Love In London: A Steamy Standalone Instalove Romance Page 3

  “Everything,” I say, which is no exaggeration. I tap the menu resting on the table, which is only one page long. “But seriously, I don’t know. They change the menu every week or so. That’s one of the joys of coming here. You never know what you’re going to get.”

  “Wow,” she says, her eyes wide again as she looks back at the menu. I see her eyes catch on something in particular, and I realize I haven’t even read it myself yet. I start reading, my stomach letting me know that it’s been a while since lunch as I go through mouth-watering descriptions of food that all sounds amazing.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to get,” I confess, shrugging my shoulders helplessly. “It all sounds incredible.”

  “Me, either,” she says, looking up at me with wide eyes filled with relief. “God, I thought it was just me. Everything sounds so good.”

  “That’s settled, then,” I tell her. I glance up at the waiter – that’s all I need to do, here. He’s always on alert, ready to spring into action, and he approaches the table at a brisk clip.

  “Are you ready to order, sir?” he asks.

  I try not to smile at the look of panic on Gabriella’s face. “Yes,” I tell him. “We’ll have one of everything.”

  “Everything?” he says, confirming it with a twinkle in his eyes. I think he’s excited about the size of the check he’s going to be handing me at the end of this meal.

  “Yes, please,” I say, lifting my menu to hand it to him. “And a couple of your house cordials for our drinks. Thanks.”

  “Certainly,” he says, taking Gabriella’s menu as well with a short bow and then disappearing.

  “One of everything?” Gabriella says when he’s gone, her voice low and full of… I don’t know. Maybe awe.

  “Is there an echo in here?” I joke. “How else are we supposed to figure out which dish is the best?”

  “I don’t know the exchange rate by heart, but I know those are big numbers on the menu,” Gabriella says. Almost warningly. Like she’s telling me off for spending too much money on her. I think I love it.

  “And I don’t often get the chance to spend those kinds of numbers on a guest, so let me enjoy it,” I tell her. It’s not just a tactic to make her feel better. I really do enjoy treating the people I care about. Since that circle is very small, it means I can do it whenever I feel like it without going overboard. In my own life, there isn’t a whole lot that I need or want that I can’t just buy, so it feels good to buy things for those who aren’t quite yet at that stage.

  “I don’t think you’re going to give me a choice, are you?” she asks. She’s smiling when she says it, so I know she doesn’t mind as much as she’s making out.

  “Nope,” I tell her with a grin. “So you might as well enjoy it, too.”

  She chuckles and ducks her head. “Then, I guess I will. Thank you for this.”

  That smile on her lips… I don’t think she realizes how powerful it is. How I would do just about anything in order to keep it there.

  It doesn’t take long for the dishes to arrive. We look down in awe at the array of plates spread out between us, covering the small table. We’re just in the middle of deciding how to split up each plate when a familiar head of hair pokes around the kitchen door, and the chef himself appears to greet us.

  “I wondered who it might be that wanted to try everything on the menu,” he says, casual and friendly as he leans on the wall next to our table. He’s still wearing his chef whites, his hands clutching a dishcloth as they always seem to be. I can never tell whether he’s trying to stop himself from touching anything to keep his hands clean, or whether he thinks his hands are too dirty with food to touch anything.

  “Hello, Marco,” I say with a smile. “This is my guest, Gabriella.”

  “Gabby, please,” she says, darting a look at me which is half-sheepish. She must have been wanting to correct me all this time. I guess that with all the growing up she’s been doing, there have been a lot of changes. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

  “She’s a polite one,” Marco grins, nodding at her and then glancing at me. “Where’d you find her? Is that a California accent?”

  I don’t do her the injustice of speaking for her. She’s more than shown me she’s capable of doing that herself, in spite of the flush that spreads across her cheeks.

  “Was I too polite?” she says, waving a slightly flustered hand. “I don’t know. I’ve never met a chef before. And, yes, California.”

  “Never?” Marco says, looking almost affronted. “Where else has he been taking you?”

  “Nowhere else,” she says with a light laugh. “I just arrived today. I’m visiting colleges this week, and Oz and my dad are… old friends.”

  I wonder just a little at the hesitation there. Why would she not be sure about that? Well, she has to be sure of it – she’s grown up seeing us as friends.

  So, what other reason would she have for hesitating?

  Could it be that she doesn’t want to define herself by who her dad is to me?

  She’s asking Marco about the food, his inspiration behind the dishes, and that sends him off into his usual spiel about sourcing the freshest produce and bringing a refined version of the flavors of his home. It’s something I’ve heard before, and even though I do love how passionate he is, I don’t need to hear it again. I tune him out, watching, observing.

  Thinking.

  Thinking about the way she seems to have charmed him around her little finger already, drawing out smiles and laughter from a man who can sometimes be surly – like all chefs, he has a hot temperament. How even the waiter, glancing up from serving the next table, seems to brighten when he overhears the conversation and watches her converse. The whole room seems brighter, in fact. And she’s doing that all by herself. She doesn’t need me here to make an introduction or anything else. She’s so engaging, so bright and beautiful, that it sparks joy in everyone around her.

