“So, you liked them?” I ask Riley as I sidle up next to her to watch Conlon and Adriana walk away hand in hand.

Riley’s eyes, too, are locked on my brother and his fiancée as they make their way down the street. For once I can’t entirely read her thoughts, but I’m curious. I’m fairly certain that she and Adriana had a few intimate words before saying good-bye. They looked like they were engaged in a pretty intense tête-à-tête for a few minutes.

“I liked them very much,” Riley replies, nodding and turning my way. I pull my eyes to hers only to see that she’s looking at me with a funny little expression that tells me she’s just had a revelation of sorts.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” I ask.

The real question, of course, is what’s going on in my own head. Because I think I’m the one who’s confused now.

I spent all of lunch staring at her admiringly. Listening to her speak so easily with my brother, who scares the living hell out of most people. I watched her bond with Adriana. And the entire time, I felt a strange, pleasant cocktail of pride and affection brew inside my chest.

I want to tell her what Conlon said to me before he left. I want to say that my brother doesn’t think I should let her go back to America, and that I agree with him. Conlon knows what he’s talking about. He’s been in our situation. He was faced with the dilemma of having to let Adriana go. In the end, he didn’t, and it was the best decision he ever made.

As insane as it sounds, I want to ask Riley to stay in England. The problem is that it’s too soon. Too soon to put that sort of pressure on her. Too soon to ask for a commitment. She’s been through too much in recent months. It wouldn’t be prudent for either of us to take our relationship into high-speed mode.

But that doesn’t stop me wanting to press my lips to hers and taste her again. If I can’t keep her, I’d at least like to savour her while she’s here.

“Nothing is going on in my head,” she says. “But at the same time, everything is. I don’t know.” She lets out a laugh, but it’s not a particularly joyful one. No, this chuckle is tinged with a bittersweet flavour. Perhaps she’s having the same trouble as I am: she knows that she’s leaving, she knows that we need to keep our distance from one another. She knows that we’re in an impossible situation.

Maybe she even knows how much I want her, in spite of those inconvenient facts.

“Listen, I have a question for you,” I tell her. Her jaw clenches immediately and she crosses her arms over her chest, like she’s bracing herself for something unpleasant.

“What is it?” she asks.

I reach into my jacket pocket and extract two tickets. “Conlon gave me these just now. Tickets to the Proms tonight. He was going to take Adriana, but they can’t make it. Want to come with me?”

Riley’s face lights up with something that looks very much like relief. I’ve pulled her thoughts away from the doom and gloom of our finite relationship and towards something a little more pleasant. “That depends,” she says, a sexy smile slipping over her full lips.

“On what?”

“Well, for starters, what the hell are the Proms? Are you inviting me to some dance for drunken teenagers? Is that a thing in England?”

I snicker. Sometimes I forget that not all of Great Britain’s cultural activities are known throughout the whole bleeding world. “The Proms is a series of concerts at Royal Albert Hall. They’re grand. These are standing room tickets, though, I have to warn you. No fancy seating for the likes of us, so we’d have to suck it up and find a way to remain vertical for the duration.”

“Standing room?” she asks, feigning a horrified expression. “Huh. And here I thought Conlon was rich.”

“He is, but he can be a cheap bastard. Or perhaps they were just sold out of the good seats by the time it occurred to him to grab these. Anyhow, come with me. It’ll be good. The orchestra is amazing, and the hall is something special. I’d love to experience it with you.”

“All right,” she says, throwing me a coy, charming smile that I want to kiss right off her lips. “I suppose I could do that. Actually, I’m impressed. You’re finally living up to your tour guide title and getting me away from pubs.”

“Hey—I brought you to the National Gallery.”

“True. Fair enough; I’ll give you credit for that.”

“Anyhow, you’ll enjoy it,” I tell her. “We’ve been going to the Proms since I was a wee lad. It’s a tradition that should be experienced by all serious visitors to London.”

