Loving Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 3) Page 11

  Riley’s eyes, too, are locked on my brother and his fiancée as they make their way down the street. For once I can’t entirely read her thoughts, but I’m curious. I’m fairly certain that she and Adriana had a few intimate words before saying good-bye. They looked like they were engaged in a pretty intense tête-à-tête for a few minutes.

  “I liked them very much,” Riley replies, nodding and turning my way. I pull my eyes to hers only to see that she’s looking at me with a funny little expression that tells me she’s just had a revelation of sorts.

  “What’s going on in that head of yours?” I ask.

  The real question, of course, is what’s going on in my own head. Because I think I’m the one who’s confused now.

  I spent all of lunch staring at her admiringly. Listening to her speak so easily with my brother, who scares the living hell out of most people. I watched her bond with Adriana. And the entire time, I felt a strange, pleasant cocktail of pride and affection brew inside my chest.

  I want to tell her what Conlon said to me before he left. I want to say that my brother doesn’t think I should let her go back to America, and that I agree with him. Conlon knows what he’s talking about. He’s been in our situation. He was faced with the dilemma of having to let Adriana go. In the end, he didn’t, and it was the best decision he ever made.

  As insane as it sounds, I want to ask Riley to stay in England. The problem is that it’s too soon. Too soon to put that sort of pressure on her. Too soon to ask for a commitment. She’s been through too much in recent months. It wouldn’t be prudent for either of us to take our relationship into high-speed mode.

  But that doesn’t stop me wanting to press my lips to hers and taste her again. If I can’t keep her, I’d at least like to savour her while she’s here.

  “Nothing is going on in my head,” she says. “But at the same time, everything is. I don’t know.” She lets out a laugh, but it’s not a particularly joyful one. No, this chuckle is tinged with a bittersweet flavour. Perhaps she’s having the same trouble as I am: she knows that she’s leaving, she knows that we need to keep our distance from one another. She knows that we’re in an impossible situation.

  Maybe she even knows how much I want her, in spite of those inconvenient facts.

  “Listen, I have a question for you,” I tell her. Her jaw clenches immediately and she crosses her arms over her chest, like she’s bracing herself for something unpleasant.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  I reach into my jacket pocket and extract two tickets. “Conlon gave me these just now. Tickets to the Proms tonight. He was going to take Adriana, but they can’t make it. Want to come with me?”

  Riley’s face lights up with something that looks very much like relief. I’ve pulled her thoughts away from the doom and gloom of our finite relationship and towards something a little more pleasant. “That depends,” she says, a sexy smile slipping over her full lips.

  “On what?”

  “Well, for starters, what the hell are the Proms? Are you inviting me to some dance for drunken teenagers? Is that a thing in England?”

  I snicker. Sometimes I forget that not all of Great Britain’s cultural activities are known throughout the whole bleeding world. “The Proms is a series of concerts at Royal Albert Hall. They’re grand. These are standing room tickets, though, I have to warn you. No fancy seating for the likes of us, so we’d have to suck it up and find a way to remain vertical for the duration.”

  “Standing room?” she asks, feigning a horrified expression. “Huh. And here I thought Conlon was rich.”

  “He is, but he can be a cheap bastard. Or perhaps they were just sold out of the good seats by the time it occurred to him to grab these. Anyhow, come with me. It’ll be good. The orchestra is amazing, and the hall is something special. I’d love to experience it with you.”

  “All right,” she says, throwing me a coy, charming smile that I want to kiss right off her lips. “I suppose I could do that. Actually, I’m impressed. You’re finally living up to your tour guide title and getting me away from pubs.”

  “Hey—I brought you to the National Gallery.”

  “True. Fair enough; I’ll give you credit for that.”

  “Anyhow, you’ll enjoy it,” I tell her. “We’ve been going to the Proms since I was a wee lad. It’s a tradition that should be experienced by all serious visitors to London.”

