The Dimple Strikes Back by Lucy Woodhull Page B

mind at the same time.
    Of course, Daniel was a fab-O movie star with a fleet of women on retainer for his sexual pleasure. Probably. He wasn’t flirting with me—he was polite. Dreamily polite.
    Forty-eight hours since I’d heard from Sam.
    And about sixty since I’d been attacked because of him. Again.
    We met Danny for a late lunch at an out-of-the-way joint near the National Portrait Gallery with seriously the best cheeseburger I’d ever had. If I admitted that on Twitter, however, I don’t think they’d let me back inside America. The grease hit the spot—specifically, the hangover spot.
    He charmed Ellen and Nicolette to the point where they decided to ditch us right after, saying they wanted a romantic night in the city. Sure, they did—one for them, and one for me. I could tell how much Ellen liked him by the way she subtly elbowed me over and over again until I had to restrain her because of my rib bruising. As they left us in the street, Ellen made a graphic gesture of sexual encouragement.
    That was just silly. I was a professional woman, working on her burgeoning career and interacting with her colleague and oh, golly, he put his hand in the small of my back. “Would you like to visit the portrait gallery?” he asked.
    I giggled, which is not a professional response. “Yes. I want to see Queen Elizabeth I, the best monarch you ever had, and a woman who didn’t need no man.”
    He smiled, subtle at first, then it blossomed into something mischievous. “It can be good to not need someone.” He led me down the square towards the entrance. “But wanting someone—that’s the delightful part.”
    “If they want you in return.”
    “Sometimes even if they don’t. ‘A girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then.’ So does a boy.”
    Did he just quote Jane Austen to me? If he pooped salted chocolate, he might be the perfect heterosexual man. I rewarded his intellect with another giggle. That made two, which was two too many.
    I was already crossed in love. I didn’t need to be double-crossed.
    His face reflected a mix of bemusement and flirtation. Why flirty? He likely flirted with everyone and everything—the world was his oyster, and we all wanted to pour hot sauce on him and lick him up. Or, wait, maybe he was the oyster? Whatever, the licking was the important part.
    I paused my libido long enough to take a breath in Trafalgar Square, not quite believing I was here. Not quite believing I was being paid to be here. I smiled so hard it began to hurt. I almost had an out-of-body experience, with the secretary me from a year and a half ago peeking in on the future and fainting from dreams coming true. For once, I controlled my urge to cry, and instead swallowed the ball of joy lumping my throat. I turned it into a goofy face for Danny, which elicited a chuckle and a head shake that seemed to say, ‘Crazy Americans!’ I was their official representative.
    We proceeded into the museum, and the crowds parted before us, whispering worshipfully. About him. Almost every person in each room just stopped and stared, and trepidation fluttered my insides. I didn’t know if I wanted this level of fame. The constant cell phone pics. The never-ending attention. But this was what came with the pay cheque, right? I didn’t want to be an ungrateful asshole. Besides, they weren’t looking at me, except tangentially. Thank goodness, because I just had to swallow a cheeseburger burp, and I’m pretty sure Angelina Jolie has taught herself not to burp or fart.
    I kept my head down and pretended the attention wasn’t happening. That was what Danny did, although he plastered a constant, small smile upon on his features. He seemed aloof and accessible at the same time, like the monarchs hanging on the walls around us.
    He wound us through the elegant rooms with gleaming wooden floors and skylights that made them seem bigger, grander. Dutifully, he delivered me to the Tudor collection, wherein I visited my