.”

“Trust me, love, it doesn’t matter.” He smirks, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Since I don’t intend to share, I’ll find a way to silence the screams I plan to coax out of you later.”

I nearly choke on my next bite, desire streaking through me like lightning. “You’re pure dang trouble.” I point my fork at him in mock accusation. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“A time or two.” He shrugs as I did a minute ago, completely unrepentant. “But you can tell me again once I show you how talented my tongue is, and after I’ve upended every plan you thought you had for the future.”

He’s going to be the death of me.

The absolute death.

More than a bit flustered, and with my skin growing hotter with each second that passes, I change the subject before I combust, making a mess of his lavish yacht.

“You know, this reminds me of the church potlucks back home. All the little old ladies trying to outdo each other with their secret recipes.”

Rhys leans back in his chair, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “I’m having a hard time picturing you as a church-going belle. What with that wicked mouth of yours.”

My wicked mouth?

As Tasha would say, puh-lease.

Seriously, pot meet kettle.

I flutter my lashes at him, the picture of perfect—if not exaggerated—innocence. “Why, I sure don’t know what you’re implying, sir. I’m as pure as the driven snow.”

He barks out a laugh. “Now that I find it hard to believe. I bet you were the one all the lads were trying to sneak off into the hayloft with before you found a boyfriend at eighteen.”

Not hardly.

I was pretty, but I was also quiet and shy.

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