  “A tradition, you say? Then I’m definitely looking forward to it. I’m all for anything that might give me insight into your depraved mind and how you became this way.”

  “Depraved, am I?”

  “Totally depraved.”

  “Fine, then,” I reply, turning to walk away. Riley gets the hint and joins me. “Since I’m utterly wanked in the brain, let’s you and I wander a little bit first. We have a few hours to kill, it’s a nice day, and I would like to take you somewhere nice and peaceful where we can bask in one another’s depravity in relative privacy.”

  “You’re not working or anything?” she asks.

  “Nope. Not just now. I have a few days off, in fact, so I’m all yours for the duration, if you choose to use me. As a tour guide, strictly speaking, of course.”

  “Of course,” she says.

  I’m pretty sure that’s a sigh that I hear venting out through her lovely lips. She knows I’m not really hers, of course. I can’t be hers, so long as our rules hold fast.

  “Where are we going?” she asks after we’ve walked in silence for a little.

  “I thought we could wander over to a little park I love. It’s very private, secluded, even. It’s lovely. I suspect you’ll like it.”

  Riley lets out an adorable laugh. “Lovely,” she mimics. “You’re adorable.”

  “You’re mocking me,” I say.

  “Sort of. It’s just…you’re the only man I know who uses the word ‘lovely’ without any irony. Yet you still manage to make it sound manly. Oh, my God, I’ve just realized something.”

  “Oh? What would that be, Miss Simmons?”

  “You’re Hugh Grant. I bet you even say Oopsie daisy on occasion, don’t you?”

  “You take that back,” I retort with mock rage, turning to shoot her a sideways glare as we stride along.

  “No, I’m serious. You’re the good Hugh Grant. The one all women want to take home with them.”

  “Continue,” I reply, softening my voice.

  “Well, let’s see. You’re charming and funny and…” She cuts herself off, apparently reluctant to say any more nice things about me.

  “Remarkably handsome, I believe, are the words you’re looking for but can’t quite manage.”

  “Remarkably handsome. Fine, I’ll give you that.”

  “I am a one-armed Hugh Grant, then. Every boy’s dream, when asked what he wishes to be when he grows up.”

  “I suppose that makes me a very lucky girl. I’ve found a one-armed Hugh Grant. But then again, I’ll never get to bring him home with me.” This time her sigh is definitely audible.

  “Wait a moment.” I reach over with my man-made hand and grab her wrist, turning her towards me as we both stop walking. “Is that what you’d like?” I ask, my tone perfectly sincere. “To bring me home with you?”

  She looks me in the eye with an earnest, almost tormented expression of frustration. “I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know what I want. But I do know that if I brought you home right now, my family would lose their minds, and rightly so. They’d judge me for it. They’d tell me it’s too soon after the breakup, and they’d be right. I wouldn’t want to put you in that position, not to mention myself.”

  “Do you really care about any of that?”

  “No.” Her mouth utters the word, but the look on her face says otherwise. Yes, she cares. Her family’s good opinion matters to her, and I can’t blame her for it.

  I have before me a woman who’s torn up inside, and all I really want is to pull her to me and hold on tight. I want to shield her with
my arms, to help her forget all of society’s stupid pressures and all the expectations that friends and family lay at her feet. Riley is free of all of it with me. I will not judge. I will not pressure her.

  I want her to be happy.

  That’s all I want.

  “Then let’s not worry about taking me home with you just now,” I say softly. “Or about family, or any of it. Let’s just have a nice afternoon together. Then we’ll go to a nice concert. After that, we’ll see. Come on, love, let’s keep going.”

  After a few minutes have passed, we’ve come to the gate of the small park I mentioned earlier. The weather’s unseasonably warm today, and London smells of spring despite the Christmas decorations that are cropping up all over the city. Any threats of snow have disappeared for the time being.

  “We need to take advantage of the temperature,” I tell Riley. “Let’s go in and sit on a bench, and just bask in our solitude, shall we?”

