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

  Of course, the Bitch will probably just bark at me for not doing better. That’s what she does. Nag, nag, nag, all day long. You’re fat. You’re lazy. You walk like a six-month-old who’s only now learning to use her feet. You suck. You suck. You suck.

  As if to confirm the sentiment, a hard buzz jolts my wrist as I stride along Regent Street. The Stepbitch does that every hour if I haven’t moved enough. It’s like electroshock therapy intended to tense me up, lay a guilt trip on me and get me off my waffle butt, all at once. She has me well trained, though she has no reason to complain at the moment. I’m walking my tail off, damn it.

  “Don’t yell at me. I’m doing your bidding, you butthead,” I mutter as I flip my wrist over to look at the display.

  It turns out that she was just telling me that I’ve gotten a text. Wow. I’d almost forgotten what a text message even is; my friends and family have been so afraid to get in touch with me that I haven’t received one in days. I suppose they’ve learned by now that I don’t respond well to horrible advice. Even my sister Susan has given up on trying to talk to me. Maybe my griping at her one too many times to leave me alone has finally gotten the message across.

  UNKNOWN NUMBER, the Bitch’s scrolling pixels tell me. I pull my phone out of my pocket and press the button to read the text. It’s probably just some “Welcome to England! We hope you enjoy spending all your money on data!” message.

  But when I read the first few words, I quickly realize that it’s anything but.

  Oh, damn.

  I’d all but forgotten my chat with Katherine about her tour guide friend.

  Hello, Riley. My name’s Galen Davies. You don’t know me, but I hope to remedy that this afternoon—or is it evening by now? Katherine suggested that perhaps you could use a bit of a guide in London, and I’d like to volunteer my services.

  Crap. I must have been high on chocolate when I told her to give my number to some stranger. I was doing so well, getting my ass in gear and walking out the door. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to leap into society. Particularly male society. I’m supposed to be avoiding it for ten more months, damn it.

  For a moment I contemplate shoving the phone back into my pocket. I could just ignore the message. I could pretend I don’t have cell service here, or that a stray piano fell on me.

  I stop walking and stare at the screen again, cursing my reluctance to engage. Damn it, maybe I should just answer him. Just because this tour guide is male doesn’t mean I can’t get together with him and have a nice conversation. I’ll be in London for almost three more weeks. That’s three weeks of solitude, during which I could go completely nuts if the only person I talk to is Mrs. Hudson.

  That can’t be healthy.

  Okay, fine. I’ll reply.

  Leaning against a brick wall to stay out of the way of passing locals, I type back a quick message.

  Hi Galen. Katherine mentioned that you might get in touch. I must admit, I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.

  Oh. Is this a bad time?

  I’m about to reply when a follow-up message comes in.

  Because I’d be more than happy to text you at 3 a.m. and send you terrifyingly creepy messages about the half-drunk pervert who’s peering in your window.

  I don’t know whether to laugh or be taken aback. Is he joking?

  Yes, of course he’s joking.

  In other news, apparently my recent lack of human interaction has slightly numbed my sense of humour. All right, Galen. Two can play at this game.

  Tempting, I write, but if you did that I’d have to find you and kill you with a truncheon.

  A truncheon?

  Yes. I don’t exactly know what that is, but I’m sure I can find one.

  We have many truncheon shops here in London. If you need me to show you around to one or more, I’d be happy to help. You see? I’m already a brilliant tour guide.

  Wow. I can all but hear his accent, and now my Love, Actually craving is setting in for real.

  Yes. You’ve just proven your worth, I respond, allowing myself the smile that’s been attempting to metastasize on my face since Galen’s first message.

  Anyhow, he writes, I have some free time right now. How would you feel about a little wander? I hear you’re staying north of the park. I could come fetch you and show you around the city a little.

  Actually, I’m currently walking along Regent Street, I reply. I’m a little far from my place.

  Even better, as I’m not far off. Shall we hook up, then?

  Hook up?

  Wait a minute—does that mean the same thing here as it does back home? Does this guy think we’re going to hump in a dirty pub bathroom? Or is it some innocent English term for getting together for a spot of tea and some crisps?

