Loving Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 3) Read online

  I needed that.

  And she’s right; I shouldn’t let the asshole ex bring me down. He’s not worth it.

  “Okay, you win,” I tell her. “You said you wanted me to meet someone. Who is it?”

  I can all but hear the triumphant smile spreading across her lips.

  “His name is Galen. How I know him is a rather long story. Suffice it to say that he lives there, and he once offered to help me, if ever one of my ladies should need someone to show them around London. He’s lovely. Friendly, funny, good-humoured. I thought you two might hit it off.”

  “I’m not looking for a relationship,” I reply a little too quickly. “Not even a rebound, not really. At least not with someone nice. I’d probably fuck the poor guy then bite his head off like a praying mantis. I mean, I’d be more than happy to have crazy, quickie sex with some jackass who’ll give me a fake phone number and leave immediately after he’s…”

  I cut myself off before I ramble any more. I’ve just realized with utter mortification that she’s probably not actually trying to get me laid.

  “I’m not suggesting that you are,” Katherine replies, her tone kinder than I deserve after my verbal spewage. “Galen is a good man, and as far as I can tell, he’s not looking for a relationship, either. You don’t need to worry. So, can I at least tell him to get in touch?”

  I let out a violent sigh, directed more at myself than at Katherine. “Okay,” I reply. “Sure.”

  “Good.” Her voice perks up. “I’m sure he’ll be contacting you in the next day or two. You’ll love him.”

  “Tell me his name again?”

  “Galen Davies. Listen, I’ve got to go. But something tells me he’ll be in touch very soon. Oh, and by the way—if you feel like getting out of town at all, I have a lovely place in the Cotswolds that’s sitting empty. It’s yours if you’d like to use it. Talk later, darling.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  I shut the laptop and pull myself up to my feet, suddenly inspired to take a shower and get out of this place. But my heart sinks as I notice the droplets of rain cascading down the panes of glass that make up my flat’s enormous windows.

  London has started weeping again.

  Screw it. A little rain isn’t a deal-breaker. If I don’t get my ass out that door, I’ll start weeping too.

  Two

  Galen

  Grant’s orders come at me like rounds fired from a high-powered, bossy machine gun.

  “Be sexier, Galen!”

  “No, not like that. Now you look like a crazy person who’s out to murder my dog.”

  “Try something more pouty-sexy. Like someone took away the woman who was sucking your cock, and now you’re upset because your bollocks have turned indigo but you still have a massive hard-on.”

  “Hmmm…No, you just look constipated. That’s hardly arousing, mate.”

  “How about this: try sexy-pouty-grumpy-slightly-angry-but-generally-content, with just the smallest side of blowjob withdrawal.”

  Fantastic. I’m pretty sure the bastard just listed the seven fucking dwarves.

  Grant’s talented with a camera. He’s the sort of fashion photographer who always gets what he needs from his models, myself included. But at the moment, I have a powerful urge to shove that sodding camera down his throat and punch him in his wibbly-wobbly dangly parts.

  We’ve been going since eight this morning. It’s a pretty typical shoot: Grant yelling at me while I contort my face into all sorts of unnatural expressions (what the hell is so wrong with smiling, anyhow?) not to mention what I have to do with my damned body.

  Today’s finished product is for a spread in some men’s athletic magazine. It’s meant to capture a slightly “otherly-abled” athlete participating in all ten decathlon events, be they javelin toss, high jump or whatever the fuck I’m doing at the moment with this heavy-as-shite ball made of lead.

  In my mind, this shoot should have taken all of ten minutes. But that would be silly, of course. No session in history has taken under half a day, because people like Grant live to torture their models. Forget dentists or doctors, or even BDSM specialists; fashion photographers are the great sadists of the world. Their tools are their cameras, their ability to move about incredibly slowly, and their eternal frowns of perpetual dissatisfaction.

  They break your soul piece by piece, until nothing is left.

  I will say this, though: I’m getting a hell of a workout in. By the time today’s over I’ll be as sore as any decathlete, I’m sure. Holding these positions is brutal on the limbs and joints.

