Loving Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 3) Page 8
Then it hits me.
I just sent a list of rules to a man I met yesterday.
Why the ever-loving fuck did I do that?
Even if it was meant to be all in fun, it was weirdly aggressive. For all I know he hasn’t even given me a second thought since last night. He’s probably forgotten all about the rules, and currently thinks I’m insane.
Almost immediately, as if to prove me wrong, my phone shudders with his reply. Grimacing, I pick it up, sealing one eye shut to protect me from whatever message has just cropped up.
I definitely won’t talk about your tits then. But to be clear, are nipples off the table?
I almost snort with relieved laughter, but somehow I compose myself enough to keep silent.
Absolutely off the table. I’m wearing a very supportive bra.
I didn’t mean literally, you naughty little vixen.
Still off the table.
Just checking.
We good?
He pauses for a moment before replying. Just to be clear, what about cleavage talk?
So far off the table it’s landed on the floor with a wet thud.
Right then. Fair enough. I shall discuss these terms with my barristers (i.e. lawyers) and get back to you.
This time, a loud laugh manages to escape my mouth. The sound echoes through the café, no doubt annoying the very buttoned up, business attire-wearing Brits who surround me.
Damn, why do I have to enjoy him so much? Is it not enough that he’s ridiculously handsome, he’s got to go and make me giggle like an idiot too?
I’m going to call you, Riley. Pick up.
My heart turns into a conga drum in my chest the moment the phone vibrates. But I pick up like a good little (chaste) friend.
“You’ve got to stop doing this to me,” I tell him in my best annoyed-school-teacher tone.
“Doing what?” he asks, and as usual his voice melts me. “Friends speak on the phone all the time.”
“Fine then. Friends also talk about banal things like weather. How’s the temperature in Paris?” I ask.
“Cool.”
“Is it sunny?”
“Nah. Not sunny. Not picturesque at all. Hang on—I’ll show you how awful it is. I took a picture when I arrived early this morning. Look at your mobile in precisely four seconds.” He sends me a photo of Notre Dame that looks like a freaking Monet painting, the sun lighting the façade all sorts of shades of pink and blue.
“So dull,” I say when I’ve pressed the phone to my ear again. “I don’t know how you can even stand it.”
“The real question, Riley, is how’s London?”
“Well, it’s missing something,” I tell him. “I’ve been wandering aimlessly, shedding bitter tears for no good reason. I’m a basketcase. I can’t figure out what’s wrong with this city. It’s like its soul has been ripped out.”
“You poor thing. It’s true though, isn’t it? Without me, it’s a shell of its former self.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, Mr. Ego,” I laugh. “So, how’s your brother?”
“A sod. A wanker. A toffee-nosed arsemuffin.”
“I take it that’s all good?”
“All good,” he replies. “Right at this moment, he’s sitting on his lavish couch in his multi-million-euro flat, trying to deduce who I’m talking to. Naturally I refuse to tell him about the woman I met in London with the unmentionable bits and the indescribable this and that and how she totally doesn’t turn me on or tempt me to break my vow of chastity at all and how I don’t have any pressing desire to slip my tongue over her…”
“Thin ice, Galen Davies. I think you just broke the rules again, in fact,” I tell him.
“Then I shall bring you two small Parisian somethings,” he says. “Listen, Conlon is about to tear my head off. He’s supposed to be working on my arm, and here I am, chatting you up like an irresponsible bastard.”
“Okay, you go away. Do your thing. I’ll be doing mine.”
“Lucky you. I’ve got no doubt that your thing is delightful,” he says suggestively. I’m not entirely sure if that was a violation of our rulebook. “I’ll see you Thursday evening, love,” he adds.
Love. My chest swells with heat. English people say love and dear all the time. I know this. I get it. It doesn’t mean anything. Yet when Galen uttered that simple word it made my belly flip over on itself. I wanted to sing. I wanted to dance. The crazy thing is, I want to be the only person he calls Love, ever. If he’d stick a little “my” in front of it, I would probably die from the pleasure of it.
“I’ll see you then,” I say. When I hang up, I realize my voice has gone low and sultry with desire, or frustration, or stupidity. He melts my brain as well as my body.
I hate to say it, but I can’t fucking wait for Thursday.
Ten
Riley
It’s Wednesday.
Today’s Blog entry is inspired by a resolution I’ve made not to eat sugar.
Stepbitch: IF YOU DO TWENTY JUMPING JACKS I WILL GIVE YOU ALL THE CHOCOLATE.
Me (Five minutes later): I did them. Where’s my chocolate?
Stepbitch: DID I SAY CHOCOLATE? I MEANT TO SAY THAT I WILL DELIVER CRIPPLING BLOWS TO YOUR EGO.
Me:
Stepbitch
That about sums up my mental state right now. I feel out of shape, wobbly, unattractive and generally inadequate to the task of seeing Galen tomorrow night.
The good news is that I’ve reminded myself a thousand times that it doesn’t matter if I look good. We’re not going to get naked together. Hell, I could wear the world’s ugliest granny panties and there would be zero risk of him seeing them. There will be no sex Thursday, or ever, for that matter. There will be no physical intimacy.
