What Happens in London by Jen McConnel

Author:Jen McConnel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2015-04-20T04:00:00+00:00

It turned out that the Tower wasn’t really a tower; it was a medieval fortress. Walls surrounded the compound, and buildings that had been used as royal residences butted up next to the rooms where people had been imprisoned. The tour was fascinating, but I still felt a shiver of discomfort as we wandered about the ruins.

“Did you know the guards still live here?” Carson whispered, gesturing to our uniformed guide.

I turned to him, aghast. “Why would anyone want to live here?”

“It’s considered a great honor. There’s a whole community of guards and their families living in the Tower.”

I stared at him skeptically, and he shrugged.

“It’s tradition.”

After we finished the rest of the tour, Carson and I wandered around the Tower grounds for a bit. Finally, Carson paused.

“I think,” he said softly, bringing my hand to his lips and kissing my palm, “it’s time you let me draw you.”

His words thrilled me, but I shook my head. “I don’t think I’d make a very good model today.”

“No, this is perfect. Please, Sarah?” He still had my hand up to his mouth, and he trailed his lips lazily along my wrist for a moment, his eyes fixed on my face.

I shivered in delight at his touch, and it took a second before I could speak. Finally, I nodded. “Okay.” I swallowed, my heart beating fast.

Carson led me to a nondescript wooden bench tucked in one of the corners of the fortress. “You sit here.”

“Like this?” I sat down stiffly, my legs pressed together.

Carson shook his head. “Be natural.”

“It isn’t natural for someone to be drawing me,” I argued.

“Sarah, just try.” His voice was serious, so I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Trying to ignore the way Carson made my heart thump, trying to block out my father’s voice in my head that said I wasn’t worth looking at, I slowly forced myself to calm down. When I opened my eyes, I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees without thinking, and I studied Carson.

“Just like that,” he murmured, pulling a sketchbook out of his man bag and leaning on the wall a few feet away from me.

I ignored the scratch of his pencil on the page, and instead I focused on drinking in everything I could about Carson. Who was this amazing guy who made me feel as if I were somehow special? I studied the angle of his jaw, the curve of his lips, and his sharp nose. My eyes drifted to his eyes, but he was staring at me in a detached way, like—well, like an artist who’s creating something. In the cloudy light, his eyes looked gray, and I thought about the shifting hues of blues I’d noticed in his gaze since when met.

God, had it only been three days ago? It seemed like a lifetime had passed since I’d bumped into Carson in the bookstore, and I shook my head in surprise.

“Don’t move,” he whispered, and I froze, suddenly very conscious of the fact that he was drawing me.

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