  I would be absolutely crazy to let her get away, wouldn’t I?

  Eventually, Marco moves on, off to talk to the next table and make sure everything is good with their meal. As we begin to eat our food, I can’t help but notice the differences. How he barely exchanges more than a few pleasantries with the other tables, just enough to be friendly and polite but not getting as enthusiastic as he did with Gabby. How, when she moans out loud and rolls her eyes and exclaims how amazing one of the dishes is, he’s not the only one who turns to look at her.

  And he’s not even the only one with a light hint of pink appearing on his cheeks.

  I don’t think she knows just how hot she is – in that dress, in the way she eats, in every movement she makes. She’s grown into a stunning young woman, and I don’t think she actually understands just how captivating she is.

  Or maybe I’m putting words in everyone else’s mouths because I know that I just can’t keep my eyes off her for longer than a single second.

  We don’t pause talking as we eat. We make our way through the dishes one by one, comparing the flavors, talking about the texture and how clever Marco is. How fresh every piece tastes. It’s like going to a movie with a cinema buff, you get the best conversation afterward, maybe even better than seeing the movie in the first place. That’s how it feels to be with Gabby, to experience something with her.

  Except I don’t think it’s because she’s a food buff. Because she’s been like this with every topic that’s come up so far. I think it’s just that she’s the most fascinating person I’ve ever met.

  How in the hell did this happen in the space of just two years?

  “Alright,” I say when we’re both finished up with the last of the plates. It was a lot of food, but thanks to the smaller portion sizes, I don’t feel too uncomfortable. In fact, I think it was just about the right amount of food. “I’ll just head to the men’s room, and then I’ll get the bill. Unless you wanted to order something else?”

  She shakes her head no with a light laugh. “If I ate anything else, I thin
k I would burst. And if it was something Marco made, I would force myself to try anyway.”

  I laugh back – she’s right. I get up from the table, dumping my napkin as I go, and walk towards the back of the room.

  Just at the door leading through to the restroom, I stop, turn, and look back. She’s side-on to me here, and if she looked up she would see me staring, but I just want to take her in a moment longer. Her beauty. Her grace. The way she lights up the room even when she’s just sitting in silence on her own.

  Holy hell, I’m in trouble. Because there’s no way I’m going to let her end this vacation and just fly home as if we’re only distantly connected. I have to make her mine – it’s a visceral need.

  No. She is mine. It’s just that she doesn’t know it yet.

  Chapter Seven

  Gabby

  When Oz heads steps away from the table, it gives me a moment to think and take it all in. To digest the day’s events, if that isn’t too horrible of a pun.

  It gives me a moment to realize just how amazing this all has been. I’m so lucky. I can’t believe it’s played out this way. It’s like the universe is rewarding me for something. I just wish I knew what, so I could keep it up.

  The restaurant door opens, and I glance up to see a group of young men come into the restaurant. More like boys, really. They look like they’re around my age. Then I notice that a couple of them are wearing jackets emblazoned with the logo of a college, and I realize they must be.

  How funny that I’m already thinking of them as just boys, in comparison to Oz. God, I don’t know how I’m ever going to find a man in my own life that could compare to him. It’s just a shame that this isn’t going to last.

  The boys are a little loud as they settle into the next table over, talking between themselves about some upcoming party and who they’re going to invite. A couple of them have flushed cheeks, and I wonder if they started the night by drinking somewhere else. It’s legal here, I guess. And if they are college students already, they’re older than me. Plus, it’s getting later into the evening now. I suppose I shouldn’t judge.

  “How was everything?” the waiter asks, coming over to start clearing our plates.

  “It was amazing, thank you,” I say warmly, smiling at him. He’s been nothing but polite. I know it’s his job, but sometimes waiters can be surly or just put in the minimum effort. He’s been the picture of good service. “I think Oz just wanted to get the check.”

  “Certainly,” the waiter nods, moving away with his perfectly stacked pile of plates.

  “Hey, you’re American,” one of the boys at the next table says. I look around, blinking, and realize that he’s talking to me.

  “Um, yes,” I say, not sure if that was a question or just a statement.

  “Where you from?” he asks, even though one of his friend’s snickers, says “Harry”, and tries to pull him back by the arm. He ignores them, twisting in his seat towards me.

  “I’m from San Francisco,” I say, because the question seems innocent enough, and it would be rude not to answer. “California.”

  “We know where San Fran is,” Harry chuckles. He looks me over in a way that makes me feel instantly uncomfortable. Like he’s studying my body. He doesn’t have any right to do that. “What are you doing over here, then?”

  “Looking at colleges,” I say, trying to keep my calm. I don’t want to panic. He’s just a little drunk and making conversation. That’s all.

  “Oh, yeah?” Harry glances around at his friends. “We’re college students, love. You should come to our dorm with us tonight, so we can show you around.”

  A few of them laugh again, hiding it fairly badly behind their hands. “We’re having a party,” one of the others says. “It’s not open to everyone, but you look cute enough to get in.”

  “Cute enough?” I say, frowning a little. I didn’t mean to react, but it was a knee-jerk reaction. Actually, I’m thinking I should try to get out of this conversation as quickly as possible.