  I bite the inside of my cheek and type a reply. There’s no point in doing this if it starts out with him getting the impression that I’m looking for sex. I need to make sure there’s no ambiguity. No chance that one or the other of us will expect anything.

  Sex is bad. Sex leads to feelings. Feelings lead to attachment. Attachment leads to a broken ego, months of regret, and running off to England to flee one’s insensitive family who doesn’t understand why one couldn’t just work things out with Mr. Cheatyface.

  Letting out a hard breath, I send my reply.

  Listen, I have to be honest with you—I’m not looking for a booty call.

  There, I said it. I was honest, straightforward, mature.

  And looking at my phone, I realize that I was also super-duper anal retentive and weird, not to mention a little crazy.

  Aw, fuck again.

  He starts to type, then apparently he pauses. I can only imagine that he wrote, “What makes you think I’d want to shag you anyhow, you arrogant bitch?” and is now deleting it.

  But he starts typing again.

  No cause for alarm. Neither am I.

  At the end of the message is an emoji of a guy screaming in terror, like he’s telling me that relationships scare the living fuck out of him.

  Or maybe he’s supposed to be running away from me, because as I’ve just demonstrated, clearly I’m a tightly-wound psycho bitch from hell.

  I can’t think of a response, so I just stand in the drizzle that’s just now turning into proper rain, staring at my phone like an idiot. Shit. I knew this whole thing was a bad idea. Now I feel stupid. I didn’t need to fly all the way to England to do that. I came here to escape judgmental eyes, not to draw more of them.

  Embarrassed, I wrap my fingers around the phone and shove it into my pocket, but before I’ve even let go, it vibrates again.

  I pull it out, wincing as I peer down at the screen, like somehow that will make the message less painful.

  Riley—I’m going to ring you. Pick up.

  Almost immediately, my phone starts yelling “You. Cheating. Bastard” again. I nearly drop it, startled out of my mind. With shaking hands, I turn off the ringer, looking around at the faces of pedestrians who have turned to glare at me as I interrupt their pleasant walks.

  Okay, I have to answer, because it’s not like he doesn’t know I’m holding my phone right fucking now. It’s not like I can pretend not to know he’s there. I’ll just answer it, tell him this whole thing is a bad idea, and that will be the end of it.

  I hit the button and draw in a giant breath. “Hello?” I croak, my throat parched by my cruel nerves.

  “Riley,” says the deepest, sexiest, most Benedict Cumberbatchesque voice I’ve ever heard in person. Instinctively I squeeze my legs together like I’m trying to keep my vagina from escaping and running to him.

  “Yes,” I all but moan in response. Suddenly my throat’s lubricated again, as is the rest of me. My embarrassment’s gone, instantly replaced by total, unrelenting horniness. Good lord. This Galen dude should run a 900 number for pathetic women in desperate need of rebound phone sex.

  “I’m only calling to say that I haven’t seen your…booty, is it? So I’ve no idea if
I’d feel inclined to call on it,” he explains. “We in England refer to it as an arse, but then arse call sounds horrid and not at all sexy.”

  Grumpy pedestrians, apparently in a major hurry to get to Hogwarts, or James Bond’s house, or wherever they’re trying to go in such a hurry, are glaring at me again. I quickly realize that I’m now standing in the middle of the sidewalk like an inconsiderate jerk, so I press my back to another bit of brick wall, angling my umbrella to make sure it’s still keeping the rain off my curls, and slam my eyes shut. Apparently I’m unable to focus on Galen’s voice and my trajectory at the same time.

  “Right,” I tell him. “Of course. I only meant…”

  “You meant that we weren’t going to tear our clothes off and devour one another tonight. It’s quite all right. Best to let me know that you’re celibate, in case something terrible should happen, like the furnace breaks down and we huddle slightly too closely for warmth. I wouldn’t want to accidentally make love to you, for my own sake as well as for yours, if for no other reason than that I wouldn’t want an American love child. Weekend visits would be very costly, for one thing.”

