Loving Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 3) Page 4

  He.

  Is.

  Beautiful.

  Too beautiful to talk to the likes of me.

  He’s leaning forward, pressing his weight onto the hard wooden surface in front of him as he chats with the bartender. A wool peacoat, speckled with water droplets, lies draped over the stool next to his. He’s wearing a long sleeved, tight shirt, his right arm bent in exactly the right way to display the very impressive (to say the least) outlines of his rounded muscles.

  Long, muscular legs are tucked under him in a pair of well-fitting jeans, the soles of his stylish brown leather shoes pressing into a metal bar under the stool.

  I’m still looking for some sign that he’s anything less than perfect. I’ll take anything at this point. A zit. A stray hair that his razor missed.

  I just need to know that he’s not actually a god.

  As I watch him, he runs a hand through his dark brown hair, pushing it back out of his face. It stays in place, because of course it’s wet from the rain. Oh, the dreamy bastard just got dreamier. A real man doesn’t use an umbrella, I guess. A real man doesn’t need such frivolous protection from the elements. A real man doesn’t catch colds. A real man gives one hundred percent no fucks about being wet or looking like a drowned rat.

  Summoning every ounce of strength that I can possibly conjure, I step towards him. It’s okay, I tell myself. You can still run away. Remember, you know who he is, but he doesn’t know what you look like.

  I sit down two stools away from his jacket to eavesdrop on the conversation that he and the bartender are still carrying on.

  “Conlon? Oh, he’s very busy,” Galen’s saying. “He’s got the wedding to plan, plus the company’s doing really well. He’s got his hands full, that one.”

  I have no idea who he’s talking about, but it’s all good. I just want to hear more of that dark-chocolate voice with the sexy accent. He could talk about all the breeds of Yorkshire pig for three hours, and I’d be perfectly delighted.

  “That’s his latest creation, then?” the bartender asks, nodding towards something on Galen’s left side. Well, now my interest is piqued. I try to press quietly forward, pretending to eye the bottles behind the bar even though I’m actually glancing towards my non-date. But before I can spot what they’re talking about, Galen lifts his left hand.

  “It is, yeah,” he says. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  I let out my second quiet gasp as I realize that I’d only seen a photo of his right side; not his left. So I never saw that his left hand is made of some sort of metal, like a robot’s. Or a cyborg’s. Or whatever they’re called.

  He’s…bionic.

  As he talks to the bartender, he moves his fingers individually, showing off the technology. Slowly he curls one finger then the next, then the next, until he’s flipping the guy the bird. “I’m fairly sure Conlon designed this hand specifically so I could easily do this,” he says.

  “I’ll bet,” laughs his friend. “Listen, Gale, I’ll be right back.”

  The bartender turns away to take an order at the other end of the bar. Meanwhile, Galen turns my way, leaning on his left arm as his right swings down to his side.

  That’s when our eyes meet for the first time.

  My face heats up like a hot plate as I realize I’ve been staring at his artificial hand for far longer than is polite. He knows it, too. I can feel it. He knows I’ve been gawking at him like an absolute idiot.

  Cursing myself for my slip-up, I pivot away. I can’t possibly talk to him now; not when he knows how rude I’ve been.

  That’s it. I’ve ruined everything. He may not know that I’m the woman he spoke to earlier, but he definitely knows that I’m an insensitive ass.

  After a moment of agonizing tension, I slide off the stool and head for the door, certain that I’ll never see Galen’s face again.

  But a voice barrels at me from behind like a shot from a cannon, stopping me in my tracks.

  “Hang on, Riley.”

  Five

  Riley

  His voice is so sexy that it hurts my heart to know I’ll probably never hear it again.

  But before I have a chance to tell my body to resist, I’ve swung around to face the man who’s just uttered my name. He’s not supposed to know my face, but there he is, his eyes locked on mine, utterly confident that he’s called out to the right woman. He’s caught me on the run.

  His expression is neither pleased nor annoyed. I have no idea if he despises me or finds me amusing.

