Page 22 of Handle with Care
“Dylan, this might be a better idea for a local to plan out?—”
“I bet you’re the worst backseat driver too,” I retort. But I’m still smiling.
And he relents into a reluctant smile too. “I’m not.”
“Just as I suspected. Contrary and everything.” Triumphant, I straighten. Will does too.
“Also, we haven’t discussed mode of transportation. That will inform the route, I think.” He stands partly backlit in front of the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows, framed by the view of the north bank of the Thames. The urban skyline is becoming as familiar to me as the rugged North Shore mountains back home.
“Well, I mean, we can take the tube, or take a taxi, or use the car service Lily suggested?—”
“Or I can drive.” Will gazes evenly at me, a hint of challenge on his face.
We look at each other. I’m skeptical. His hands are already on his hips.
“What, take the McLaren? Is it an affront to your manhood to take public transit?” I ask pointedly. “I might not be from around here, but I know that driving in central London’s a pain in the ass, and there’s a congestion charge too. Though I suppose if you’re driving a McLaren, you don’t care about the cost. Or maybe about the environment either.”
He frowns and folds his arms across his chest. “I love the environment. And I’m opposed to climate change, for the record. Simply because I drove a sports car doesn’t mean I’m some kind of freak.”
I laugh with unbounded delight. “You said it, not me. So come on. We need to go pick up some shoes. And a dress. We better get going. We don’t want to be late. I mean, how the hell are you going to park a McLaren or Land Rover just anywhere? You’ll be mobbed by tourists for sure.”
Will looks indignant. “And if I don’t drive, what do you propose for us to do?”
“Take the tube. It goes exactly where we need.” I gesture at the map on the screen. “We’ll pop out a hundred meters away from our destination. Maybe I don’t have all the tube lines down or whatever, but I bet you know this stuff as a Londoner.”
He sighs. “I know that the tube is disgusting in the summer. It’s hardly the novelty you think it is.”
“Snob.”
Will gives me a sharp look. “You really do seem to enjoy provoking me. Why?”
“Because your reactions are so good. I can’t help it,” I drawl innocently. “I’ll try to keep it under wraps. But listen. How about this: we take the tube there, and if you really hate it, we can take a taxi or the car service back when we actually have exhibits to transport.”
He considers me, a conflict across his elegant features, till he at last relents. “Fine.”
“Fine.” Triumphant, I beam at him, then check my phone. “I’ve got all the details here too, in case.”
We’re quiet. He finishes his tea. I watch the muscles work in his jaw and throat, his collar unfastened. Then I realize I’m peering at him and quickly look away. What the hell am I doing? Mercifully, he doesn’t notice.
Will sets the mug down. He gives me a level look. “And for the record, I’m driving a Landie now.”
“A Landie? You mean Land Rover?”
“A Land Rover, yes. A Defender.”
“Huh.” I’ve got no idea what a Defender is, specifically, other than Will’s latest ride. Then I have a private battle with myself whether to ask what happened to the McLaren, but judging by the warning in his eyes, I decide I’ve pushed him enough for the last five minutes and let it go. For now.
I pull out my wallet and check for my Oyster card for the Underground. “’Kay, I’m good to go.”
He takes his folio and slips it into a leather messenger bag, along with the two books I’ve loaned him. “As am I.”
And so, with some anxiety, we head out under the bright June sun into the waiting day beyond, headed to London Bridge station.
“You’re sure?” I’m frowning as we stare together at the tube map on the wall in the station, scuffed and stickered because vandals never stop. Will alternately looks between the map on the wall and his phone.
“Absolutely. Remember, you deferred to my way-finding skills as the local.” Will’s gaze is silver and cool. He looks slightly flushed from the walk in the heat, but if anything, the color in his face makes him more attractive. Like he needed any help with that. A couple of heads have turned to check him out, and I can’t say I blame them. I’d probably rubberneck too. It’s totally lost on him, absorbed in his task. “Also, you were wrong about our destination. It’s two hundred meters from Covent Garden station. Not one hundred.”
“So sue me. What’s one hundred meters versus two hundred meters, anyway?” I shrug. “It’s not very much either way.”