  “That sounds perfect,” she replies.

  Fifteen

  Riley

  Galen curses under his breath as he tries to push the tall, wrought iron gate open. Maybe our plan to find some quiet in the middle of London won’t come to anything after all.

  “The sodding thing’s locked,” he moans.

  “The park must be closed for the season,” I say. “I guess they didn’t expect the temperature to turn so toasty in November.”

  “Guess not,” he replies. “Still, this is a damned shameful waste of a perfectly good outing. But I have an idea.” He looks both ways, then wraps his hands around the iron bars and hurls his body upwards, like he’s about to vault over the gate. He slips back down once, his feet hitting the ground hard.

  “Oopsie daisy,” he says, turning my way and winking.

  “Well done, Hugh Grant,” I reply, more delighted than I care to admit that he’s just quoted Notting Hill. Still, the fact is that Hugh could never hold a candle to Galen.

  “I aim to please,” he says before flinging himself up again. This time he makes it to the top and pulls himself up onto the summit of the brick wall that surrounds the park.

  “That’s all very impressive and everything, Galen, but even if you get in, I can’t exactly come with you,” I tell him, pointing down at my impractically well-fitting skirt. “I can’t really throw myself over a nine-foot-high stone barrier.”

  “Come over here,” he says, getting on his knees and reaching down with both hands.

  “Are you serious?” I ask, pressing my fists to my hips.

  He nods. “Dead serious,” he replies. “Now give me your hands.”

  The occasional pedestrian strolls by us along the street, but no one seems to give a shit that we’re doing totally illegal things, so I follow Galen’s lead and reach up for him. He grabs my hands with both of his and pulls me up, as I sort of half-climb the soles of my boots up the wall, laughing the whole time at my less-than-ballerina-like grace.

  Somehow, he manages to yank me up without either:

  a) my knees getting skinned horribly

  or

  b) his prosthetic arm detaching, which would be a disaster for us both.

  A few seconds later, we’ve both leapt down to stand inside the small green park, which is really more like a private garden than anything else. We’re positioned on a small patch of grass, surrounded on three sides by lush foliage. The air smells like flowers despite the fact that we’re approaching the holiday season.

  I feel like we’ve walked into paradise. Climbed, rather. The whole thing is absurd, but wonderful.

  “This place is like the garden of Eden,” I say. “We should probably be naked.”

  Clearly, I haven’t thought my words through carefully. Talk of nudity could be construed as breaking our rules for sure.

  “Whatever you say. I’ve been waiting for this,” Galen replies, grabbing the button on his trousers like he’s about to rip them off.

  “Ha. I mean I feel like Adam and Eve. Forbidden fruit and all that. I didn’t expect palm fronds and exotic flowers in downtown London, you know. Nobody tells you about this stuff in guide books.”

  Galen walks over to a little bench that’s perched among the greenery and sits down. “Forbidden fruit is rather accurate, actually,” he says, throwing me a narrow-eyed, hungry look. “You’re most definitely a very ripe apple. There’s no telling what would happen if I were to take a bite of you.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing,” I reply, yanking my skirt down to make sure it’s not riding up to the tops of my thighs after our little wall-climbing adventure. I wouldn’t want him getting any ideas.

  Okay, yes I would. But I’m trying to behave. Really I am.

  “Oh, it’s definitely good,” he insists, leaning back and weaving his fingers behind his head. He closes his eyes, and the most relaxed, amazing grin spreads across his lips.

  For a minute I just stare at him as he lounges in our intimate, private utopia. Bliss floods my veins like a drug.

  With a sudden shudder of pleasure, I realize that this is the most potent sense of joy I’ve ever felt. This, right now, is perfection. Looking at this man, knowing I have him all to myself for the next several hours, protected from the world by a nine-foot high wall. No one will disturb us here. Not my family, not my anxieties, not my fears.

  But of course, at some point we’ll have to leave. This moment will end, just like my trip will.