  “Ah. I knew it was you,” he says, taking a step towards me. The tiniest hint of a smile might be invading his lips, but it could just as well be a smirk.

  “I...how did you know?” I ask, flustered enough that my mouth has a hard time forming the words. I don’t know if people are staring at us. I’m in a tunnel, and the only thing I see is Galen. Tall, beautiful Galen, moving slowly towards me like I’m living part of a terrible, wonderful, erotic dream.

  “Katherine told me that you’re very pretty. Being the clever fellow that I am, I deduced from there.”

  I don’t need a mirror to know that my cheeks have just turned to an even deeper hue of blood red than the one that settled on them earlier. I’m pushing the limits of my own mortification today.

  But there’s another, more powerful reason that I’m blushing.

  I’m flattered.

  Can he really think I’m that pretty?

  No. He can’t. If he does, he’s nuts. I look like the Crypt Keeper in mom jeans. In no country on earth is that considered attractive.

  “You must think I’m a total idiot,” I mutter sheepishly. My hand is still outstretched, reaching for the door, my body itching to make its escape despite the fact that I’m frozen. I’m trying in vain to calm the adrenaline that’s flowing through me like it’s trying to win a race through my body.

  Fight, or flight, or freeze. Which will it be?

  My brain tries to calm me down. He’s not an enemy. He’s a nice boy. And he’s really, really damn gorgeous. Don’t run. Stay. When will you ever get to spend time with a guy who looks like this again?

  He shakes his head. “No. I don’t think you’re an idiot. Well, not total, anyhow.”

  “You must at least think I was running away because…” I gesture towards his left hand before I even realize what I’m doing. I’ve just pointed out to the man that he’s got a prosthetic, like he didn’t realize it.

  Way to make things worse, Miss Idiot USA, 2017.

  He looks down at his hand and leaps backwards. “Oh, dear God! How did that get there? What the hell happened to my sodding hand?” He lets out a soft chuckle, pulls his gaze back to me and nods. “I suspected that you had an adverse reaction to it, yes. But then, since this meeting of ours isn’t meant to be a date, it shouldn’t matter to you that I haven’t got four limbs. Therefore, unless you have a morbid fear of one-armed men from watching The Fugitive or Peter Pan one too many times, I suspect that the problem is really that you’re embarrassed to have been caught staring at Mr. Grabby here, and your instinct to flee kicked in with a vengeance. Tell me if I’m wrong.”

  Well, the verdict is in. Galen is perceptive, as well as sexy.

  I press the tip of a finger to my nose then point at him, like he’s guessed my word in a game of Charades. “Nailed it,” I say.

  “Well, I hope that instinct has faded by now. Besides, I quite understand the desire to stare.” He holds up his arm, eyeing it like an artistic masterpiece as he plays with his individual fingers. “It’s rather impressive, after all.” He lets out another soft chuckle and drops it to his side. “Riley, if I got upset every time someone stared at my robot limb, I’d have a pretty miserable sodding life, wouldn’t I?”

  I muster a smile, albeit a very wimpy one. I still feel like crap for reacting in such a shameful way.

  “Come on,” he says, extending his right hand towards me, “let’s have a wee drink and calm those nerves of yours. We should chat a bit before we head ou
t. I need to know what you like before I can figure out where to drag you in this vast city of ours.”

  I step forward and take his hand, trying to ignore what the light touch of his fingertips does to my body. Trying to ignore how attractive I find everything about him; how laid back he is, how charming, how good-humoured. How utterly perfect he is.

  I wish I could tell him that his prosthetic is a non-issue to me. I was surprised, yes. But if anything, it made him even more attractive. More interesting.

  More desirable.

  Damn, what have I gotten myself into?

  He leads me over to a table and we sit down opposite each other, a large window on our right side letting the cloud-filtered daylight in to highlight his glorious face.

  His eyes are blue. Neither particularly light nor dark. They’re a sort of intense indigo, lightening towards the pupil. His eyebrows are dark and expressive, and his hair is the sort of style that looks sexy mussed up, slicked back or hanging in his face.