  The only part of me that doesn’t hurt is my prosthetic left arm, which is feeling no pain. Too bad the rest of me isn’t also mechanical. A robot would probably be a great model, not to mention less homicidal than I’m feeling.

  “Your quads look brilliant!” shouts Grant as I arch my back, my right hand pulled back towards my jaw, ready to hoist the stupidly heavy ball. Whatever this sport is called, I believe it must have originated with flinging human skulls across a battlefield. Which gives me another idea of what I could do to Grant when all this is over.

  “Your glutes look brilliant, too!”

  A woman’s voice cuts through the air, sending sweat trickling down my back almost immediately.

  Oh, fuck me.

  My agent has shown up, and apparently she’s standing somewhere behind me, ogling my buttocks like she’s starving and they’re made of tenderloin.

  Penny (or Pennywise, as I like to call her when she’s not listening because of her resemblance to the creepy-as-all-fuck clown from that Stephen King novel) has never quite figured out that ‘agent’ and ‘woman who gets to shag the model’ aren’t actually synonymous. Her utter cluelessness means that she has a bad habit of showing up at my shoots just when they’re about to end. She knows, you see, that I’ll likely head to a pub at the end of the day. She invites herself along, promising to talk with me about future jobs.

  The thing is, she only ever wants to talk about what I would want in a woman, if I were to start dating again. Funnily enough, she never quite takes the hint when I tell her that I’d prefer not to snog blood-thirsty clowns who terrorize children.

  “I think we’re done,” Grant says, drawing his camera downward as he grins at me. I straighten my sore body and turn around to face him.

  Penny is perusing the laptop, no doubt scrutinizing the series of shots to determine which ones show my buttocks to the greatest advantage. “These are amazing,” she squeals far too enthusiastically. “I can’t wait to see the final product. I must get some copies to hang in my office. Or bedroom.” She lets out a giggle that I think is meant to arouse me, but instead it just turns my gag reflex on.

  “We done, then?” I ask Grant, an eyebrow raised hopefully as I ignore Penny’s low-grade sexual harassment. My photographer nods. “Cheers, mate,” he says. “You’ve worked hard. Now go treat yourself to a pint.”

  “I think I will, actually,” I say, rubbing my right shoulder with my titanium hand to get rid of a little of the soreness.

  “A pint sounds fab! Shall I tag along?” Penny asks like clockwork. She’s skulked up behind me so close that I can feel her damned breath on my neck. Bloody hell, she’s like one of those fish that attach themselves to sharks and go along for the ride uninvited. A remora, I think they’re called.

  “I…” I begin to say, cruel words of rejection stumbling through my far-too-kind head as I try to figure out how to let her down gently. But just as I open my mouth to tell her a white lie about a distant cousin who’s visiting from Lithuania, my phone starts to chime. “One second, Pen,” I say, holding up a finger. Saved by the electronic bell.

  “Hello?” I chirp a little too happily when I’ve picked up.

  “Galen?” the person on the other end says. It’s a woman, her tone smooth as silk. Her voice is oddly familiar, but I can’t quite place it.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Katherine, from the Single Ladies’ Travel Agency. W
e’ve met a few times. Your brother, Conlon, is engaged to a former client of mine…”

  “Katherine! Yes, of course,” I say, uttering her name extra loudly to ensure that Penny can hear that I’m talking to a woman. Anything to discourage the cling-on from pursuing her evil plan to ruin my solo evening out. “I remember you well. I’m a little surprised to hear from you, though. Everything okay?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” she replies. “But listen, you told me last time we chatted that you’d consider acting as a sort of tour guide for me. Are you still up for it?”

  “A tour guide…right, yes, I did. I might have forgotten about that; it’s entirely possible that I was a little drunk at the time. But actually, it sounds intriguing.” I’ve had no social life to speak of for months, other than Penny. And there’s nothing social or lifelike about spending time with her. She is life-draining and soul-eating at once.

  “I have a client who’s new to London,” Katherine says. “Lovely young woman. She’s American, like Adriana.”

