From London With Love

16 | hate expectations

Ophelia hadn't intended to fall asleep.

Truly, she hadn't.

But when Ophelia woke up the next morning, she was curled up in Andrew's lap, his hand resting between her shoulder blades. His breathing was light. Even. She scrambled into a seated position, wincing as her head throbbed.

Andrew didn't stir.

She leaned against the wall, hugging her knees into her chest. Memories of the night before came flooding back to her: her fever, the pills, Andrew reading to her, the rumbling sound of his voice lulling her to sleep...

Dear god.

What had she been thinking?

Her head gave another painful throb, and she massaged it. Ah, that's right; she hadn't been thinking. She just needed drugs.

She peeked at Andrew.

Okay. That wasn't entirely true.

Ophelia knew that she should hate him. Hell, she had hated him, for a time; in December, she'd written a rather angry letter to Andrew, burnt it instead, and then spent the evening watching a Christmas film and eating ice cream as she ranted to a rather shocked Louise, Ella and Sophia about the cruelty of men.

No; Ophelia hadn't entirely forgiven him. He had taken her virginity, after all.

But things were different now.

She was with Digby. And — for some reason beyond Ophelia's comprehension — Andrew was with Eleanora. But they could still be friends, couldn't they?

Ophelia was so caught up in her musings that she hardly noticed when Andrew cracked open an eye, blinking slowly. He yawned, stretching his arms over his head. "Christ," he said. "What time is it?"

She glanced at her watch. "Eight."

"In the evening?"

"No." She smirked. "The morning."

Andrew stared at her. "Good lord. We slept for fourteen hours?" He rose to his feet, yanking on his loafers. "How are you feeling?"

"Better."

This was true; Ophelia's fever had broke, and she no longer felt like a thousand monkeys were banging against her skull with tiny hammers. Her nose was still a little stuffed up and she was on her period, but hey — at least she no longer felt like she was dying.

Andrew shrugged on his coat. "Good," he said. "We're going out."

"We are?"

"To Covent Garden."

"Why on earth are we going there?"

Andrew paused, looking at her as if this should be obvious. "To get you a new copy of A Tale of Two Cities."

Ophelia's heart dropped. Oh, hell. Did Andrew know somehow? About what Eleanora did in Scotland? But, no; his expression was too calm. He just thought that Ophelia had left her copy of the book in Canada.

Tears pricked at her eyes.

"That's really..." She cleared her throat. "That's sweet of you, Andrew."

Andrew looked alarmed. "For God's sake, Ophelia, there's no need to cry about it." He stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. "Now put on your shoes. We can still beat the rush."

Twenty minutes later, their black cab was pulling up outside of Covent Garden. Ophelia shivered as she stepped out into the misty grey morning, tugging her black pea-coat closed. The piazza was basically deserted at this hour; the only other visitors were a handful of pigeons, pecking at a stray muffin under the towering Christmas tree.