  His jawline is square and masculine, his stubble sufficient to turn me on but not enough to delve into mountain man territory. In conclusion, he’s extremely doable.

  I’ve never found any man as objectively handsome as this guy. Never. I don’t think I even believed that people could look like Galen in real life.

  “So,” he says as I gawk at him like a woman whose ovaries have imploded, “tell me about yourself.”

  “Me? There’s not much to tell,” I croak out when I can muster the strength to speak. I want to bite your ass. I want to nibble on your pecs. I want to lick my way up your thighs. I want you. Please, let’s skip the sight-seeing and just get naked. Let’s fuck away all the pain, all the heartache, all the sorrow.

  At the very least, let's see if I can rack up another 10,000 steps by giving you a hand job.

  “Oh, I’m sure there’s plenty. What brought you to London, for starts?”

  A nervous laugh escapes my lips. “That’s a big one. I’m going to need a drink in my hands before I can begin to answer it,” I say.

  “Shite! Drinks!” he blurts out, grabbing the edge of the table and gracefully sliding off his chair. “Sorry, I’m being an awful host. What would you like?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean you should pay…”

  “Of course I should. You’re a guest in my country. What’ll it be?”

  “Guinness,” I tell him.

  “Pfft. Have a real drink,” he replies.

  “Okay, fine. Irish whiskey.”

  He narrows his sexy eyes approvingly. “Good girl.”

  He darts over to the bar and asks his friend for two drinks then barrels back once they’re in hand, handing one to me. “Cheers, mate,” he says, clinking his glass against mine.

  “Cheers,” I reply, laughing at the use of the word. “Is that what you call your friends?”

  “It is. A high compliment.”

  “Well, that’s good, given that we’re meant to be nothing more than friends,” I say, recalling our awkward text conversation.

  “Right. No romantic entanglements,” he replies, taking a sip of his own whiskey. “Though now that I’ve seen your booty in all its glory as you attempted to flee from me, I must say that my resolve has somewhat weakened on that front.”

  My cheeks go hot again. Damn him for doing this to me. I’m supposed to be strong, not to succumb to the charms of the first guy I meet.

  “I’m teasing again, of course,” he adds, no doubt noting my crimson cheeks. “Purely platonic, this little encounter of ours. I promise that I won’t bite your left or right arse cheeks, regardless of how powerful the urge may be.”

  I come close to doing a spit take all over him, but somehow I choke back the sip I was taking.

  “Thank you?” I say, my chest jiggling with laughter.

  “Quite welcome. Now, you were going to tell me about your reasons for being in England.”

  “Damn. And here I thought I might avoid that topic.”

  “Bad subject?” he asks, raising an eyebrow in a way that makes me want to ask him if he’s really human, because every single gesture seems designed to turn me on.

  I pull my eyes away, unwilling to tell this gorgeous creature about my failures in life while looking into his amazing eyes. “See, the thing is, I was supposed to get married.” Okay, apparently the whiskey works fast as a truth serum. “Wow. I have no idea why I’m telling you this,” I add as I rub my slightly sweaty palms over my thighs.

  “Because I asked why you came here, and you’re too polite to tell me to piss off.”

  “Right. Yes. Okay.” I summon the bravery to look him in the eye again. “The wedding was supposed to take place a while ago. I would probably have gone on a honeymoon this month. But the wedding didn’t happen, because my fiancé decided he’d rather hump my best friend than be an adult in a committed relationship.”

  “Ah,” he murmurs. “That’s…unfortunate.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” I reply. “To make matters worse, I live in a small town. Suffice it to say that I decided that it would be better to run away than to hang around and deal with all the questions from busybodies and family.” I pull my gaze away from him again and stare out the window, realizing how much I’m disclosing in such a short time. “Wow, I’m really sorry. I probably sound bitter and insane.”

  “Not at all,” Galen replies. “Katherine did tell me you were fresh off a relationship. But I hadn’t realized that you were close to the ugly M-word.”