  Adriana is my brother’s fiancée. She’s pretty wonderful, not to mention perfect for my sibling.

  But I’m not looking for a date. I’m not looking for a lovely young woman. On the contrary, I’m currently enjoying a long period of self-imposed singlehood.

  “Okay…” I reply. I can feel where this is going, and something in Katherine’s voice sends tension crawling up my body. It sounds to me like there’s a but in there somewhere.

  “The thing is, she’s alone and…well, she could use some company, whether she knows it or not. I was wondering if you’d be willing to take her out. Just show her around a little, take her to a few museums, Westminster Abbey, that sort of thing. Let her know where the nice pubs are. Normally I’d come over and meet her, but I’m tied up at the moment.”

  “Literally?” I seem to recall that Katherine has a rather interesting love life. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that she’s calling me from the love den of some Moroccan prince.

  “I wish, darling. Anyhow, are you okay with this?”

  “That depends. Are you setting me up on a blind date?” I’ll admit that I’m a little flattered at the thought of it. That she should think me worthy of one of her treasured clients is quite a compliment.

  “Not at all. This would be purely platonic, I assure you. Riley isn’t looking for romantic entanglements. She’s fresh off a disastrous end to a relationship, and could use a friend. I know you well enough to know that you’re a gentleman and won’t try to cram your tongue down her throat at first meeting.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because if you were that sort of man, you’d have tried to do it to me when we first met.”

  She’s right, of course. She’s a very sexy woman, and her attractiveness has never been lost on me. Were it not for the fact that I’ve made a concerted effort to remain alone for some time, I might have asked her out at some point. Though I get the impression that she’s not a woman who settles into a relationship, so much as one who enjoys maintaining multiple casual sexual acquaintances at once. Katherine is a free spirit if ever I’ve met one; a truly liberated woman who lives by her own set of rules.

  “Fair enough. Well, this all sounds excellent, as I am currently off ladies for an indefinite period. This Riley and I should get along famously, provided she’s not too attractive.”

  My last word is greeted by a prolonged silence.

  “Uh oh,” I say. “She’s attractive, isn’t she?”

  “She’s…very pretty, yes.”

  “Well, bollocks.” All I can hope is that her tits are nothing to write home about. I have a serious weakness for a nice pair of breasts. It’s shallow of me, but it’s the truth. Of course, I also have a weakness for a good personality. Sexy curves on a pretty woman are difficult enough to take. But if her character is attractive as well, I may be in for a torture session the likes of which the fashion photographers of the world could only ever dream of.

  “I’m going to send you her contact information,” Katherine adds. “Just treat this like a professional meeting, if you like. There’s no need for awkwardness. Just be your usual easy-going self. Try to ignore the fact that she’s lovely.”

  “I’ll do my best. And actually,” I reply, looking sideways towards Penny, who’s now standing on the other side of the room, staring my way, “this is good timing on your part. You may have just saved me from a very miserable evening of fighting off an urge to fire my agent.”

  “Great. Oh, one last thing—be gentle with Riley, would you?”

  “Will do.”

  When I’ve hung up, I walk over to tell Penny that unfortunately, my plans have altered. “I’ve got a last-minute meeting, so no pint for me. I’ve got to dash home and shower, then head out.”

  “Oh? But if it’s a meeting, I should really come with you. I assume it’s with a potential client,” she replies, cleverly injecting herself into my life again, no doubt hoping to also inject herself into my shower.

  “It’s not. Not exactly,” I grunt in response. “It’s…a friend of a friend. Anyhow, must run.”

  Even as I’m talking, Katherine’s promised text lights up my phone. Staring up at me are Riley’s number and her Whatsapp information, as well as a few words from Katherine.

  Remember, she writes, Riley’s on the rebound. She’s vulnerable. Probably a little depressed. I know you’ll charm her pants off. Figuratively speaking, of course.

  “Bye, Pen,” I mumble absentmindedly as I read the text and turn away.

