Page 122 of Thrones We Steal

“You’re not an easy person to impress. I wasn’t sure what you’d say.”

“I think it’s amazing. Consider me duly impressed.”

“It’s more of a hobby than anything.”

“A lucrative hobby. What do you do with the money?”

He grins and licks the corner of his mouth. “Always so eager for information.”

“I want to know everything about you.”

He studies me for a few moments, as if trying to make up his mind about how much to tell me, then settles for brushing the crumbs from his fingers. “Why don’t we explore the city today?”

* * *

Half an hour later, both dressed in jeans and sunglasses, and Henry in a ball cap, we hit the streets of London. Henry has somehow managed to convince his security team they won’t be needed. My heart thrums like a bass guitar. I’m finally with the man of my dreams after all these years. Being this happy can’t last forever, can it?

“Where are we going?” I ask from the backseat of the taxi.

“Wait and see,” he says.

“Tell me.”

He shakes his head.

“Please?”

“Nope.”

“Come on!”

“You need to learn to appreciate surprises.”

“I do appreciate them. I appreciate knowing what they are beforehand.”

He laughs and brushes his lips against my temple. “Just trust me.”

It reminds me of my conversation with Beck about our honeymoon and how he’d given in to me without resistance.

My breath rushes past my lips as the pillars of the British Museum become visible, the Pantheon on steroids. I pull him down for a kiss.

He chuckles against my lips. “Told you to trust me.”

Between the incredible exhibits, Henry’s hand entwined with mine, and the ecstasy that nearly chokes me, I rival a volcano on the brink of eruption.

I could stay there all day, but Henry’s appetite demands attention. We grab tacos from a street vendor and eat while walking down an insignificant sidewalk, dribbling hot sauce on our chins. Plates clatter in a nearby cafe as diners chatter over their fish and chips. Diesel fumes clog the air, cut only by the potent stench of urine and weed. The occasional gust of wind flutters bits of rubbish around our ankles.

It’s absolute paradise.

A deflated balloon careens along the sidewalk and punctures my bubble of bliss. Instant revulsion fills my veins. I kick at it violently.

“Easy there. It’s just a balloon,” Henry says. He grabs it and shoves it into a nearby trash bin.

“I hate them.”

“You hate balloons.”

I don’t answer, just take several deep breaths.

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