  “Well, we can’t have just anyone come in,” Harry says, egged on by his friend’s boldness. “We only let in the hottest girls. You can hang with us, though.”

  I stare at him, and then away from the table, wishing he would shut up and leave me alone. I don’t want this kind of attention. I don’t like the way it makes me feel, and I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. Like I might owe him something if he lets me come to his party.

  I don’t want to go to his party.

  “I don’t want to go to any parties,” I say because it’s true and it’s in my head already and I might as well say it. “I’ve got a lot of tours to go to in the morning.”

  “We’ll give you a much better tour than that, won’t we, lads?” Harry says. He moves suddenly, making me flinch, and before I can properly react he’s sitting next to me in the vacant chair that was between us. He slips his arm around the back of my chair, making me shift forward away from it. But that only leaves me feeling more vulnerable and exposed, and closer to him anyway.

  “Come on, say you’ll come,” one of the others says. “We’ll take you there after we eat.”

  “Gentlemen,” someone says, and I look up to see the waiter. He looks as harassed as I feel. He’s got a worried look on his face, too, like he wants to calm the situation down but doesn’t know how. “May I take your orders?”

  “Not just yet,” Harry says, leaning closer to me even while talking to the waiter. “We’re still deciding what we want off the menu.”

  I want to get up and leave. I want the waiter to say something to save me. I want the chef, Marco, to come back out and tell these boys to get out and leave, but none of that is happening. And I don’t know how much longer Oz is going to be.

  “Come on, love,” Harry says, his voice low like it’s just for me. “Why don’t you come back with me? We can leave these lads to their dinner. I’ve got a Mercedes parked outside and a nice bottle of champagne back in my dorm. I’d love to see what you can do with it.”

  “I-I don’t want to,” I stammer, trying to move away from his arm. But the other direction is towards the wall, and I’m basically trapped.

  I have no idea how I’m going to get out of this. I don’t know where to go or what to do.

  I just have to pray that someone comes – before Harry does something I can’t get away from.

  Chapter Eight

  Oz

  I’m coming back when I see them. A bunch of idiots – probably from Eton or some similar kind of school, all of them yammering around together because their Daddies own half of Westminster. Or St. Moritz. I’ve known my fair share of idiots like that, both when I was a student myself and since then, in my adult life. They tend to be rude, loud, self-important, and absolutely insufferable.

  But none of that is what triggers me to grit my teeth when I come out of the door and see them.

  What triggers me is the fact that one of them appears to be trying to put his arm around Gabby – and I can see just how much she doesn’t like it.

  “Excuse me,” I say loudly, striding over to them. “Who the hell are you?”

  The group looks at me with laughing, mocking faces. I can see immediately that they’ve all had too much to drink, and it isn’t even that late in the evening. They’re dressed in full tails, which means they’re probably settling in for a night of it. Probably out on one of those ‘legendary’ nights that involves smashing up good establishments and then paying off the owners later on with Daddy’s money.

  Pathetic.

  “Alright, Grandad?” the one with his arm around Gabby’s chair says. I can see the relief and hope shimmer in her eyes at seeing me. “What’s it to you?”

  I choose to ignore this comment, instead of focusing on what needs to be done. “Get back to your own table, boy,” I order him. “Or better yet, leave. This is a good restaurant. The doorman should have known better than to let you in, half-cut already.”

  He sneers back at me. “The doorman let me
in because he knows who I am,” he says. His group of friends don’t say much to back him up, but then again, they aren’t dispersing either. In fact, they’re just laughing along, chortling like kids, like they’re being naughty and having fun while the headteacher tries to tell them off.

  They don’t know who they’re up against here.

  “The doorman can’t possibly know who you are, because you aren’t anyone yet,” I snort. “What are you? Twelve years old?”

  “I’m twenty,” he says, reddening slightly in the face. “And what are you? Seventy-two?”

  “Bored,” I say. “Specifically, of you. Get back to your table and stop being such a brat. People come here to eat, not to have to put up with you.”

  The waiter, beside me, is looking increasingly flustered, I can’t help but notice. He probably thinks we’re going to come to blows. I haven’t gathered enough evidence yet to suggest that he’s wrong, but I do know one thing. I’m going to be a lot more civilized about it than these oiks would be. And I can end this with one blow, rather than having to drag it out.

  “No,” he says. “You know what? I don’t think you must be anyone, yourself. Because if you were, you’d know who I am, and you’d know not to mess with me.”

  I almost roll my eyes at him. At least while he’s being confrontational with me, he’s gradually turning more and more in my direction – which is pulling him further and further away from Gabby. Not by much, but by enough to make a difference. She still looks terrified, though, which is making my blood boil more and more with each passing moment.

  “Is that so?” is all I say, shaking my head at him to let him know how ridiculous I think he is. This child. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

  “One word to my father, and you’d be in all kinds of trouble,” he says, slyly.

  “I very much doubt that,” I tell him.

  “Oh, you will be,” he says, doubling down on his threat. “You’ll be in a world of trouble. People don’t like to mess with the son of Lord Almsely. You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”