past, he pivoted. He didn’t ask a single thing about my personal life in LA. Instead, we talked about movies, and pets, and favorite kind of pie, and what we wanted to do today when the sun came back up. He was right that it was easy to talk to him because who cares what he knows? I’ll never see him again after this. I wanted to capture the night on film and show it to Mom and Nana later to say, See? I can tell a stranger who I am and they don’t turn into an obsessed maniac and run to the press. He didn’t ask me for Dad’s phone number, okay?
I fell asleep next to him on the lawn, and when I woke up he was carrying me inside. In his arms.
“Late?” Nana prompted.
“Pretty late,” I agreed. “It was nice out.”
My stomach dropped at the memory of feeling Sam’s arm banded beneath my knees, the other curved around my shoulders, and the steady pace of his footsteps across the marble lobby. I woke up with my face pressed to the collar of his flannel shirt and my arms around his neck.
Oh my God. You don’t have to carry me.
I don’t mind.
Did I fall asleep?
We both did.
I’m sorry.
Are you kidding? I came to London and slept with the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. I get to say that now.
He put me down once we were inside the elevator, but it was a slow, intimate process. My front sliding along his chest until my feet landed safely on the floor. He kept his arm around my shoulders, one huge hand stretched across, cupped possessively on the other side. I wanted to ask exactly how many girls he’d carried. How many he’d made lose their minds over his thick arms and broad chest, his honesty, and the tiny comma scar under his lip. How many girls he’d slept with, on the grass or otherwise.
Thankfully, Nana moved on. “I’ve scheduled the British Museum for us today.” She nodded so that I’d follow her to the table. In my daydreaming, I only managed to put a piece of bread and cheese on my plate. “Then have lunch at Harrods.”
The sleep—not to mention the view—she scored last night seemed to have served her well: she was smiling in that modest, contented way of hers and wearing her favorite red cardigan from Penney’s, which could only mean she was in a decent mood.
It was either that or the simple truth that Nana loved nothing more than a schedule. Other than Christmas and New Year’s Day, she opened Jude’s at six thirty every morning and closed at four every afternoon, on the dot. And in between, she prepped pie crust, put in her vendor orders, checked and double-checked the cash registers, butchered and marinated the chicken in buttermilk and paprika for frying the next day, made all the side dishes fresh, and slow cooked the brisket while I washed dishes, mopped floors, and set tables. Mom made lemonade, peeled apples, peaches, and potatoes, made lemon curd, and then took whatever leftover food we had from the lunch crowd down the road to Monte Rio, where the same people waited every night for the one meal they’d get that day.
Nana waved at someone over my shoulder, pulling me out of my sleepy thoughts. I assumed she was flagging down the waiter for some coffee, but Luther’s voice rang out across the restaurant: “Our two favorite ladies!”
Heads turned, and the girls at the table beside ours gaped at Sam as he made his way over. A weight dropped from my chest to my stomach. I knew I’d see him again—hoped I’d see him again—but I didn’t think it would be over breakfast with Nana, before I’d had a chance to remind him not to mention what I’d said about Dad.
“Okay if we join you?” Sam asked.
He must have directed the question at me, because a beat of silence passed before Nana jumped in: “Of course. We just sat down.”
Across from me, beside Sam, Nana pulled her napkin onto her lap, smiling up at him, and then over to Luther, who sat down to my left, patting my knee affectionately.
I finally worked up the nerve to drag my eyes to Sam’s face. His arms were enormous—an anatomy lesson in individual muscles, tendons, and veins. His blue shirt stretched across his chest—Bob Dylan’s face was mildly distorted by pectorals. There were a few lines on his left cheek, like he’d