“A tradition, you say? Then I’m definitely looking forward to it. I’m all for anything that might give me insight into your depraved mind and how you became this way.”

“Depraved, am I?”

“Totally depraved.”

“Fine, then,” I reply, turning to walk away. Riley gets the hint and joins me. “Since I’m utterly wanked in the brain, let’s you and I wander a little bit first. We have a few hours to kill, it’s a nice day, and I would like to take you somewhere nice and peaceful where we can bask in one another’s depravity in relative privacy.”

“You’re not working or anything?” she asks.

“Nope. Not just now. I have a few days off, in fact, so I’m all yours for the duration, if you choose to use me. As a tour guide, strictly speaking, of course.”

“Of course,” she says.

I’m pretty sure that’s a sigh that I hear venting out through her lovely lips. She knows I’m not really hers, of course. I can’t be hers, so long as our rules hold fast.

“Where are we going?” she asks after we’ve walked in silence for a little.

“I thought we could wander over to a little park I love. It’s very private, secluded, even. It’s lovely. I suspect you’ll like it.”

Riley lets out an adorable laugh. “Lovely,” she mimics. “You’re adorable.”

“You’re mocking me,” I say.

“Sort of. It’s just…you’re the only man I know who uses the word ‘lovely’ without any irony. Yet you still manage to make it sound manly. Oh, my God, I’ve just realized something.”

“Oh? What would that be, Miss Simmons?”

“You’re Hugh Grant. I bet you even say Oopsie daisy on occasion, don’t you?”

“You take that back,” I retort with mock rage, turning to shoot her a sideways glare as we stride along.

“No, I’m serious. You’re the good Hugh Grant. The one all women want to take home with them.”

“Continue,” I reply, softening my voice.

“Well, let’s see. You’re charming and funny and…” She cuts herself off, apparently reluctant to say any more nice things about me.

“Remarkably handsome, I believe, are the words you’re looking for but can’t quite manage.”

“Remarkably handsome. Fine, I’ll give you that.”

“I am a one-armed Hugh Grant, then. Every boy’s dream, when asked what he wishes to be when he grows up.”

“I suppose that makes me a very lucky girl. I’ve found a one-armed Hugh Grant. But then again, I’ll never get to bring him home with me.” This time her sigh is definitely audible.

“Wait a moment.” I reach over with my man-made hand and grab her wrist, turning her towards me as we both stop walking. “Is that what you’d like?” I ask, my tone perfectly sincere. “To bring me home with you?”

She looks me in the eye with an earnest, almost tormented expression of frustration. “I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know what I want. But I do know that if I brought you home right now, my family would lose their minds, and rightly so. They’d judge me for it. They’d tell me it’s too soon after the breakup, and they’d be right. I wouldn’t want to put you in that position, not to mention myself.”

“Do you really care about any of that?”

“No.” Her mouth utters the word, but the look on her face says otherwise. Yes, she cares. Her family’s good opinion matters to her, and I can’t blame her for it.

I have before me a woman who’s torn up inside, and all I really want is to pull her to me and hold on tight. I want to shield her with my arms, to help her forget all of society’s stupid pressures and all the expectations that friends and family lay at her feet. Riley is free of all of it with me. I will not judge. I will not pressure her.

I want her to be happy.

That’s all I want.

“Then let’s not worry about taking me home with you just now,” I say softly. “Or about family, or any of it. Let’s just have a nice afternoon together. Then we’ll go to a nice concert. After that, we’ll see. Come on, love, let’s keep going.”

After a few minutes have passed, we’ve come to the gate of the small park I mentioned earlier. The weather’s unseasonably warm today, and London smells of spring despite the Christmas decorations that are cropping up all over the city. Any threats of snow have disappeared for the time being.

“We need to take advantage of the temperature,” I tell Riley. “Let’s go in and sit on a bench, and just bask in our solitude, shall we?”

“That sounds perfect,” she replies.