  Katherine used the dreaded word rebound. That’s never good. I’m beginning to think this is a terrible idea.

  The good news is that I thrive on terrible ideas.

  Three

  Riley

  3:04 p.m.

  Steps taken: 8,456. This is more like it. I’m beginning to feel human again.

  Mental state: Not too bad, actually. Things are looking up.

  For now.

  On Katherine’s recommendation, I’ve made progress this afternoon. I’m out of the apartment. I’ve showered and changed.

  I’m wearing pants and everything.

  I hereby declare myself almost presentable. Not gorgeous, not perfect. But good enough to step out in public without anyone feeling a need to cover their child’s eyes or scream in horror as they behold my chocolate-smeared visage of doom and smelly sweats.

  I’m wearing jeans, a comfortable v-neck cotton sweater, and a short red jacket. A pair of brown leather ankle boots adorn my feet, and a white scarf is wrapped around my neck.

  I actually look like I sort of belong here.

  Almost.

  The lightest drizzle mists the crisp November air as I march down the street, a breeze wafting around me that conjures up the scent of decaying leaves, curry, frying fish and engine fumes. It sounds disgusting, I know. But for some reason the whole mix is actually quite pleasant.

  I’m carrying a black and white polka dot umbrella, despite the fact that it’s not pouring rain. I suppose some part of me still needs to shield myself against the world, and the umbrella seems like the best way to separate myself from humanity. In a pinch I can pull it down and use it as a weapon to ward off anyone who tries to get too close.

  Besides, my curly hair plus any amount of drizzle whatsoever usually amounts to a mass of frizz that looks like something you’d find under the bed after avoiding vacuums for a decade.

  London is reminding me with each step I take that it’s really beautiful. This city is a well-ordered patchwork of ancient buildings, elegant store fronts, and dignified people with a sense of style that screams, “Unlike you, I put some effort into this outfit, you lazy trollop. Pip pip, cheerio and all that.”

  As I size up the pedestrians who make their way confidently around me in tailored suits and perfect makeup, my feeling that I belong begins to fade. Rather, I have a sudden, inexplicable desire to go out and buy a pricey Burberry jacket and some four hundred dollar riding boots.

 
; Even so, I’m feeling remarkably content at the moment. There’s something soothing about walking around a place that’s apparently looked the same for centuries. The buildings—many of them around long enough to see multiple kings and queens ascend to the throne—have stood the test of time. They’re strong, impressively massive and extraordinarily beautiful. Some of them look like they were ripped out of ancient Rome; others have a distinctly British style that screams copious wealth. Tall, lean, with beautiful white-paned windows and chimneys made for bellowing out smoke on chilly winter evenings. Every building is more gorgeous than the last, and I’m starting to understand why real estate in this city is so expensive.

  Europeans have figured out what we Americans never have: newer isn’t necessarily better. I mean, London hangs onto its old red telephone booths, despite the fact that no one uses pay phones anymore. Double decker buses have careened down the roads for decades, presumably unchanged since 1950. The taxis look like they drove straight out of a foggy scene in a murder mystery set in a time when women used hat pins and men smoked pipes.

  As an added bonus, every time I hear an English accent I get a craving to watch Love, Actually over and over again while devouring ice cream and sobbing uncontrollably. That movie slays me. It crushes my heart, mends it, then crushes it again. I mean, how could anyone cheat on Colin Firth? He’s Mr. Darcy, for fuck’s sake!

  For the first time since my arrival, I’m actually in a good mood. And the Stepbitch seems happy, too, as I’m racking up steps like they’re going out of style. Look at me, world! I’m burning calories, I’m in a surprisingly upbeat frame of mind, and I look almost adequate, all at the same time. I’ve become an official tourist, which is way better than a pitiful shut-in who’s slowly morphing into a couch cushion.

  Things are definitely looking up.

  My step goal each day while I’m here is 10,000, and I’m about to meet it. I figure by the time I’m done for the day, I may even hit 20,000, a new record. It may even be enough to inspire a new blog entry, if my muse is kind enough to pay my brain a visit.