Only mental intimacy.
Oh, my God. I’ve just realized that Galen is a rebound guy without the sex. He’s the hot guy who pays attention to me, makes me feel amazing, sexy, beautiful, then leaves me alone to bask in the afterglow.
A rebound guy without the sex is pretty great, actually.
So when I see him tomorrow, I’ll resist the urge to hug him. I’ll resist the urge to stare at his lips while he talks, or to lick his neck when he’s not looking. I’ll subdue all the cravings that are lurking not so deep inside me, telling me that he’s something I should devour like chocolate.
I’ll be good. I swear I will.
At least I’ll try.
Thursday
5:58 p.m.
This is pathetic to admit, but it feels like an eternity has passed since I last looked at Galen’s face.
In person, anyhow.
If I’m being honest, I totally googled him last night. I stared at his eyes, his lips, and yes, even his body, for far longer than I should have. It’s entirely possible that I touched myself a little, too. To be fair, I needed to let off some steam so I don’t explode when my eyes land on that gorgeous face of his tonight.
I have to say, as hot as Galen’s body is, the thing I’m looking forward to the most is his smile. His glorious, gorgeous, genuine smile that makes me forget that anything was ever wrong with my life. In a platonic way, of course.
Hmm. I’m beginning to think there should be a prize for Woman Most in Denial of How Infatuated She Is With a Certain Hot Man.
And I should totally win it.
My phone rings at precisely six p.m.
“Hello?” I answer in my best indifferent woman who has no idea who this could possibly be voice.
“Hello, is this Ms. Riley Simmons?” he asks in a smooth, chocolatey tone that’s way more satisfying than Cadbury’s.
“That depends. Who’s calling, please?”
“This is a Mr. Galen Davies. A man who has transported some very important gifts all the way from Fran
ce to hand over to you directly.”
“Gifts for me, you say?” I ask. “Well then, I suppose I’ll have to make time for you.”
“Where can I find you?”
“Twenty-five Gloucester Terrace,” I tell him. “Shoot me a text when you’re close and I’ll come down.”
“Oh? You don’t think I should come up?”
“Of course I don’t. For one thing, you do not want to encounter my landlady, Mrs. Hudson. She’d probably either try to pour tea down your throat or seduce you with her old lady perfume and doting ways.”
“Wait a moment—your landlady is named Mrs. Hudson? Really? Why exactly have you not told me that you’re living in a Sherlock Holmes novel?”
“I like to be a little mysterious. Just get over here so I can get out of here.”
When I get his nearly there text ten minutes later, my heart rate accelerates so fast that I begin to wonder if I’m about to have a deadly cardiac incident. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can do is stare at myself in the mirror and speak slowly, trying to reassure myself.
“It’s okay,” I tell my reflection. “He’s just a man. He’s not a god. Just a very, very good-looking boy who’s super smart and educated and superior to you in every possible way. Still—not a god.”
In a moment of resolve I spin around, grab my purse and head out, running down the stairs so fast that Mrs. Hudson must think a herd of elephants has come for a visit. Galen’s not outside when I fly through the door, so I stand there, rubbing my shoulders. I’m shivering, but not with cold. The truth is that the shivers began the second I heard his voice. The second that seeing him again became a reality.
After a minute, I spot him coming towards me from down the street. The smile that’s been fighting to make its way to my lips is victorious, and by the time he gets closer, I have no doubt that he knows exactly how happy I am that he’s here.
He’s smiling back, looking almost as pleased as I am. He’s wearing his wool coat again, open at the front, and under it he’s got on a dark olive sweater that clings to his torso like a glove.
What I wouldn’t give to know how that sweater feels.
“Cold, are you?” he asks when he sees that my hands are still rubbing my arms and shoulders.
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
“Your teeth are chattering.”
“Okay, I might be a little cold,” I lie. God, why am I so nervous?
He reaches for me then pulls back, apparently remembering the rules. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m used to kissing people on the cheek when we greet one another.”
“Are you?” I ask, giving him a sly glance. “Well, things are changing around here, Mister. There will be no kissing my cheeks.”
“No, of course not. Strictly against your very anal retentive rules, lass.”
“Anal should be listed in those rules, come to think of it,” I chuckle.
“I reckoned it was a sort of unwritten one.”
“Good point. So? What would you like to do?”
From the look on his face, the answer to that question could just as easily be “you.” He’s staring at my tits so hard that I look down, only to remember that I’m wearing a very tight blue tee shirt under my open jacket. I’d meant to put a sweater over it, but got caught up in the drama of anticipation.
I want to call him on ogling, but I’m enjoying the moment too much. Besides, after a few seconds he manages to draw his eyes up to meet mine.
“What would I like to do?” he murmurs, keeping his eyes fixed on mine like a good boy. “Well, I’d like very much to bring you to the local pub by my place.”
“That sounds excellent. Two pubs in two non-dates. It’s becoming a tradition.”
“Something like that. Come on, then.”
We walk about twenty minutes, chatting the entire time about family, friends, dreams. When we’ve turned onto Regent street, Galen points towards the pub on the corner. Its sign is black with gold lettering, and reads “The Jester’s Lair.” Its doors are ornate, dark and Gothic, but oddly inviting.
