He wanted to apologize to Vivian for how preoccupied he was, but he didn’t want to get into a whole conversation about why. What was he supposed to say? Sorry, Vivian, I blew up at my nephew and laughed at him and his ambitions and he’s furious at me now, and it’s all my fault that he’s going to ruin his life just to spite me.

No, he definitely couldn’t say that. And he didn’t want to lie to her. Better to say nothing at all.

Plus, he was upset she’d decided not to stay with him. And he supposed he’d have to tell her about the surprise he had in store for her.

The next few days were not going to be what he’d hoped for.

Finally, they made it to their dinner reservation. He was pleased he’d gotten a reservation here for him and Vivian; the food was fantastic, the service was lovely, and it was the kind of London restaurant he wanted her to experience—an upscale Nigerian restaurant that was definitely not the type of place most Americans thought of when they thought of London. He really hoped she’d like it.

The man who barged into the restaurant behind them, however, was going to make that very difficult. Just as Malcolm greeted the host, who he’d met many times, the newcomer pushed past Malcolm like he wasn’t even there. He slammed his hand on the host’s table.

“Wilston-Jeffries, party of two. My secretary called earlier.”

The host looked at Malcolm, then back at the guy. Malcolm knew his type all too well. The worst thing about his type was they almost always got their way.

“I’ll be with you in a moment, sir.”

Malcolm liked a lot about his job. The diplomacy, being involved in national politics and foreign affairs, the history, the people he worked with (well, some of them). But the number one best thing about his job was when guys like this one thought they could push past him and treat him like nothing, but everyone else around him knew he worked for the Queen. Like he’d said to Vivian when they were at Sandringham, he had complicated feelings about the monarchy, but it was excellent for him in situations like this one.

The host turned back to Malcolm.

“Please, follow me, sir.”

Wilston-Jeffries beckoned his date.

“Come on. This way. I think our table is over there.”

The host stopped him.

“Just a moment, sir. Your table is not yet ready. Wait here.” He turned away without another word. “Mr. Hudson? Please, come with me.”

They were seated at a table in the corner of the restaurant, and their waiter immediately brought over glasses of champagne.

“I believe you enjoy this vintage, sir,” the waiter said.

Vivian wiggled her eyebrows at him and picked up her glass.

He hadn’t brought Vivian here to impress her with his consequence. She’d been at Sandringham for days; if she was impressed by anyone’s consequence, it certainly wasn’t going to be his.

But . . . it had been really nice to be kowtowed to with her by his side, he had to admit.

Unfortunately, the asshole from earlier was seated at the table next to theirs. The waiter glanced at Malcolm and silently shook his head in apology.

“Where’s the injera? I don’t see it on the menu. Does it just come with all of the dishes?” Wilston-Jeffries asked the waiter.

The waiter took an almost imperceptible moment to answer.

“We don’t serve injera, sir. That’s an Ethiopian bread; it doesn’t come from our tradition.”

The man huffed at his date.

“I was looking forward to introducing you to injera and teaching you how to eat with it!” He turned back to the waiter. “Well, what’s your spiciest dish? I want it really spicy, you know, like the kind you’d have.”

Malcolm looked at Vivian, who was staring straight back at him. Her eyes were huge, and he could tell she was fighting back laughter. Maybe this guy wasn’t going to ruin their dinner after all.

The waiter pointed at a line on the menu.

“It’s this soup, sir. However, we advise—”

“No need for advice. I know it all. And add some of your hottest peppers to it!”

The waiter nodded.

“And you, ma’am?”

His date requested something much less spicy, and Malcolm saw the man puff out his chest like a bird. Vivian’s cough seemed like much more of a chuckle, so he could tell she saw it, too.

They’d both spent so much time focused on the table next to them and not their menus, that when the waiter came over to their table, neither of them had decided what to order.

“Shall we start with some wine while we decide?” he asked Vivian, who nodded.

Malcolm picked a bottle of wine at random to give them more time.

Vivian leaned forward and lowered her voice.

“Okay, I love spicy food, but now I absolutely can’t ask what’s spicy and what isn’t. I don’t want to be that guy.”

Malcolm now had to cough/laugh himself.

“Don’t worry, I’ve been here before. I can tell you. The menu has changed since the last time I was here, but I honestly think you’ll like everything, and if you’ve never had Nigerian food before”—he looked at her questioningly, and she shook her head—“I think this will be a fun new experience.”

She smiled at him. This was one of the most genuine smiles she’d given him all day. He was suddenly grateful for the pompous ass next to them for breaking the tension between the two of them.

“I’m happy to try anything. All that walking around today made me starving. I can’t wait.”

He smiled back at her as the waiter returned with their wine.

She lifted her glass and clinked it with his, and his shoulders lost some of their tension. Maybe the next few days would be good after all.

“Sir, ma’am, are you ready to order?”

Malcolm raised his eyebrow at Vivian, and she smiled up at the waiter. They ordered everything that looked good to both of them, and he was suddenly starving. He’d barely eaten at lunch, because of how preoccupied he’d been, and Vivian was right; they had walked around a lot today.

“I just can’t help it—I have an extraordinary palate and a very high spice tolerance. Many people have commented on it.”

Wow, the guy next to them was still on about this. Vivian stared straight at Malcolm, her lips sealed together and her eyes dancing. Malcolm did all he could not to smile back at her.

“Um . . .” He had to think of something for them to talk about, so they wouldn’t spend all of dinner laughing at this man. “What was your favorite thing we saw today?”

She winked at him and smiled.

“I really loved Westminster Abbey,” she said. “Partly because it was beautiful, and there was so much history there, but also because despite all of that, and all of the tourists, it still felt like a church, if you know what I mean?”

He poured more wine into her glass.

“I do,” he said. “I’ve been to famous old churches when there are too many people there, and it feels like just any kind of building—like it’s divorced from its original purpose. But Westminster Abbey still feels like a church to me, too, despite the long lines and many tourists walking around. It’s one of my favorite places in London.” He looked down into his glass of wine. “Sometimes, when I used to work in Parliament and was having a hard day, I would walk over there, go inside, and just . . . sit in one of the pews for a while. I don’t know if I was praying, or meditating, or whatever you would call it, but it felt like having the centuries-old stones around me would help. I don’t know if they gave me perspective, or just absorbed my stress, but whatever it was, it made a difference.” He shrugged. Now he felt silly for confessing this to her. “That probably sounds . . .”