"I think we are! Veronica likes the fish and chips, even if she complains about the weather." Champagne loosening her lips. That's all. Paloma leans further over the table as part of her interest in staying right here with him. "Afterward it'll be home. Suppose our next stop depends on which booking doesn't fall through."
And either way, they probably won't see each other. The thought dampens her rising curiosity.
"Any chance something might keep you in England? If the show is a success, there could be another..." He tries not to sound like he's hoping for something, that there isn't any sense of desperation. But there most certainly is.
Got to be the bubbly. She's hearing a note of pleading which isn't there. This isn't a Kate Middleton star-crossed crush story, and Edward was full of shit. She thinks. Their brotherly love hadn't seemed... smooth.
She sets her glass down, hands moving below the table to knot up her filmy skirt overlay. The silky fabric of the borrowed dress feels sinful. Also the bubbly talking?
Paloma shakes her head, tripping over her words. "No, I don't know? I'm just an assistant. Veronica makes those decisions." She stares intently at nothing but the table's edge.
Who said anything about marriage, Edward only said he wants to fuck her--
"I would certainly like it if you were to extend your stay, or at least to return soon if you do go." Why? They hardly know eachother, it's probably one of the few times they've spoken outside of business sorts of talks with her boss involved.
Who says Kate didn't screw her prince before they talked nuptials??
"Oh," she replies, mystified.
Paloma has to drag her eyes off the marble to search his out, then. They're strangely frightened, even though he's the least threatening male she's ever met. She seems to be looking for something in his face, but cannot find it. At last she looks back down into her lap, lips pressed into a line.
She wishes she hadn't drunk the champagne so fast. "Then- I wish I knew what to say."
"Ah-- you don't need to say anything!" Suddenly he almost regrets saying anything for the embarrassment it's caused. He flushes, eyes darting to the table as hers were fixed onlya moment ago.
Still refusing to look up and catch his downturned gaze, the fear in his voice still reaches her. Maybe he's gotten the wrong impression.
"It's just, I want to, but I don't know how or what or what I could say to Veronica. I," her throat closes. "I wouldn't mind it if we saw you again." Lame finish.
"I wouldn't mind either." For someone who's as reserved and shy as him, it's as good as a love confession or asking her out. "I wouldn't mind seeing you more before you have to go, too..."
Wait, this isn't asking her out? Because that's how she takes it. After all, what other interpretation is there?
The product keeping her wild curls in check doesn't perform miracles. There are stray locks to tuck away, ones that bounce back for her to try again and again in nervous persistence. "U-umm."
Her head feels light and airy. "Me... and the curator? Or just...?"
Paloma clears her throat and still has to swallow to get rid of the nervous spit she's producing. Her heart hammers hard and loud enough that she fully believes he'll see it through her cleavage.
"Are you sure?" she whispers. What's it like to field attention from someone who's not playing tricks or... is he?
"I'm certain!" It's okay, they're both weenies and he can't even manage to look at her right now. So her leaping heart is safe from view. "You've, ah, piqued my interest?"
Her eyes lift, bewildered and working up to faint panic.
"Your brother said!" she begins hurriedly, but catching up to her mouth reconsiders what was about to come out. "Said you were interested," Paloma finishes with some minor censorship. "I-I thought he was trying to mess with me. Since he went for... you know?"
Oh. Anything Edward said would certainly have been crass and rude. Not the way Henry would prefer to phrase it, that he has interest in her, thinks she's pretty and smart and would like to get to know her better!
Rat bastard. Where does he get off going around messing with people's business contacts? That's all he is, right now! Her fascination with the cool green of his eyes notwithstanding!
"But," she goes on, "I haven't explored London much, with everything we have to do..." He's already asked her out. Why is she hinting??
"Of course!" Somewhere, anyway - he pats down his suit, suddenly not remembering what suit he's even wearing and so not sure whether it has hidden inside pockets and if so where. But there it is, indeed, an inner breast pocket with a lump that turns out to be a pen. And paper - paper? Ah, a napkin he's brought along. Which isn't a paper napkin, of course they're fancier than that, it's cloth, but it's something...
And a cloth napkin. Not great. Too fancy for her to dare scribble over. Being a young lady of practical sensibility, the obvious fix is to write on someone's hand. There, however, lies the dilemma: she has no sleeves to hide an inked number. It has to be him.
Paloma chews on her lip and hovers her hand over his. "If I write my number on your wrist, you could hide it and it'll wash off better than the handkerchief?"
That's a good point, and makes him flush for how intimate it feels, and yet... "Well, the truth is I can be somewhat...absent-minded, I would hate to accidentally wash it off before transferring it to my address book..." Then again, he knows how to get in contact with her for business purposes, it's not as if he'd have no way to recover the number. So he holds out his left wrist, being less likely to shake anyone's hand with it.
"I'll write further up," she says quickly, sincerely anxious at the idea of ruining a handkerchief that costs more than her average meal plan.