“I haven’t been here in a while,” he says. “But it’s a nice place. I thought you might like it.”
“I’m sure I will, if you do.”
“I like any place where I can be with the likes of you,” he says. Treading on thin ice again, Mr. Davies. Though we don’t exactly have a rule that says no compliments whatsoever. I suppose I’ll let him off this time.
When we step into the warm pub, Galen shows me to a table before running off to do the gentlemanly thing and bring us two beers.
“Cheers, mate,” he says when he’s returned, handing me a pint.
“It still amuses me to hear you use that word,” I say, looking into his eyes over the rim of my glass. He’s got this funny, sexy little smile on his face that’s doing seriously forbidden things to my lady bits.
“In the British sense, you are certainly my mate,” he tells me. “Not in the animals-shagging-in-the-wild sense, of course, as we’ve already outlined how detrimental that would be to our mutual mental health.”
“Speaking of mental health, I have a lot of sights to see in the next few weeks. You’re not going to fly off to Paris every few days, are you?”
“Not bloody likely,” he tells me. “I’m all yours. Well, except for a few hours here and there.”
“Good. Oh, and speaking of things that are mine, I do believe you owe me a Parisian trinket or two. Pay up, buddy.”
“Of course,” he replies, reaching into the pocket of his jacket, which is hanging on the back of his chair. He extracts a small, flat paper bag and hands it over.
“What is it?” I ask, staring at it. It’s so small and light, it could be a postage stamp.
“Open it.”
I pull the bag open and reach inside, only to extract a small, square plastic wrapper. Almost immediately I let out a laugh, covering my mouth to prevent another one from escaping.
Slowly I raise it in front of Galen’s face.
“You don’t need to show me,” he says. “I’ve already seen it.”
“A condom,” I say, trying to sound mildly cross. “You actually brought me a condom.”
On the outside of the wrapper is an Eiffel Tower that seems to have developed a case of impotence. It looks…floppy. In bold font are the words, “Make My Tower Hard Again” in large, bold print.
“A novelty condom,” he corrects. “That is one gift. There’s another. But I’m going to hold onto it until a later date.”
“Oh?” I must admit that my interest is piqued.
“A gift for when we know each other a little better. Perhaps someday when we’ve been good, platonic friends for a long time, you’ll accept it as a token of my appreciation.”
“For what?” I ask.
“For your existence.”
The words shoot through my heart in the best possible way. I don’t know how he does it. He turns me into liquid. Or plasma. Or something. All I know is that I’m not solid. Not in Galen’s presence. I’m a puddle of hot magma.
“That’s really sweet,” I say, all but choking on the words. I almost want to ask if he’s toying with me, but if he says yes it’ll kill me.
“It’s not sweet,” he replies, raking his prosthetic hand through his hair. “I’m not sweet. I’m aloof and manly and a real stud and I kick puppies for sport.”
“Oh, right,” I chuckle. “That sounds so much like you.”
For a moment, I stare at the metal hand that he’s laid down on the table. Its fingers are curled like anyone’s would be in a relaxed state, as though the hand is able to read his nerve impulses.
“What does that feel like?” I ask.
“What do you mean? Having the hand, or the hand itself?”
“The second one. I mean what’s the texture like?”
He reaches it across the table.
“No touching,” I say. “I’m not allowed.”
“You’re allowed to touch this. It’s not me, not rea
lly.”
Hesitant, I slide my hand forward and touch my fingertips to the metal. It’s surprisingly warm, though of course it feels nothing like skin. I wrap my fingers around his, feeling the artificial knuckles.
“It’s amazing,” I say.
The fingers roll up suddenly, grabbing mine, and I jump. Galen lets out a deep laugh. “Sorry, love,” he says. “Just trying something.”
For a moment he holds onto my hand. There’s something strangely intimate about the sensation, in spite of the fact that I know I’m not really touching him. It’s almost inappropriate.
But not quite.
His right hand is still sitting on the table, and like a woman possessed, I reach over and slip my fingertips over the back of it. I’m comparing, I suppose. Skin vs. metal, only this gesture isn’t about scrutinizing textures. The truth is, I just want to touch him. I want to feel Galen. To remind myself that he’s flesh and bone.
He lets me touch. He doesn’t reach for me, doesn’t try to hold onto my fingers with his right hand. But he doesn’t pull back, either.
My fingers make it up to the hairs on his wrist before it hits me that I’ve gone too far. I yank both arms back suddenly, shoving my hands into my lap.
“Sorry,” I mutter, embarrassed to have allowed a spell to cast itself over me so easily. “I broke the rules.”
“Yes, you did.”
For a moment we stare into one another’s eyes. A strange, solid energy floats through the air between us; something I can almost taste.
Desire.
The question is whether it’s mine or his.
Or both.
A smile flicks across his lips and mine.
“What’s my punishment?” I ask.
Eleven
Galen
The moment when Riley slipped her fingers over my skin, some charge of electricity shot its way through my internal wiring, sending jolts through my body to places that I didn’t even know existed.