Page 35 of Don't Be in Love

I wiped the sweat from my forehead before I jogged across the street to Big Ben’s Bakery.

“How are you doing, Marty?” I held my hand up to shield the rising sun.

“Enjoying this lovely Sunday morning with my croissant.” He leaned back into the bench, laying a hand over his belly and raising the pastry as the sun warmed his face. “This is earlier than your usual time, ain’t it?” He flicked his wrist to check his watch. “Early night?”

I massaged a muscle in my neck. “Late actually.”

“Studying?”

I laughed. “For once, I wish. How’s your itinerary going? You’re back to New York next week, right?”

“Sadly. Got to get back home to the cat and the business. I’ve only made it through about half my list though.” He sat up to pull a folded piece of paper out of his pocket before handing it to me.

It was a page from a notepad withMarty’s Bagelsprinted at the header. About six things at the top of the list were crossed out. The rest of the itinerary read:

•Go on the London Eye

• Send a postcard back home

• Try something new

• Buy a shirt with the UK flag on it

• Use a telephone booth

• Kiss a Brit

That last one seemed like something I shouldn’t have seen.

“You still did a lot. I heard the telephone booths are really dirty anyways, so I don’t think you’re missing out,” I said, trying to make him feel better as I put it back in his hand.

“That’s the city for ya. There’s an unhygienic downside to everything.” He took a bite of his croissant, flakes sticking to his scrubby facial hair, watching a double-decker drive by. “You know what, why don’t you keep this.”

“The list?” The paper somehow back in my palm.

“Finish it for me. Let me know if the telephone booths are as gross as they say.”

“You should keep this. Frame it until you come back to London,” I urged.

He pointed his croissant at me. “It’s your list now. Think of it as a piece of me so that you don’t forget to visit my shop in New York. Deal?”

“Deal.” I smiled. “See you in New York, Marty. Have a safe flight home.” I opened the door to the bakery. The bell chimed and wafts of butter and melted chocolate rushed forward.

“Make sure to write me when you’ve done everything!” he shouted.

“Fine!” I laughed as the door swung shut behind me.

“Adelaide?” A warm English accent startled me.

I turned in line and found—“Professor Emmerson?”

She waved me over before lifting a teacup to her lips and cozying into her corner table. A toasted blueberry muffin sat on her plate.

I almost pointed to myself.You mean me?But, yup, she was looking right at me. I left the order line.

“Sit, sit,” she insisted.

I sat down in shock. She must’ve had a hundred students across all of her classes, at least. And we’d only spoken once: when I asked for extra credit during week two as ajust in case. Other than that, I was just a raised hand that was never called on.