Loving Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 3) Page 5

  Galen clasps his hands together and rests his chin on top of them. Man, he’s so utterly adorable for such a hot guy. “Tell me more,” he says.

  “Sorry,” I reply. He’s mocking me again. “I’m totally rambling.”

  “No, no, you misunderstand me. I’m really rather enjoying it,” he tells me. “You’re reminding me of my brother, with your cynicism about your own love life.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “He always had so much disdain for relationships, as though he was allergic to them. Of course, that was before he met Adriana. She’s a former client of Katherine’s, you know.”

  “Really?” I ask. “That’s interesting.”

  “Yes, it is. I must say, it would seem that Katherine’s clients are very appealing to we Davies men.”

  He’s making me blush again, but I try to ignore the flattery.

  “Did they meet in London?”

  Galen shakes his head. “She took a trip to Paris, where Conlon lives. They grew utterly addicted to one another and fell in love over a very short period. Now they live together. They’re engaged, in fact.”

  “So, Conlon had disdain for love but fell hard anyhow,” I say.

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, that won’t happen to me. I’m not here for love; I’m here to look after myself and maybe see some pretty things. And to work.”

  “Work?” he asks. “What do you do, then?”

  “I…write a blog,” I say, almost wincing as I wait for the grim fist of judgment to come down. Most people don’t consider what I do an actual job.

  “About what?” he asks, but there’s nothing in his voice that says he feels disgust for my chosen lazy-person profession.

  “Um….it’s sort of about walking.”

  “Walking? Like hiking? Mountain climbing?”

  I shake my head, my curls bouncing around my face. “It’s hard to explain. It’s not exactly about the act of walking. It’s about my—” I hold up my wrist to show him the strapped-on digital monitor that looks like a watch. “The company calls it a Stepbit.”

  “Oh yes, I’ve heard of them,” he replies. “Pedometers, as it were.”

  “Yes. A poor man’s Apple Watch, I call it. Anyhow, it counts my steps each day,” I say. “If I don’t do enough steps, it harasses me. So I blog about our relationship.”

  “Ah, so you are in a relationship,” Galen replies, his lips twitching into a smile. “Tell me, what sorts of things do you two talk about?”

  “Um…” I pull my phone out and hit a button, handing it his way. “It’s easiest if you just read a blog entry.”

  The one I’ve handed him goes like this:

  Stepbitch: I WISH YOU WERE A MAN.

  Me: Oh, really? Why’s that?

  Stepbitch: MEN EXERCISE FAR MORE FREQUENTLY THAN WOMEN. MY FRIEND’S OWNER IS A MAN, AND HE IS EXTREMELY PHYSICALLY FIT.

  Me: That’s totally sexist of you. Women exercise lots. I mean, some men like to work out and all, but…

  Stepbitch: THE OTHER DAY HE MASTURBATED FOR SEVENTEEN MILES.

  Galen lets out a hearty guffaw and I lean back, smug in the knowledge that I’ve briefly managed to amuse the witty British god.

  “That’s very good,” he tells me. “But only seventeen miles? The guy’s a bloody amateur. I could wank for at least a marathon.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. For a moment, my eyes veer down to Galen’s prosthetic hand. I almost—almost—want to ask if he ever whacks off with that hand. But I don’t quite know him well enough…yet.

  “Duly noted,” I reply. “Not to mention impressive.”

  He leans forward, staring at the apparatus on my wrist.

  “I’m interested in the fact that you identify your little electronic pedometer as female,” he says, holding up his left hand. “Perhaps she and Mr. Grabby here could get it on one of these days.”

  “I’m sure she’d love that,” I reply, laughing. “I’d probably never see her again if she attached herself to you.” Stop complimenting the god, Riley. “Anyhow, all this was a long way of saying I’m not in London looking for romance. I’m here to clear my head and pretend I don’t have to go back to a crowd of pseudo-sympathetic people who can’t even look me in the eye anymore.”

  “Well, there’s little hope of romance happening here, you’ll be pleased to learn,” Galen says, intertwining his fingers in an impressively natural way. “London’s full of stuffy arseholes like me. No chance that you’d fall for one of us.”

