Loving Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 3) Page 7

  All I’m missing is someone with whom I can share it.

  Well, someday perhaps that someone will come along.

  Then again, maybe she already has.

  I remember telling Adriana once that it doesn’t take weeks or months to fall in love. Sometimes, I insisted, it happens in a matter of hours, just as it happened for her and my brother.

  It may just have happened for me, too.

  I shoot a look down at my phone, but no response. No Riley. So I lay it down and rise to my feet to stride over to a side table at the other end of the room.

  I think it’s about time for another drink.

  As I’m pouring myself a whiskey, I hear a familiar triad chord chime from my mobile. More quickly that I’d care to admit, I dart over to the coffee table to pick it up.

  I respectfully disagree with you. You’re very smooth, Galen. Too smooth for a girl like me.

  I give myself all of five seconds to consider my reply before I type it.

  I should take you to Paris, you know. We’d have a great time breaking our resolutions to be celibate.

  We shouldn’t talk about Paris.

  Okay, then. What should we talk about?

  We probably shouldn’t talk at all. Ever.

  Ah, I quite understand. Clearly you didn’t fancy me quite as much as I did you.

  On the contrary. I don’t want to become too attracted to you. Fuck that—I already am. I don’t want to tempt myself. Or torment myself.

  Well, my hard-on is back with a vengeance. Well done, Riley Simmons.

  Trying to distract my overly active cock, my fingers work the phone’s keyboard again. Ah, so that’s the rub. Well, at least one of us is being cautious in this scenario. I don’t think it’s the worst thing in the world to be attracted to one another, you know.

  What about our mutual pinky swear of chastity? she asks.

  Did we actually commit to a pinky swear?

  Maybe not. But we probably should have.

  Look, all I’m saying is that surely we can find each other attractive, spend time together, and yet remain chaste.

  Explain how.

  For a moment I contemplate my answer. But this is getting too complicated for my fingers. I’m ringing you again, I type. Pick up.

  “This is exactly what I’m talking about,” she says when she answers a few seconds later. “It’s dangerous. You’re all charming and enticing, and you have that damned sexy voice. I’m going to get all hot and bothered again.”

  “Come now, this is perfectly safe. I can’t even reach the clasp on your bra from here, much as I’d like to.”

  “True, I suppose.”

  “Listen, I wanted to let you know that I enjoyed our time together. Very much. Before the kiss, even, though that was also rather enjoyable.”

  “So did I,” she says, “and then I really enjoyed the kiss. Like, way too much. That’s why I ran away from you like my ass was on fire.”

  “I want you to know that I am working very hard right now not to think about your hot arse.”

  “I appreciate that,” she tells me.

  “All right. Well, I have a proposition for you.”

  “My ass is heating up again, Galen…”

  “No, hear me out. How about if we were to make up a contract?”

  Silence for a few seconds. “I’m listening.”

  “I propose that we see one another when I’m back from Paris. But first we should make an agreement that no touching may occur when we are together.”

  “No touching of any kind?”

  “An accidental elbow in the side is acceptable, I suppose.”

  “Okay. Next?”

  “Definitely no kissing.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “If the talk descends into lascivious territory, either party has the right to stop it in its tracks.”

  “Boom. Done. Wait—what’s the punishment if we break the rules? We need proper enforcement, or this is pointless.”

  “Good question,” I say. “How about this? If I were to, say, inconsiderately slip a hand onto your thigh, then I think it would be perfectly acceptable for you to make a demand of me.”

  “What sort of demand?”

  “Anything you’d like.”

  “So, you’re telling me that you’d do whatever I asked of you?”

  “Yes. Sort of. I would provide you with precisely one service, or equivalent goods as per your request.”

  “And vice versa.”

  “Yes.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “With that in mind, Riley, I’ll still be heading to Paris tomorrow. But I’ll be back Thursday evening. Perhaps we could take up where we left off then.”

  More silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds. I know her well enough by now to know that she’s contemplating everything. Weighing pros and cons. She’s not as impulsive as she thinks.

  “I want to be clear that I should very much like to see you when I get back,” I say in order to add fuel to the fire. “Would that be possible?”

  “Thursday evening, you said?” she asks. I can hear the restraint in her voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, I’d like that,” she replies. “I’d like to see you and have another celibate non-date.”

  “Good. Listen, I can’t promise I won’t text you from Paris.”

  “I can’t promise I won’t want you to.”

  “I can’t promise I won’t think about your tits.”

  She makes a loud noise, like a game show buzzer going off. “Lascivious talk. You just broke a rule. You have to do something for me.”

  “Shite, already? Fine, mistress. What would you like from me?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Actually, yes, I am. I’d like a little something from Paris. A trinket.”

  “Your wish is my command. Now I should go, before I say something else that gets me into trouble. I’ll speak to you soon, my abstinent little sexy kisser.”

  “Good night, Galen, my…friend.”

  Nine

  Riley

  Tuesday.

  Steps: Zero. Waffly ass still in bed, even though it’s almost noon.

  Last night’s Dream: Naked Galen, doing unspeakable things to me. Bad Riley. But very good dream.

