Hot British Boyfriend by Kristy Boyce

Author:Kristy Boyce
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperTeen
Published: 2020-11-21T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter

22

When I find Will, he’s double-parked on an insanely busy road and he’s leaning out the door, waving at a bus to go around him.

“I’m here, sorry!” I scramble into the car.

As soon as I’m inside, he hits the gas and swerves onto the road. “The traffic around here is shite, but it’s worth it.” He kisses my hand and all thoughts of Trafalgar Square fade. “I’m so glad you’re in London today.”

“Me too.”

“We’re okay?” he asks, his eyes still on the road. “You’re not cross with me?”

How can I be cross when he’s looking so perfect next to me and is kissing my hand and asking me if I’m cross? It’s impossible.

“I’m okay if you are. We don’t need to bring it up again.”

His shoulders relax and he kisses my hand again. “You really are bloody amazing. Were your friends upset that I stole you away?”

“They’ll be fine. They understand.”

“I guess we could’ve invited them along, at least for the afternoon. They might have liked having someone to show them around. I wasn’t even thinking about them. I only wanted to spend the day with you, and Father was being mental and . . .” He pauses. “I wanted you to help distract me. You’re perfect at that.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. He said I was perfect—which should be the highest praise a girl can get—but I’m perfect at making him forget his life. Is that a good thing?

I shake off my concerns. “Don’t worry. My friends don’t need a tour guide. They already know exactly where they want to go and how to get there.” I smile, thinking of Sage. “We promised to swap stories when we get back together tonight.”

“Good. Because I’m not ready to share you.”

I bask in that thought as I stare out the window at the shops and tourists whizzing by. The streets of the Mayfair district are lined with expensive stores, restaurants, and gorgeous hotels with multiple valets standing outside. Seeing London this way is a totally different experience. I feel like a local.

Will pulls up in front of a restaurant. “The Lady in White,” he announces. “We have reservations here for lunch. Assuming you like the idea.”

The restaurant looks . . . posh. Like, you need celebrity status or a six-figure salary to get a table. “Are you sure?”

“You deserve the best day I can give you. I thought we’d start here.” Will takes a ticket from the valet. “I hope you like it. The menu is traditionally British. Not really my style, but Mum loves it.”

My eyes widen as we step inside. Gilded chandeliers glint in the floor-to-ceiling mirror panels along the back wall of the restaurant. Each table is covered in linen with a bouquet of purple flowers. Thick embroidered curtains frame the enormous windows that face out toward the street. Teenagers don’t eat at places like this. Politicians and lawyers and businessmen eat here. The Middletons might eat here. But not me.

“They’re going to kick us out,” I whisper, mortified.

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