  And as quickly as the happiness set in, a palpable sadness storms through, ravaging my insides.

  Why does Galen have to live across an entire ocean from my home? For that matter, why did we have to meet under such stupid circumstances? If I’d come to England a year from now, things could have been so different…

  “What are you thinking, love?” he murmurs without opening his eyes.

  “I’m wondering why geography is such a bitch, for one thing,” I tell him. “I’m wondering why oceans are so big. Why plane tickets are so expensive. Why time is linear, and why bad things happen to good people.”

  He opens his eyes and looks at me. “That’s rather a lot to take in. Listen, come here,” he says, his voice soft, gentle. He pats the bench, beckoning. I move towards him and ease down, being careful not to get too close, for my own sake, if not for his.

  “At this moment geography is irrelevant. Right now, we’re mere inches from one another,” he tells me. I see his right hand twitch, like it wants to reach for me but his brain is telling him to resist. “Inches.”

  He’s right. We’re so close.

  Yet so far.

  “I know,” I say. The hurt latches onto my voice and the words hang in the air between us.

  “You said you didn’t want a rebound relationship, Riley,” he tells me.

  “I didn’t.”

  “Have you changed your mind?”

  I shake my head. It’s the truth, after all.

  I don’t want a rebound.

  I want him.

  All of him.

  I want to be his girlfriend. I want him to be my boyfriend. I want to see how we are together. I want to try, despite the fact that the rules say it’s too soon.

  Because the thing is, it feels so fucking right.

  But I still don’t reach for him, and he doesn’t reach for me. We’re sitting on this bench at an impasse, two confused people, trying their best to do the right thing.

  We’re saints who want to behave badly. We’re Adam and Eve, contemplating taking that first bite of the apple. Because what’s the worst that could happen?

  The world could descend into chaos, for one thing.

  “Tired?” he asks, kindly changing the subject.

  I nod. “A little, yeah.”

  “Put your head in my lap.” He pats his thigh invitingly.

  I narrow my eyes at him. Is he crossing the line, or only threatening to? I’m too confused to tell the difference.

  “I’m not looking for a hummer, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he protests. “
By the way, that’s a blowjob.”

  “I figured. And you’d better not be.” Even though I’d totally love to give you one. You don’t even know how much.

  “Come, love. Take a nap. This is the perfect place for it, and I can’t imagine anything more pleasant.” He pats his thigh again. “I promise to be good.”

  “How can I resist, then?” I ask. I draw my legs up onto the bench and lean sideways until my cheek is pressed against his leg. He keeps his hands off me, much as I’d like him to lay one on my arm, my waist, any part of me. I’d love to feel his touch right now, reassuring and protective. But I understand why he’s being good.

  I tuck my hands up under my chin and close my eyes.

  A few minutes later, I’m dreaming about us.

  Sixteen

  Riley

  When I awake from a remarkably deep sleep with only a mild crick in my neck, Galen helps me to climb the wall of doom once again. We’re becoming old pros by now, and for the second time I manage to scale the thing without so much as scuffing my boot.

  After some lively conversation and a nice stroll, we grab a quick bite of take-away fish and chips, wrapped up in cones made entirely of what looks like newspaper. It’s well after six o’clock by now, so we start the walk towards the concert hall as we eat.

  “Do English people always wrap their food in garbage?” I ask as we wander down the street, picking away at our very unhealthy choice of dinner.

  “What, Americans don’t use discarded New York Posts to package their meals?” Galen asks. “Such a wasteful bunch, you are.”

  I shake my head and swallow a large, delicious piece of haddock. “No, we don’t. I guess it doesn’t strike us as super-appetizing. Though somehow in London, everything manages to be charming, even trash. I think it’s the accent that does it.”

  “Tell me then, do you really find everything in London charming?”

  “For the most part,” I say, smiling to myself, “though charming’s not necessarily the first word I’d use for you. Let’s say charming and/or irresistible. Take your pick.”