  “Oh, really?” I ask, tucking my hair behind my right ear and leaning forward. “Because you’re all so unattractive and uncharismatic, you mean?”

  “Correct.”

  “Well, good to know that English men are boring uggos, and totally not sexy models who charm women with their wit and piercing blue eyes that make one’s panties melt right off.”

  Oh, shit. A stream of aggressively complimentary verbiage just gushed out of me like a freaking waterfall. I sound like a worshipping fan-girl.

  Mortified, I clench my jaw shut. Why the hell did I say those things? Stupid, stupid woman.

  “Definitely not,” he says, laughing. “Now drink up and I’ll take you for a walk around town. It’ll be dull and awful, and you’ll hate every minute of it on account of London’s horridness, not to mention my own.”

  “Perfect,” I reply, grateful that he didn’t pick up on the fact that I was basically telling him that he should take me home and fuck me blue.

  Six

  Galen

  Well, bloody hell.

  Riley isn’t at all what I expected.

  I was hoping for a dull, meticulously primped American woman. The sort whose fingernails are overly manicured and whose eyelashes are long enough to hail a taxi. Or possibly a woman who talks like her mouth is full of marbles, or who snorts when she laughs. A woman with two lazy eyes. Anything but this sexy, dark-haired creature with big green eyes and kissable pink lips that she licks when she’s nervous. A woman with gorgeous breasts that meet in a line of luscious cleavage over the v-neck of her tight sweater.

  Not that I’ve been looking, of course.

  Katherine did tell me was pretty, and I convinced myself that it was of no consequence. More fool me, I suppose, for not taking the threat seriously.

  It shouldn’t matter either way, of course. I’m not looking for a nude frolic. Not looking for attraction or a quick romp. Or a sustained one, for that matter. I’m mastering the art of abstinence, enjoying my ongoing freedom from terrible choices.

  If nothing else, Riley’s attractiveness gives me a pleasant challenge. For every moment that I fight back my desire to reach out and stroke her cheek, brush her hair off her face or kiss those succulent lips of hers, I’m defeating the small devil on my shoulder who’s trying to persuade me to claim her.

  I just wish there were a way to communicate all of this to the infuriating hard-on that keeps trying to tear my jeans open.

  Yes, I’ll admit it. Every time she smiles at me, the trouser monster springs defiantly to life inside my boxer shorts. Let me out! he yells, ready for his next conquest.

  No, damn you, I retort. Not yet.

  It’s been so fucking long, he moans.

  Calm down, beast, I reply. Katherine trusted you—well, me—to be a tour guide. Tour guides don’t fuck their clients. Though there’s a first time for everything.

  “I think we should go for a walk,” I say abruptly, needing an escape from our warm, intimate setting. “Shall we?”

  “Good idea,” Riley replies. When she finishes her drink, I escort her out of the pub and down the street, relieved to have my eyes fixed ahead rather than on some part of her.

  “So then, where are you from in the United States?” I ask.

  “Vermont,” she replies. “Well, I’m from Georgia originally.” As she says the words, her timbre slightly alters to something charmingly southern. “But I lost most of the accent when my family moved up north.”

  “That ex
plains why I can’t quite place you. We Londoners tend to be awfully good at figuring out where one of our own is from, often down to their street. But I’m shite with American accents, I’ll confess.”

  “Yours is…nice,” she says, throwing me a sideways glance. “I always liked English accents.”

  I raise an eyebrow dubiously. “Really? You mean you don’t think we sound like we have giant iron lamp posts shoved up our arses?”

  She laughs. “Never occurred to me, though now you mention it…” For a moment she examines me, a finger pressed to her lips.

  “Ha. I knew it.”

  “Maybe it’s not so much about the lamp posts as the fact that you all sound like Hannibal Lechter. Maybe you’re just terrifying psychos. Speaking of which, where exactly are you taking me?”

