Page 67 of Tamed By You

He chuckles. “Well, stick with me, Ali baby, and it will be first class all the way.”

His words make my stomach do a little somersault and I can't decide if I like it, or it terrifies the living shit out of me.

A driver collects us from the airport, and we head to central London. I practically press my face up against the car window as I take in all the sights. The big red buses, Big Ben, London Bridge, “Oh, my god, the Queen's house,” I screech.

Harry reaches for my hand, giving it a squeeze.

“That is Buckingham Palace, miss, when the Queen is in residence the flag will be flying, as you can see, she isn't in today,” our driver, who has the poshest English accent, says.

I smile at him through the rearview mirror and go back to gawking at the streets of London. I can’t believe I am here.

“Is there anything you want to see whilst you’re here?” Harry asks, linking our fingers, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the back of mine.

“All of it.” I beam.

“So, did your dad live here?” I turn my head to look at him, feeling my face softening. He remembered. I mentioned once that my dad spent time in London, and he remembered.

“Erm, kinda. My grandma told me he studied a summer here. She told me lots of stories about him after he died and I… erm… went to live with her.”

I lower my head, noticing a loose thread on my shirt. I pull and twist it, something to distract from the ache growing in my belly at the thought of my dad and grandma. I didn't know her for long, just a couple of short years, but they were some, if not the only happy memories I had as a child.

“Yeah? What kind of stuff did he do here?” he asks, but I still don’t look up. One of my rules was no personal questions, yet I feel the urge to tell him, to share something with him.

“He studied literature. He loved to write. My grandma said he lived in a house with other foreign exchange students and one night they got really drunk and all got arrested and she nearly had to fly over to bail him out.”

Harry laughs and I look up to see his face beaming, a glow in his midnight blue eyes. “Oh man, what did he do?”

“They got caught climbing the gates of the Queen’s house. They wanted to have tea with her, apparently.”

“Yeah, that'll do it,” he jokes, squeezing my hand a little tighter. “He sounds like he was a really cool guy.”

I just nod, wishing he had not been taken from me so soon. I wish that I had more time with him. Maybe then my life would have turned out differently. Wanting to share something deeper with him I say, “He was killed in a car accident. Someone ran a red light and drove straight into him.” Unshed tears sting my eyes and I blink them away.

I don’t think my grandma ever got over it, because how do you? I feel robbed of having a dad, of having a childhood. I lookdown where our hands are still linked and he squeezes my hand a little tighter, as if he was letting me know he's here for me without having to say.

“Your grandma. Is she still around?”

Shaking my head, I reply, “She died when I was eighteen. I only knew her for two years, but she was a character. Loved a gin and tonic every evening and a cup of tea in the morning from her teapot that my dad brought back from England for her.” I smile at the memory.

“I’m sorry you've had so much loss in your life. It's not fair,” he says, his voice so quiet I almost miss his words.

Shrugging, I say, “It is what it is. I can't change it, so shouldn't dwell on it.” His hand tightens around mine.

“We’ll make this a trip special; I promise.” I let out a long breath and turn to look back out the window.

A warm feeling floods my chest, like a blanket has been wrapped around me, comforting me. Somehow being here makes me feel a little closer to my dad and it feels like a tiny part of my heart just healed.

We arrive at a tall apartment block which I’m told, are in fact, called flats.

The British are weird.

When I walk through the door of Harry's ‘flat’ my breath is stolen. Views of the River Thames and Big Ben cover the back wall. I drop my bag to the floor and take in my surroundings. A large entry hall opens up to an open living space where a large cream sectional couch sits in the middle of the room. I take noteof the candles, trinkets and framed photographs and the faint smell of jasmine in the air.

“I like the feminine touches,” I say as I make my way over to the large window, which I now see has a balcony.

“You can thank my sister for those. This is her place.” My head snaps around to look at him, panic rising in my throat.

“This is your sister’s place? What… why are we here?”

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