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I showered quickly, blow–dried my hair, and applied minimal makeup. Selecting a comfortable dress that would transition easily from museum to market, I emerged from the bathroom to find Alexander on the phone again.
“We’ll be ready,” he said. “Just keep me updated.” He ended the call and turned to me. “Ready to go?”
The British Museum was a marvel of architecture and history. We entered through the Great Court, a vast space covered by a stunning glass roof that filtered sunlight onto the white stone below.
“This is incredible,” I breathed, turning in a slow circle to take it all in.
“Two million years of human history under one roof,” Alexander said, his hand finding the small of my back. Where would you like to start?”
“The Rosetta Stone,” I decided immediately. “I’ve always wanted to see it.”
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He guided me through the Egyptian galleries until we stood before the famous artifact, its surface inscribed with three different scripts.
“It’s smaller than I imagined,” I said, leaning closer to examine the ancient writing.
“That’s what all the tourists say,” Alexander quipped, echoing his comment from yesterday.
“Very funny.”
We wandered through galleries filled with treasures from around the world: Greek sculptures, Assyrian reliefs, and the controversial Elgin Marbles. Alexander’s knowledge was impressive, offering insights about various artifacts without sounding like a textbook.
“How do you know so much about all this?” I asked as we examined a collection of ancient coins.
“I read,” he said simply. “And I pay attention when I visit places.”
“So you’re not just a pretty face and a fat wallet.”
“I contain multitudes, Madison.”
After the museum, we grabbed lunch at a small café tucked away on a side street. The place was clearly a local favorite, with mismatched furniture and a menu written on a chalkboard.
“This is quite different from yesterday’s lunch,” I observed, biting into a delicious sandwich.
“Variety is the spice of life.” Alexander sipped his coffee. “Besides, they make the best sandwiches in London.”
“I can’t argue with that.” I took another bite, savoring the combination of flavors. “How did you find this place?”
“A business associate brought me here years ago. I make a point to visit whenever I’m in town.”
Our next stop was Notting Hill, which has colorful houses and the famous Portobello Road Market. We strolled among stalls selling antiques, vintage clothing, and handcrafted jewelry.
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“Look at these,” I said, holding up a pair of vintage earrings. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
Alexander examined them. “They match your eyes.”
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1 felt a flush creep up my neck at the unexpected compliment. Before I could respond, he had already handed money to the vendor.
“Alexander, you don’t have to-”
“Consider it another souvenir.” He took the earrings and carefully placed them in my palm. “A reminder of
today.”
I slipped them into my purse, oddly touched by the gesture. “Thank you.”
We continued through the market, occasionally stopping at stalls that caught my interest. Alexander seemed content to follow my lead, offering opinions when asked but mostly watching me with an amused expression.
“You’re staring again,” I said as I examined a vintage camera.
“Just appreciating the view.”
I shook my head, trying to ignore the warmth his words kindled.
We took the tube from Notting Hill to Camden Market, a vibrant hub of alternative culture and street food. The crowds were thicker here, a mix of tourists and locals navigating the narrow passageways between stalls. 1
“Hungry?” Alexander asked as we passed food vendors offering cuisines from around the world.
“Starving,” I admitted. “Everything smells amazing.”
We ended up with an eclectic feast: Ethiopian injera, Korean bibimbap, and Spanish churros for dessert. Finding a spot to sit by the canal, we spread our feast between us.
“This is so much better than another fancy restaurant,” I said, dipping a piece of injera into spicy stew.
“Don’t get used to it,” Alexander warned with a smirk. “I have a reputation to maintain.”
“Heaven forbid anyone see Alexander Knight eating street food.”
“The horror.” He feigned shock. “My social standing would never recover.”
I laughed, surprised by his willingness to poke fun at himself. This playful side of Alexander was something I rarely saw, and I found myself wanting to preserve it, to commit to memory the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled genuinely.
After finishing our meal, we explored more of Camden’s unique shops. In one store selling vintage rock band t- shirts, Alexander held up a faded Rolling Stones shirt.
“This would look good on you,” he said, eyeing me speculatively.
“Really? I wouldn’t have pegged you as a band t–shirt connoisseur.”
“I’m full of surprises.” He added the shirt to a small pile he’d been accumulating: the Rolling Stones shirt, a
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leather bracelet, and a notebook with a hand–tooled cover.
“What’s all this?” I asked as he paid.
“Just a few things that caught my eye.‘
Outside the shop, he handed me the bag. “For you.”
“You’ve already bought me earrings today. And the bracelet yesterday. You don’t need to-”
“I want to.” His voice was firm but gentle. “Is that so hard to accept?”
I took the bag, oddly touched by his persistence. “Thank you.”
As afternoon turned to evening, we made our way to a rooftop bar Alexander had recommended, offering panoramic views of the city. With glasses of wine in hand, we watched London transform, lights flickering across the skyline as darkness fell.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, leaning against the railing.
“Yes, it is. Do you come here often when you’re in London?”
“Occasionally. It’s a good place to think.”
“And what do you think about, Mr. Knight?”
He swirled his wine, considering. “Business, usually. Strategies, acquisitions, the next move.”
“Always work?”
“Leo texted,” Alexander said suddenly, checking his phone. “Selena’s flight landed. She should be at her house within the hour.”
The mention of Selena broke the moment, reminding me why we were really in London, not for sightseeing or rooftop wine but to confront the woman who had drugged Alexander.
“What’s the plan?” I asked, setting down my glass.
“We finish our drinks,” he said calmly. “Then we pay her a visit.”
“Just like that? We show up at her door?”
“More or less.” He shrugged. “The element of surprise works in our favor.”
I nodded, suddenly nervous about the confrontation ahead.
We finished our drinks in silence, the earlier lightness of the day replaced by tense anticipation.
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