  As we head south, I realize that I’m not being much of a guide. I’m really just steering her in the vague direction of Trafalgar Square, sneaking an occasional glimpse at her feminine form out of the corner of my eye. Those tits really are spectacular.

  “How do you feel about art galleries?” I ask.

  “Love them,” she replies, smiling at me. It’s nice to see her lips twitch into a happy expression. Something tells me that, though she puts on a brave front about her marriage that never came to pass, she’s a little torn up inside. I’m here to pull her out of a funk, and bloody hell, I will succeed if it kills me.

  “Good,” I reply. “The National Gallery normally closes at six, but they’re staying open late tonight for some reason. We can spend a few hours there. They have some amazing portraits that I like to make fun of. Exquisite faces with stern expressions that always look like they’re about to go off on a rant about British politics or the lack of modern plumbing in their houses.”

  “Exquisite faces, you say?” she asks. “Tell me, are they as good as yours?” As I throw a grin her way, her face reddens for about the twentieth time since we met. It’s probably hit her that she just gave me yet another compliment. Bad Riley. You’re not supposed to say nice things to the strange one-handed English tour guide man who’s trying hard to convince himself that he shouldn’t ask you to take your top off.

  “Far better faces than mine,” I assure her. “I pale in comparison. Plus, I’m not nearly so good a model.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she tells me, averting her gaze. “I’ve seen some of your work. You’re…dynamic.”

  “It’s easy when you’ve got some idiot snapping forty shots a minute,” I say. “They throw out all the rubbish ones, you know.”

  “I can’t imagine there’s such a thing as a rubbish photo of you,” she says, vaguely mocking my accent. It’s adorable. I could eat her up, if only I weren’t on this damned self-imposed starvation diet.

  “Sorry,” she adds. “I keep forgetting that I shouldn’t be praising my tour guide.”

  “Yes, well,” I say. “It’s quite all right with me.” I’m not supposed to want to strip my client naked and bury my face between her legs, either, but that’s not stopping me from dreaming, is it?

  I’m enjoying watching Riley as she walks among London’s buildings. Her face keeps shifting from left to right as she takes in this or that shop, façade, gallery. She’s taken with this city in a way that I never was. That’s what happens when one learns to take a place for granted; one forgets how beautiful home can be. I’m beginning to think I needed this little outing of ours even more than she did.

  When we arrive at last, we head into the gallery. “This is a good time to come,” I say quietly as we wander up the steps. “Not too many people about. We should pretty well have the place to ourselves.”

  “Great,” she replies. “I hate people. Present company excepted, of course.”

  “Of course.” I stop and turn to face her, drawing her eyes to mine. “So, what are your interests?” I ask. “Renaissance? German? Japanese?”

  “I like them all,” she replies. “I’m easy.”

  “Psshh,” I reply. “You’re not easy at all. You haven’t tried to grab my arse once, not to mention your stubborn refusal to take your trousers off.”

  “True. I’m a frigid hag. But I do like all kinds of art, so surprise me, you wild man.”

  I pull her down a hallway until we hit a red-walled wing that displays old works from the Italian Renaissance to nineteenth-century British. Riley looks enthralled as she strolls about, eyeing each painting. Meanwhile, I’m feeling rather enthralled as I eye her.

  Her body is gorgeous. She’s not skinny; she has meat on her bones. Curvy hips, a round arse that looks absolutely remarkable in those jeans of hers. I’m finding it very hard to resist the fantasy of grasping her hips from behind as I drive my cock into her, as feral an instinct as that may be. Her body was designed to please the male eye.

  My male eye, to be specific.

  I sidle up beside her, reminding myself that I’m meant to be guiding her through the gallery, not pondering potential sexual positions. “I must admit that though I enjoy looking, I never know quite what to say in these places,” I tell her. “That’s why I generally come to galleries on my own. That way there’s no need to make idle conversation and pretend I know what I’m on about.”

  “Really? You come alone?” she replies, turning to me, a look of shock in her eyes to learn that I ever do anything alone.

