Royal Holiday (The Wedding Date, #4)(24)

“There’s a pub right in town that’s perfect on a chilly day like today, if that’s okay with you.”

She nodded.

“That sounds wonderful. Though I may need a translator. You have all sorts of food here in England that I’ve never heard of in California.”

He laughed.

“Separated by a common language indeed,” he said. “But yes, I’ll be happy to translate for you if needed, though there will absolutely be some recognizable things like fish and chips and chicken pie on the menu.”

She turned to him and pursed her lips together.

“Chicken . . . pot pie?”

He bit his lip.

“Maybe not so recognizable after all!”

She took her gloves off and tucked them into her pocket.

“Well, this could be a very educational lunch.”

They walked into the pub a few minutes later and were quickly seated at a small, round table by the fire. The chairs were positioned close to each other, both facing the fire. The table was just snug enough that their arms almost touched.

Vivian took off that knit hat that had made him smile and tucked it into her purse. Her hair went every which way; he wished he knew her well enough that he could brush it back for her. She quickly unpinned her bun and smoothed her hair down with her hands before she picked up the menu.

“Hmm, okay, yes, there are certainly some things I know on this menu. Fish and chips—you promised that, and you were right. Sandwiches—I know what those are, and those also come with chips, which I imagine are of the ‘fish and’ variety, and not the ‘bag of’ variety that we have in America. Ooh, and shepherd’s pie—that sounds like a very cozy-by-the-fire kind of December meal.”

Her eyes twinkled at him over the menu. He smiled back at her and congratulated himself for having the good sense to ask her out to lunch.

“I’ve had the shepherd’s pie here, and it’s delicious,” he said.

She wasn’t done.

“But then you have the aforementioned chicken pie—that could be anything, honestly. And there are pasties, which . . .” She pressed her lips together and looked up at him with a sly look on her face. “Well, I don’t think of food when I hear that word, let’s just put it that way.”

He tilted his head.

“What in God’s name do Americans . . . ?”

She went on.

“Scotch eggs—I think I know what those are, but I have no idea what a ploughman’s board is. Mushy peas—does that literally mean you take some peas and mash them like potatoes? Is that like baby food? And . . . oh yes . . . it’s here! Bubble and squeak. I thought that was one of those things that only showed up in books that got exported to America as a joke the entire United Kingdom played on Americans, but it’s really on the menu!”

He put his hand down on the table.

“Okay, look. I know you’re having your fun about our food, but you have a great deal of odd food where you come from, too. I’ve seen what you people do with sweet potatoes for your Thanksgiving dinners—how did marshmallows get there?”

She let out that infectious chuckle of hers again.

“No, you’re right, that’s disgusting, but I swear, we don’t do that in my family!”

They grinned at each other.

He knew why he liked Vivian so much now. Or, at least, one of the reasons. It was because she talked nonsense with him in a way no one else did. Everyone else (well, everyone except for his nephew) wanted him to be serious and sober and thoughtful. Sure, of course, he joked around with his mates, and he went out for drinks with his old friends from his Parliament and consulting days, but they all still groused about work, or took the piss out of one another, or bragged about themselves in that way where they tried to pretend they weren’t bragging, but everyone at the table knew they were.

Vivian joked around with him like this about food, and wrote nonsense letters back and forth with him—whether to humor him, or because she enjoyed it, he didn’t know, but he suspected some of both. Most of all, he felt so relaxed around her, like he could be himself—not the Queen’s private secretary, Malcolm Hudson, but really himself.

Their waitress came back over and asked them if they were ready to order. Vivian ordered the shepherd’s pie, he ordered the chicken pie—with a wink at her—and they both ordered pints of beer.

“So, you said this is your first trip to the U.K., but do you do much traveling elsewhere?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“I wish I did. I always learn so much when I travel, no matter where I go. But no, I spent years as a single mom and never had the ability to travel much. Even after Maddie was grown up and I could take the time”—she shrugged—“I don’t know, I think I somehow thought of travel—especially international travel—as one of those things other people did, you know? I did go on one trip with a bunch of my girlfriends over ten years ago now, and I had so much fun. Plus, my sister has had a lot of health problems in the past few years, and I haven’t wanted to leave her.”

“She’s on the mend, I presume, since you’re here?” he asked.

She nodded.

“She is, thank God.” She laughed. “She told me I wasn’t allowed to keep texting to check in on her, because I need this break, but it’s hard. I’m not used to relaxing.”