  Mental State: Screwed. But not in the good way.

  I have a few days of solitude ahead of me. A few days to get my head together, to go out on my own and actually get something done.

  But instead of being a productive member of society, I’m lying in bed, thinking of a certain sexy model. I’m supposed to be wandering the elegant streets of this town, getting my steps in while scrutinizing the exterior of Buckingham Palace and the Tower of London. Listening to a disembodied voice yell “Mind the gap!” while I try to make my way onto a crowded Tube car.

  That’s it, I’m going to do it. I’m going to head out on my own, like a proper tourist lady. That was what this holiday was supposed to be, right? A single woman all alone, padding her way through London, gathering her thoughts, walking her somewhat squishy butt off, regaining her dignity as a strong, entrepreneurial woman.

  I’m certainly not supposed to be lying around, missing a man I just met yesterday. Lamenting Galen’s absence should be priority number sixty million and one on my to-do list, in fact.

  But I’m a little torn between leaving the flat and doing some work. My next blog entry is due later today—or is it earlier today? The time change has really fucked me up. Anyhow, my readers will be expecting an entry, and far be it from me to disappoint my loyal fans again.

  The only trouble is, there’s no way in hell that I can write a blog without caffeine in my system. And I’m not talking about Mrs. Hudson’s weak English tea. I’m a red-blooded American woman, and damn it, I need my coffee to be black, strong and downright cruel.

  So when I’ve showered and dressed, I grab my laptop bag, sling it over my shoulder and head out the door, charging down the stairs like a crazy person o
n a mission.

  When I open the door, a jolt of crisp air hits my face like a blast of cold water. This isn’t the soggy London day that I was expecting. In fact, the clouds above have a familiar sort of menace to them that I know all too well from my years in Vermont.

  It almost looks like it might snow.

  If that happens, I will be utterly delighted. I’ve always been told that snow is a rare event here. Like spotting a blue whale in the wild, or finding a man who’s both gorgeous and isn’t a pathological douche.

  But no, I’m not going to think about Galen; instead, I’m going to picture the rooftops above me coated in a thin layer of fluffy cotton.

  Strolling down the street, I breathe in the air, holding it in my lungs like a rare commodity before releasing it again. I feel invigorated and alive for the first time in a long time. I feel at home in this strange, foreign place, like I was always meant to come here.

  One thing I’m realizing about London is that its downtown is entirely structured around the notion of warmth and hospitality. The reason there’s a pub on every corner isn’t that all its residents are hopeless drunks in need of a fix; it’s that most of them live in tiny, overpriced apartments that are more like solitary confinement cells than relaxing homes. They don’t want to sit around staring at the walls that are closing in around them; they want to escape, to walk into a place that’s big, welcoming, and full of other like-minded humans. The denizens of any given pub might be English, Irish, Scottish, French, American, you name it. All that matters is that they have a locale where they can all band together in a mutual love of beer and lively conversation.

  Warmth is crucial here. It’s life-sustaining.

  Speaking of which, I’ve gone three blocks, and passed no fewer than four pubs, before I realize that I haven’t thought of my ex once today. Not once. Not about the wedding that never came to pass, or the non-existent honeymoon, or the mortification of his infidelity and my failure.

  It’s like someone’s opened up my soul and run in with a broom to sweep it clean.

  I can guess who that someone is, but I probably shouldn’t.

  No way should I claim that a man I’ve met precisely once is wholly responsible for my repaired internal structure. Galen is sweet, he’s wonderful, even, but even he can’t fix the sort of broken that I am. Not after a few hours, anyhow. It would take months of engineering to get all my mental gears turning properly.

  If anything, Galen’s a very, very pleasant distraction. He’s my warmth. He’s my very own, consolidated version of London; he’s welcoming, inviting, reassuring. He makes me laugh. And I can’t wait to see him again.

  But the fact remains that sometime soon I’ll be going back home. I’ll be losing that warmth, that connection.

  That is, unless I can find a way to keep him, which is possible, I suppose. The thing is, he and I have agreed to be friends and nothing more. Friends usually last much longer than lovers do, which is precisely why I need someone like him in my life right now.

  In one fell swoop on a horrible day in September, I lost my fiancé and my best friend. Maybe that’s what made all of this so hard. The truth is, I haven’t had anyone I could really talk to about everything that’s happened. I’ve held it all in, tried to hide my pain, and all along it’s just caused me to retreat into myself.

  But Galen is someone I can confide in. Someone I can talk to about my insecurities, mistakes, wishes, hopes. He puts me at ease and makes me forget all the things that have been eating away at me for so long.

  As long as we manage to keep our hands off each other, he could be a very therapeutic presence over the next few weeks, or even the next few years.

  Maybe that’s what I need most.

  My contentment renewed, I pick up my pace, making my way towards the bustling busyness of Oxford Street. I want to be among people today. I want to watch them race around. I want to feel like I’m part of London.

  Giant white orbs hang over the wide avenue, like massive Christmas ornaments. I can imagine that at night they’re lit up beautifully. In each shop window sits an attractive, elegant display featuring scenes like a family dressed impeccably, playing in the snow. Sleds, snowmen, Christmas trees. Mothers and children, wearing clothing I could never afford, but that I now want very badly, because I feel like putting it on would bring me instant happiness.