  “Marriage? Yes, very close,” I reply. “But I suppose I’m glad it didn’t happen. Is that crazy?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Galen says. I can’t tell what he’s thinking; only that he’s listening. Like, really listening, as though he’s kind, patient, and caring. I feel like I’ve stepped into some crazy parallel universe where men give a shit.

  Or maybe I’ve just never spent time with a man who gives a shit.

  His eyes are locked on mine. There’s something there, behind them. Sympathy, maybe. But not the sort of awkward, head-bent-to-the-right sympathy that tells me someone wants to get away before I start crying. I get the impression that even if I did cry, he’d stay with me. He’d talk me through it.

  He’d do the right thing.

  But I don’t want to talk to him about my failure of a love life. I’m not sure I want to talk at all. Part of me just wants to press my lips to his. I want to feel close to someone, to give my body to a man who isn’t Brian, even if it’s just for a few hours.

  My body and mind are suddenly craving the rebound romance I said I didn’t want. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised; a quick fling with some hot English guy who fucks like a bandit would be ideal. I could totally use the ego boost from a dude who says something like “Blimey, look at those lovely American tits!” while pounding me relentlessly.

  But something tells me that Galen wouldn’t be the right guy for a rebound fling. He’s way too good for that. It would be like grinding up filet mignon and turning it into a greasy cheeseburger.

  Besides, a quick lay would be as useless as sticking a band-aid on a gunshot wound. A very temporary, very ineffective solution to a much bigger problem. The fact is, my ego is wounded, as is my pride. Those will take longer to heal than my heart, which seems miraculously to have escaped this whole ordeal in one piece.

  As if to fight off any stupid thoughts, I blurt out, “I’ve decided that I need to be abstinent for a year, to give myself time to figure out what I want.”

  “Blimey. A year?” he asks. “Well, that’s a damned shame.”

  “Actually, it’s more like ten months, given that I found my ex playing hide-the-pygmy-gherkin with my former bestie two months ago,” I say. Suddenly, though, ten months seems ridiculous. My resolve is crumbling with every syllable that leaves Galen’s lips. He’s just so damned hot that I feel like I’m wasting an opportunity here.

  Maybe I should rethink this whole chastity thing. Then again, who’s to say he would want me, anyhow?

/>   “And you?” I ask. “Are you single? I have to admit that I couldn’t totally tell from your texts.” I’m liking the openness that comes with sitting with a man who’s almost 100% guaranteed not to become a love interest.

  “Very single,” he replies, smiling. “Let’s just say that I’m going through my own period of self-inflicted abstinence.”

  What a curse for all of womankind. But lucky for me. “Voluntary?”

  He nods. “Extremely voluntary. My brother Conlon—he’s the one who designed this—” he holds up his arm, “has in past accused me of being a love addict. I suppose I’m trying to prove him wrong.”

  “I see. And are you? A love addict, I mean?” If he is, it’s all the more reason to stay at arms’ length. A love addict sounds awfully dangerous to a vulnerable woman.

  “I don’t think so,” he says, “but I’ll admit that I might be a relationship addict. I’ve been in not-so-great relationships all my adult life. I thought I’d try being single for a while, and see if it takes.”

  “Here’s to singleness, then,” I huff, like saying the words is a relief. I hold up my glass, and he clinks his own against it. “I’m grateful, to be honest, to be single again. I mean, it was embarrassing and all, canceling the wedding. But I’m so glad that I’m sitting here with you, and not in Mexico.” As I say the words, I realize that it sounds like I just gave him a massive compliment. “Oh—I didn’t mean…”

  He laughs. “It’s all right. I didn’t take it to mean anything. I get it. I’m grateful to be out of my last relationship, too. Sometimes we get so firmly ensconced in the ease of a banal partnership that it’s hard to see one’s way out.”

  “God yes.” I utter the words far more emphatically than I should. I take another sip of the whiskey that’s been loosening my overly eager tongue and lean towards Galen. “I mean, I was with Brian for five years. It had become habit. Easy, like you said. But it wasn’t great. It wasn’t even good.”