Paloma pushes his sleeve far back, as promised, and realizes she's about to ink her phone number onto an English lord's forearm. Is this part of a made-for-tv mockumentary? Biting her lip harder, the cold tip of the pen tickles over his skin in a neat-ish line.
Is it that weird?? He doesn't think so! "Why shouldn't I be? I'm not carrying my phone right now, so there isn't much option!" Just do it, give him the digits, before he has a stroke from being too much of a weenie.
It's weird when her ears still ring with 'he wants to fuck you', and she's been hit on twice in the same night by men who wouldn't stop to give her the time of day if it weren't for Veronica. Maybe.
Paloma kind of hopes he's better than her preconceptions of uber-privileged rich white nobility. Hence finishing the last digit with a relieved sigh, patting him politely. "I mean about staying in touch. Should we keep it quiet? Gossip..." Her fear is beginning to run away with her mouth.
He shakes his head, taking a quick look at his wrist to be sure he didn't get a 1-800-fuc-kyou or something. "Oh, no, it isn't like those old Victorian stories or anything!" He laughs a little to give her a reassuring smile. "I'm...rather self-conscious when it comes to these things, for my own reasons, but that's quite different."
Because all signs until now DEFINITELY point to heartless con!!!
Old Victorian stories? Was the question that silly? Paloma falls silent in her embarrassed reflection. Her gaze drifts to the light glowing from indoors, which doesn't breach their table's privacy. The paranoia that his brother could wander back puts a lump in her stomach.
"... I guess if... I guess if we kept it hush hush, that makes it look like something to be ashamed of. Sorry. Not good at this."
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"I think we are! Veronica likes the fish and chips, even if she complains about the weather." Champagne loosening her lips. That's all. Paloma leans further over the table as part of her interest in staying right here with him. "Afterward it'll be home. Suppose our next stop depends on which booking doesn't fall through."
And either way, they probably won't see each other. The thought dampens her rising curiosity.
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She sets her glass down, hands moving below the table to knot up her filmy skirt overlay. The silky fabric of the borrowed dress feels sinful. Also the bubbly talking?
Paloma shakes her head, tripping over her words. "No, I don't know? I'm just an assistant. Veronica makes those decisions." She stares intently at nothing but the table's edge.
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"I would certainly like it if you were to extend your stay, or at least to return soon if you do go." Why? They hardly know eachother, it's probably one of the few times they've spoken outside of business sorts of talks with her boss involved.
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"Oh," she replies, mystified.
Paloma has to drag her eyes off the marble to search his out, then. They're strangely frightened, even though he's the least threatening male she's ever met. She seems to be looking for something in his face, but cannot find it. At last she looks back down into her lap, lips pressed into a line.
She wishes she hadn't drunk the champagne so fast. "Then- I wish I knew what to say."
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"It's just, I want to, but I don't know how or what or what I could say to Veronica. I," her throat closes. "I wouldn't mind it if we saw you again." Lame finish.
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The product keeping her wild curls in check doesn't perform miracles. There are stray locks to tuck away, ones that bounce back for her to try again and again in nervous persistence. "U-umm."
Her head feels light and airy. "Me... and the curator? Or just...?"
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"Are you sure?" she whispers. What's it like to field attention from someone who's not playing tricks or... is he?
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"Your brother said!" she begins hurriedly, but catching up to her mouth reconsiders what was about to come out. "Said you were interested," Paloma finishes with some minor censorship. "I-I thought he was trying to mess with me. Since he went for... you know?"
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"Ah- I'm sure he was! With both of us."
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"But," she goes on, "I haven't explored London much, with everything we have to do..." He's already asked her out. Why is she hinting??
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"Figure I have a week before we'll know our return time," she tells them. Her rasp has taken on a softer, shyer note. "Do- do you have a pen?"
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And a cloth napkin. Not great. Too fancy for her to dare scribble over. Being a young lady of practical sensibility, the obvious fix is to write on someone's hand. There, however, lies the dilemma: she has no sleeves to hide an inked number. It has to be him.
Paloma chews on her lip and hovers her hand over his. "If I write my number on your wrist, you could hide it and it'll wash off better than the handkerchief?"
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Paloma pushes his sleeve far back, as promised, and realizes she's about to ink her phone number onto an English lord's forearm. Is this part of a made-for-tv mockumentary? Biting her lip harder, the cold tip of the pen tickles over his skin in a neat-ish line.
"You're really sure?"
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Paloma kind of hopes he's better than her preconceptions of uber-privileged rich white nobility. Hence finishing the last digit with a relieved sigh, patting him politely. "I mean about staying in touch. Should we keep it quiet? Gossip..." Her fear is beginning to run away with her mouth.
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Old Victorian stories? Was the question that silly? Paloma falls silent in her embarrassed reflection. Her gaze drifts to the light glowing from indoors, which doesn't breach their table's privacy. The paranoia that his brother could wander back puts a lump in her stomach.
"... I guess if... I guess if we kept it hush hush, that makes it look like something to be ashamed of. Sorry. Not good at this."
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