  “You’re mocking me,” I chastise, but I can hear the smile in his voice. If he’s mocking, it’s all in good fun.

  “Of course I am. I can already tell that you’re very mockable. Come on then, meet me for a little, at least. I’ll show you a thing or two. And I promise that neither of those things will be strategically located under my trousers.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise. Though I may currently have my fingers crossed.”

  That’s it. Galen has officially charmed me sufficiently. “All right then. Where should I meet you?”

  “The London Pub on Emery Street. Go up to Oxford, turn right, walk for seven blocks or so, then turn left. You’ll find it.”

  “London Pub? Really? Not the most original name, is it?” I say, happy to find myself loosening up a little.

  “No. It’s terribly dull. Absolutely an unthreatening moniker. Not at all the sort of place where a man would bring a woman to rip her knickers off with his teeth and try to make sweet love to her.”

  Holy crap. I already want to fuck him, and I haven’t even seen his face. That voice is like swallowing a bucket of aphrodisiacs. And I’ll bet his teeth and other mouth-parts are very skilled.

  “Good. Because my love-making days are over,” I say. The words may have come out of my mouth, but I’m not convinced that I mean them in the slightest.

  “As are mine,” he replies. “So we two sexually frustrated, pathetic souls should get along famously. Right, I’ll see you in a little, then.”

  “Wait,” I shoot out before he has a chance to hang up. “How am I supposed to know what you look like?”

  “My full name’s Galen Davies,” he says. “Look me up. I’m all over the bleedin’ internet. See you in a bit, Riley.”

  The second we’ve hung up, I type Mr. Sexy Voice’s name into my phone’s search engine.

  A number of photos show up, from a short, schlumpy bald guy with glasses and bad teeth to a super-hot model who’s staring at the camera with sultry blue eyes. He’s shirtless, his right shoulder towards me, face turned towards the camera. His expression says, “Now that we’re off the phone, I want to fuck you hard, woman. Yes, I mean you.”

  Well, Katherine’s friend definitely has to be Mr. Bad Teeth, because no way is she setting me up to spend time with that seductive model-man, even if it’s just as a tour guide. That would be nuts.

  He’s super-ripped.

  He’s probably filthy rich.

  And my resolution to remain celibate would be toast.

  Hell, I’d probably drop a napkin on the floor just to have an excuse to ram my face into his crotch.

  Nope. Galen is definitely not the sort of man that women like me ever meet in real life.

  But just for fun, I stare at my screen, fantasizing about what might happen if I actually got to encounter such a gorgeous beast.

  I’d probably shake so hard that my quivering body would fall apart like jello in an earthquake, gooey chunks cascading to the ground in disgusting globs that flail about like goldfish whose tank has exploded in some sort of aquatic tragedy.

  Okay, yes. I know. I need to work on my feminine fantasies. They’re not exactly sexy.

  All I know is that I’m suddenly hornier than I’ve been in some time. Mr. Model has awakened a part of me that’s been dormant since the Incident, also known as the breakup.

  Well, I guess the good news is that my ex’s cruel betrayal hasn’t entirely killed my libido. I’m still perfectly able to be way too attracted to men I’ll never meet.

  The bad news is that I’ll never meet that man. I’m ninety-nine percent sure that I’m about to meet Mr. Schlumpy, which, come to think of it, is definitely for the best. I don’t want to have to fight back my hormones all evening while I stare at some dreamy deity.

  Or do I?

  When I’ve gawked at the model’s photo for about ten seconds too long, I start walking, still convinced that the voice I was hearing came from anyone but him. No way can someone who’s that hot also have a voice that makes me melt. There’s just no way the world would be that cruel to me.

  But as if some all-seeing power is watching me from a distance, my phone buzzes, and a text lights up the screen.

  p.s. I’m the Galen Davies with the dark hair, blue eyes, and smouldering look of death on his face.

  Oh, sweet lord.

  He is the sexy hot tasty gorgeous beast.

