Don’t Be in Love

2

Don’t Converse with Men Who Look

Like Hugh Grant — Adelaide

The first rule I made with myself before coming to England was that I would stick to my morals and not get involved in anything romantic. Nada . It didn’t matter if 1999 Notting Hill Hugh Grant approached me; I wouldn’t succumb.

Was that difficult when a beautiful six foot British man approached you and said excuse me in his British accent? Obviously . But it was easier when I remembered the second rule: love didn’t last. And what if he was looking for love? Of course, he’d never admit that. He’d probably start by asking if I wanted to dance, which would turn into a flirtatious conversation, which would lead to a date, and then a kiss.

I would just end up breaking his heart!

I was getting ahead of myself, yes. This Brit (bloke?) was probably just looking for a dance, not my hand in marriage. But avoiding these interactions altogether saved me time and complexities I didn’t have space for in my to-do list.

“Do you want to dance?” he asked. Mia made some type of Poltergeist-choking noise from behind me.

I smiled awkwardly. “Actually, I was just about to sit with my friend …” I waited for him to fill in his name.

“Rye,” he extended his hand.

I shook it. “Like the bread?”

“More like the town two hours south of here.” He almost let a laugh slip.

“Oh. That’s interesting. I’ll have to look that up later. But I’m actually about to sit down with my friend.” I began to turn but his hand slipped around my wrist.

“You can’t,” he said in a slight panic.

I blew out a breath. “To think I thought the guys in Boston were stubborn.”

“I’m not some perv. Do I look like one?” he asked, slightly horrified.

“Depends.” I made an effort to look at his hand on my wrist.

He dropped my arm instantly. “I have a bet going with my mate over there.” He gestured to someone sitting at a table across the room. He looked just as tall, but other than that, he was the complete opposite of his companion. Darker eyes. Lighter skin. Silver hair the color of the first snow in New England. “He thinks you’d say no to a dance with me.”

“Well, it looks like your friend won,” I replied, I turned to grab Mia—

“So you’re saying no?” he asked, touching my elbow. He smelled like fresh espresso and sandalwood, a piece of his dark hair dangled over his left brow.

“It’s really not my thing.”

“Can’t dance?” he asked.

“Oh, I can dance,” I argued.

“Doesn’t seem like it,” he contended.

“Are you trying to bait me into winning this bet?” I narrowed my eyes.

“Is it working?”

“Possibly.”

“What if I bought you a drink after?” he asked.

“Well, you should’ve just started with that. And I want two drinks.”

“Two drinks it is.” He put his hand out for me to take, his sleeve retracting to expose a tattoo on the inside of his arm.

What was I doing?

It’s called having fun , my subconscious argued.

Well, this was a horrendous attempt at trying to have fun. Fun wasn’t supposed to have uncalloused hands, pretty eyes, and back muscles that were apparent through his shirt. Fun was supposed to be whimsical charms hanging off a new purse and the taste of a thick vanilla frappe on a movie night.

Too late now!

I followed him through a sea of people where the music flowed, and pairs danced. What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I do—

I was pulled into his chest, and we were dancing. Chest to chest, hips against hips, his hand on my back and mine in his palm. It pulled the air right out of my chest.

“Do you do this often?” I asked.

“Dance with beautiful women?”

“Make bets to coerce women into dancing with you?”

“I usually don’t have to coerce women.”

“You didn’t answer the bet part of the question.”

“What do you want to know next—my home address?”

“I’m sure that’s easy enough to find online, especially if you’re seeing women this often,” I explained.

“I’m not some womanizer. I don’t even know your name, matter of fact.” He narrowed his eyes. “You could be the threat here.”

I stared at him back. “Adelaide. But I’m not telling you my last name.”

“Alright, Adelaide With No Last Name, where are you from?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Yes, evidently the States, I’m not an idiot. I meant which one.”

“Massachusetts.”

“When do you fly back?” he asked curiously.

“I’m actually living in London right now,” I admitted.

“Where are you staying?”

“Plan on breaking in and rummaging through my things to find out my last name?”

He rolled his eyes. “I live in London as well. Kensington.” He waited for me to return the same response.

“Marylebone, is that close to Kensington?”

“I wouldn’t recommend walking, but it’s half the time via the Tube. Have you taken the Tube?”

“The public transportation? By myself? Definitely not.” I’d only been here two and a half months, so I wasn’t ashamed that I hadn’t tried the Tube yet. Sabrina was the only British person I knew but even living in London without her parents was a new beast for her.

“It’s easy. I don’t know much about Massachusetts, but I know the Tube is better than the subway in New York. What are you doing after this?” he asked with a cunning look.

“Are you recommending we go for a ride on the Tube?” I laughed.

“Why not? You can’t live in London and not know how to use the train system.”

It felt spontaneous to say yes. To put myself out there.

I may have moved across the world to live in a foreign place, but I still wouldn’t call myself spontaneous .

Though … I guess this wouldn’t interfere with the rules. If anything were to happen it wouldn’t go anywhere. And I’d get a knowledgeable lesson on how to use the Tube from a local.

“Alright, let’s go,” I said.