  Man, these advertisers are good.

  When I finally come upon a Costa coffee shop, a popular chain here, I dash in, order a cappuccino and stick myself in the one corner where I can find a deserted stool. A little sort of shelf sits between me and the large window, so I pull my laptop out of my bag and crack it open.

  All of a sudden, I feel like a proper Londoner. I’m no longer wandering aimlessly. Nope, I have come to this café on a mission. This is my corner. I’m going to work like a genuine, serious professional. I am going to write a blog entry while sitting in a coffee shop on Oxford Street, sipping cappuccino with cocoa sprinkled on top.

  This, I think, is heaven.

  Smiling quietly to myself, I take a sustained sip of delicious, hot caffeinated goodness. A surge of bliss churns through me with the realization that I’ve finally become me again.

  Ironically enough, this is very similar the life I used to live in Vermont. Days spent writing alone in a coffee shop in Brattleboro while people wandered in and out. I knew the baristas, and they knew me well enough to leave me alone for the most part.

  My solitude was always precious to me, always valuable.

  In those days, of course, I had a home to go to at the end of the day, and inside that home was a man.

  There’s no man now.

  But do you know what? I think I’m fine with that.

  Brian was part of an era that’s over now. I wipe my hands of him and all that he symbolized.

  A new era is beginning. One where I won’t make the same mistakes again. I won’t screw my life up by getting involved with a man who’s not right for me.

  Excited by how clear my head feels, I slap my hands together and rub them, my brain shifting into high gear to type the rough draft of today’s blog entry.

  Conversations with the Stepbitch, November 7:

  Stepbitch: IT IS 9:50. YOU MUST DO 250 STEPS NOW, SLOTH WOMAN.

  Me: Seriously? I walked twenty miles yesterday. Can’t I take a little break?

  Stepbitch: THAT WAS YESTERDAY. IT COUNTS FOR NOTHING.

  Me: Come on. Have mercy.

  Stepbitch: DO 250 STEPS OR DIE ALONE.

  Me: Fine, I’ll walk. I really hate you, you know.

  Stepbitch: VICTORY IS MINE, WAFFLE BUTT.

  The Bitch has earned her name for one more day.

  The only problem is, I’m about three days behind, and I totally need to make up for lost time. Which means that I need to come up with three more conversations.

  For a few minutes I stare at my screen, my mind drawing a blank. It seems the caffeine has worn off already.

  Okay, here’s the thing no one tells you about writers’ block: It’s not really a wall that shoots up and stops you from writing. Anyone can write words.

  The question is whether those words will be any good.

  Writers’ block is a parasite that walks into your brain and chisels away at it with a mallet, ensuring that you can’t focus on any one thing at a time. It robs you of all clever turns of phrase, all originality. You feel like you’re six years old again, and all you’re capable of writing is, “Jack went to the store. Jack bought bread. Jack walked home. Jack is not a very interesting guy and should probably fall in a well head first, just to add some intrigue to this wretched tale.”

  Not exactly Shakespeare, is it?

  But this isn’t my first rodeo. The thing is, I want to write today. I feel excited. I’m not afflicted by the lethargy that overtook me for my first few days in London. So I steer my brain in another direction, like I’m pointing out something shiny to someone with ADD. Look, I say, Sparkly thing over to your right! Doesn’t that
tickle your fancy?

  The only problem is that I need to find a nice, shiny object to prove to my brain that I’m not lying. So I open a new window, unclench my thoughts, and start typing. I have no idea what I’m writing at first, just that my fingers have taken over like an automatic piece of machinery that’s moving at lightning speed.

  After a minute, I find myself staring at what I’ve done, both amused and slightly horrified that this is the only thing my brain wants to focus on right now.

  It’s a list of rules. In my writing frenzy, I’ve even given it a title.

  Rules of Mutually Agreed Upon Celibacy in the Extremely Professional and Super-Duper Platonic Relationship between Galen Davies and Riley Simmons

  1. No touching any body part that may be an erogenous zone. This includes but is not limited to: buttocks, breasts, lips, neck, small of the back.

  2. No ogling or staring at: breasts, bulges in man-pants, or asses (arses, as some poorly educated Englishmen would say).

  3. No sexy talk, particularly about my tits—specifically nipples.

  4. DEFINITELY no kissing. Kissing is very, very bad.

  5. No fucking, licking or dry-humping. Not necessarily in that order, either.

  6. No suggestive compliments alluding to either party’s anatomy, unless they’re about Galen’s super-awesome Bionic Man arm, which, let’s face it, is the coolest thing ever.

  Note: If either party breaks any one of these rules, he or she is entitled to one (platonic and not sexy at all) act of servitude, performed by the other party.

  (Remember, Galen: no titty talk, or you’ll have to lick my loafers.)

  Yours affectionately

  but not too affectionately, because affection is bad,

  Riley

  I know exactly what I need to do with this list.

  I copy the words, paste them into a text, and send it off to Galen before I’ve even exhaled.