  Well, that’s it. Katherine must be testing me by setting me up for a platonic get-together with a model. Correction: a British model, with a voice like single malt scotch. A gorgeous, studly guy who’s going to make me wish I’d brought a spare set of panties and a toothbrush along on this soggy walk of mine.

  Right now I have no idea how to feel. All I know is that I’m both overjoyed and terrified to know that I’ll be meeting him in a few minutes. Part of me wants to run away. The other part—the part between my legs—wants to run towards him, to straddle him, to ask how he feels about going down on a woman for eight hours straight.

  Damn. This is going to be a rough evening.

  Four

  Riley

  3:33 p.m.

  Location: The London Pub

  Steps: 9,687

  Mental state: Freaking out quite a lot. Yessir. I’m freaking out.

  As I slip through the pub’s front entrance I attempt to pull my umbrella shut, immediately managing to get it stuck in the door, which is heavier than it looks. The damn thing’s slammed itself on my beloved polka dot shield, bending its metal stem at a gruesome ninety degree angle.

  The unfortunate consequence of this scenario is that I trip forwards as I yank it, all but falling on my face onto the pub’s dark wood floor. Spinning around to avoid revealing my features to the establishment’s clientele, I shove the door back open and toss the brutalized umbrella out onto the sidewalk, hoping that some passing person has the decency to toss it into a trash can.

  Putting on my best I meant to do that face, I stride back inside, straightening my jacket even as I try desperately to regain my composure.

  My face heats up with embarrassment as I notice the patrons who’ve quietly turned my way to glare at me, no doubt disgusted by the idiotic American who has no idea how to open a door without causing a scene.

  Okay fine, I want to bellow, I’m too stupid to live, and on top of that I look like a waterlogged tomato. Sue me.

  Right. Well, this non-date with my hot tour guide is off to a fabulous start. Maybe I should have stayed on the couch after all.

  Trying my damnedest to make myself shrink to the size of a mouse, I peer around the pub, hoping against hope that I’ve arrived before Galen. When I don’t see him, I breathe a sigh of relief, walk up to the bar and pull my too-nervous butt up onto a wooden stool, drawing my purse into my lap. Suddenly I realize that there’s some kind of ugly oil stain on the right l
eg of my jeans. Not to mention that my rubber-soled, practical boots were a very poor choice, given that I have a far sexier pair of knee-high leather ones back at the flat. This is hardly the wardrobe I would have chosen to meet a panty-wettingly hot model man.

  It doesn’t matter, Riley. This isn’t a date, I tell myself. Remember that: not a date. Just a meeting with a tour guide. A super hot, lickable, fuckable, suckable tour guide with the voice that gives your ears orgasms.

  But no matter how horned up you get, it’s definitely not a date.

  All the same, I figure that I should probably run to the bathroom and make sure my face isn’t streaked with mascara or anything. I mean, that’s just a question of common courtesy. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll make myself just presentable enough to look like I don’t really give a crap, when the truth is that I give at least a small one.

  I slip off the stool and rush over towards the little sign to the right of the bar that says Ladies’ Loo. Once inside, I pull up to a sink and look into the mirror, horrified. Wow, is it the pot lighting in here, or do I really look like grim death?

  It has to be the lights. Because I can’t deal with the fact that I’m about to meet a sizzling hot man while bearing a very strong resemblance to an extra in Dawn of the Dead.

  Hurriedly I touch up my makeup, slapping on a new layer of red lipstick and tidying my mess of curly brown hair, arranging the ringlets around my face in an attempt to accentuate my cheekbones. I step backwards, trying desperately to find a place in the room where the pot lights don’t make me look like I have the sunken eyes of someone who’s been dead for three months.

  When I’m vaguely satisfied, I shove open the door and stride semi-confidently back out into the pub.

  A sharp gasp unlocks from my throat as my eyes move towards the place where I’d seated myself earlier.

  Occupying the very stool that I deserted a minute ago is Mr. Internet Model himself. Good lord. His ass is absorbing my ass’s warmth. I wonder if that means that somehow our molecules have bonded. Whatever the case, my knees are now cursed with a sudden onset of weakness.