Billion Dollar Stranger

“Maybe we could go sightseeing? Have you toured London before?”

“Some, but not everywhere, and it’s been a while.”

“Okay, then. How about The British Museum, Tate Modern with a stop for lunch in the restaurant at the top, then a stroll along the South Bank, and if you haven’t been, we could go to the top of the Shard?”

“Sounds great,” he says, smiling with a look of genuine excitement. I’m excited too. I don’t often spend time appreciating the city I live in, and it’ll be nice to share the experience with someone who’ll be seeing everything through fresh eyes.

“Do you want to shower and change?”

“That’d be great.” Aaron rises to retrieve the things he needs from his suitcase, and we converge in the corridor to my bathroom, me with a clean towel to give him, feeling ridiculous for finding the whole prospect of him showering in my apartment more intimate than the insane sex we’ve shared. Everything seems backward and upside down.

“The shower’s pretty easy to use,” I say, lurking at the door while he walks into my tiny bathroom. “Just press the red button, and it should be the right temperature.”

“Thanks,” he grins. “Maybe I’ll check out your bathroom cupboards while I’m at it.”

I laugh. “You’ll only find boxes of tampons and some spare toilet-rolls. Nothing scandalous in there.”

“Shame.” He reaches for the door handle and leans against it, looking way too sexy for his own good. In a memory flash, I remember the first time he pushed open my knees and traced the seam of my pussy and feel instantly wet.

“See you in a few minutes,” I say, turning before he catches sight of the flush on my cheeks.

Aaron emerges ten minutes later in a cloud of amazing-smelling steam, looking like a model from the cover of GQ. He’s styled his hair differently, so it’s edgier and messier than I’ve seen before, and he’s dressed down in dark jeans and a sweater that looks like it’s made from the world’s softest fabric. His feet are bare and catching sight of them made my tummy flip.

I’m such an idiot.

I’m ready to leave, and it looks like he’s almost there, perching on the edge of my sofa to put his socks and boots on.

“It’s only a five-minute walk to the Tube station,” I say, pushing my arms into my slouchy gray coat and zipping up my knee-high black boots.

“My driver’s outside. He can take us.”

“Your driver?” I say, thinking about how long Aaron has been with me and about the poor man who has been sitting in the car all that time.

“He went to get breakfast, but I messaged him when I was in the bathroom. He should be here now.”

“Oh,” I say, unsure how I felt about being chauffeur driven. I mean, it’s definitely a luxury, but London traffic is a nightmare, not to mention I like the idea of making Aaron slum it for a day.

“You don’t sound happy,” says Mr. Perceptive.

“I don’t mind. I thought that we could go in on the train, but if you’d rather take the car…”

“Well, we could use the car to get dropped at the station. How about that for a compromise?”

“Sounds good,” I say, slinging my satchel strap across my body, ready for a day of walking, and looking forward to it way more than I should be.20

AARONThe day I spend with Nicole in London is one of the best I've had in a long time.

We travel on the subway – or “Tube” as the Brits refer to it – missing the rush hour, thank goodness. The underground passageways are like mazes, and I'm glad that I have a native to guide me. Getting off at Holborn station, we walk to the first museum as friends, close but not touching. Nicole tells me about school trips she took to see the ancient treasures within and tells me that I'm going to love it, having seen my antiquities at my apartment.

The outside of the building is awe-inspiring, complete with columns and statues that tower above the crowds of tourists. Inside, the museum houses amazing examples of treasures from all major ancient civilizations, taking my breath away. We spend a lot of time in the Egyptian room, but I find the Parthenon room the most fascinating, with its frieze that runs the entire circumference, and statues that are so expertly carved that the marble looks as soft as flesh and cloth.

At my request, we take a black cab to the Tate Modern, a modern art gallery, and spend an hour wandering the rooms filled with strange and bizarre creations. I know how I sound when I say that I see no value in most of it. Modern art is a funny thing; sometimes thought-provokingly original, but much of it I can't profess to understand.