  “Well yes. I’m a big boy,” I tell her, laughing. “I do many things alone.” Masturbation comes to mind, which, I suspect, is what I’ll be doing later this evening…

  “Right, of course you do,” she says, no doubt trying to sort out whether or not she’s offended me. “I only meant…”

  “I’m taking the piss,” I chuckle, laying a hand on her back. “Come on, let’s pretend we’re art connoisseurs and act utterly insufferable.”

  “Sounds good,” she replies. I’m not sure if I’m imagining it or if her voice just went a little tight. Perhaps it’s the hand on her lower back that’s doing it. Good. I like thinking of her excited. I also like being the one who’s exciting her.

  We wander over to an image of some puffy cherubs flitting over a man and a woman who are speaking to one another with somewhat surly looks on their faces.

  “I say,” I exclaim, my voice echoing through the empty room, “the brushwork is impeccable, but these flying babies are bloody terrifying.”

  “Agreed,” says Riley, putting on her best stuffy voice in response. “Note that the one on the right’s eyes are narrowed menacingly. Clearly he intends to put an arrow through that poor woman’s brain.”

  “No doubt he is,” I reply. “Psychotic little bugger.”

  As we move along, we begin to tell stories of what’s happening in each painting. “Hello,” says Riley when we come upon a still life. “I am a bowl of fruit. I am very important. Paint me so that I may live eternally on the wall of a gallery and inspire countless millions to go out and buy a semi-rotten apple.”

  “Hello,” I reply when we get to the next work. “I am a very sour-looking man with a remarkably enormous nose, who needs to wee very badly. But this sodding artist is making me sit here like an absolute twat for nineteen hours straight while he paints my feckin’ collar, so my bladder is on the verge of a horrific explosion.”

  “I will punish the artist by peeing on the chair,” Riley adds, joining in on the fun.

  “Damn it, my clever plan backfired on me. I’m now sitting on wet, warm upholstery. Well, this is a rather miserable life I’ve carved out for myself.”

  As we wander, Riley notices something that I became aware of the first time I came to this gallery, when I was twelve years old. “Man, this place is boob city,” she says quietly, leaning in and speaking out the side of her mouth. “Why are there so many breasts hanging out of women’s clothes in these paintings?”

  “Um, because it’s delightful?” I ask.

  She spins around and gawks at me, her green eyes narrowing in accusation. “You really think it’s delightful for a chick to have her ladies fl
opping all over the place?” she retorts, juggling her hands in front of her chest as though she’s throwing balls in the air.

  “Absolutely. Very delightful, for me at least,” I tell her, resisting a powerful desire to grab her waist and pull her to me. “In fact, if your jumper fell off right now, I’d be rather pleased.”

  “Ah,” she says, moving along, drawing her gaze away. “But you wouldn’t look or touch, of course, because you’re my tour guide and we’re both abstaining from such things. We’re nothing if not professional.”

  “But of course,” I say, pausing to inhale a sharp breath. “But wait just a moment—I wouldn’t be allowed to look? Damn it, I’m going to have to rethink this whole abstinence thing.”

  “Okay, fine,” she says. “You could look. If my sweater—or jumper, as you call it—fell off. Which it won’t. I have it firmly secured in place with double-sided tape and staples.”

  “Crikey, you’re a hard-core abstainer, aren’t you?”

  “Go big or go home, I always say.”

  “Well, abstain all you like. All I know is that you are as lovely a work of art as any of the pieces in this gallery. And as such, I would like to strongly suggest that you consider removing your top voluntarily.”

  “Well, since you asked nicely…” she says, miming the act of pulling her jacket off.

  “Success!” I whisper a little too loudly. But she doesn’t follow through. Instead, she lets out a little laugh. It’s a great laugh, to go with her great breasts and great arse.

  I’m in a little bit of trouble here. My delicate shield of abstinence is beginning to show signs of wear.

  And, more dangerous still, I’m loving every minute of it.

  Seven

  Riley

  It’s still November 6.

  Steps: Two billion. Or maybe it’s fifteen thousand.

  I can’t quite remember, and I have no interest in looking at the Stepbitch right now. Not while I have Galen to look at.