Page 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

AMELIA

Shrill ringing cuts through my dreams of rats playing football. The hotel phone. With a groan, I attempt to smother the intrusive racket by burying my head beneath a pillow. The device mercifully falls silent, only to renew its screeching serenade moments later.

Groggily, I reach out, snagging the receiver. “Hello?”

“I’m downstairs, and you’re not answering your cell, and I’m aging over here,” a familiar female voice says, and my heartbeat stalls before ratcheting up. Yvonne.

As my brain struggles to process this waking nightmare, the rustling of sheets from my side signals another development. “Sweets, come back to?—”

I slam a hand over the mouth of the man sprawled next to me. There’s a sudden pause on the other end of the line.

“You’re not alone!” Oh. My. Eardrums.

“What?” A croak of the highly unsexy variety escapes me as Jake’s lids snap open and crash into mine, alarm clear in his gaze. A second later, he jerks up, the sheet sliding down to his hips.

“Yvonne?” he mouths. I nod, even as I drink in the sight of all that exposed skin, tracing the deep grooves of his defined abs, then gliding over the chiseled planes of his sculpted chest, finally landing on the little half-moons high on his shoulders.

Souvenirs I’d marked him with. I’m momentarily stunned, staring at the nail marks, my fingers tingling with the phantom memory of clutching him as he drove into me.

Mortification mixes with a strange surge of pride, like I’m some sort of primal queen marking her territory. Not that I’m royalty. Or have any grounds for possessiveness. But now is not the time to dwell on that contradiction. There’s a more urgent situation at hand.

“No. No. No one’s here. I had the telly on,” I babble. “Give me a few minutes to get ready, and I’ll be right there. Just…wait.”

Hanging up, I leap from the bed, unwittingly drawing the sheet up and exposing Jake. He slides out on the other side. Our eyes lock across the mattress. My breath hitches at all that glorious tanned nakedness. After a moment of paralysis, I seize a pillow and hurl it at him. The cheeky bugger lets it tumble to the floor. Isn’t he trained to catch and throw balls?

My brain isn’t quite ready to tackle the aftermath of the wee hours. What’s the etiquette here? Isn’t the visiting party supposed to make a discreet exit before dawn? Isn’t it a bit forward to cuddle up and stay?

I eye him some more. Shouldn’t there be some urgency to leave? Why is this even my problem? The phone rings again. No, I do not have the bandwidth for this.

I rush to the loo, dragging the sheet along for a shred of modesty, and ditch it to squeeze some toothpaste onto my brush.

Diving into the shower, I yank the curtain closed. I fire up the toothbrush and turn on the water, their combined cacophony drowning out the screaming in my head. I lather up with one hand, cleaning my teeth with the other. Efficiency at its finest, right?

“Hey.”

That single word launches the toothbrush down my throat—or so it feels.

I morph into a gagging and gasping mess of coughs and toothpaste. The curtain flies back, revealing a wide-eyed Jake.

Did I not lock the door?

Is he about to join me?

That would be another first.

Then, reality hits—he isn’t here to jump in, he’s more worried that I’m choking. Though really, if I were to expire here, either by dental care or mortification, it would be because he didn’t do me the courtesy of sneaking out like any respectful one-night stand.

As he reaches for me, probably to try to save the day, I wrench the toothbrush out of my throat and hold it up, warding him off. I’d rather do my dying in private, thank you very much.

“Would you mind?” I gasp, striving for a tone of offended dignity while angling my body away from him and trying to cover up with the other, grateful for once for my small chest.

He freezes. But he doesn’t leave, just examines me again. Once he’s sure I’m not on the brink of death, he confirms, “You’re meeting Yvonne. My sister Yvonne?”

I clear my throat, still hoarse from the toothbrush trauma. “Yes, she messaged yesterday, inviting me to brunch. Also, have you never heard of privacy?” I grumble, snapping the curtain shut with unnecessary force.

The next revelation floats over the plastic. “She’ll kill me if she finds out I hooked up with another one of her friends.”

I poke my head around the flimsy barrier. At least he’s wearing boxers now. “This happens a lot?”

“No!” His hand drifts to the back of his neck. “Not exactly,” he mumbles. I skewer him in place with a silent order to keep talking. “It’s just that…sleeping with people they know causes unnecessary drama. They don’t like it.”

I let that tidbit sink in. “I see.” A second later, I tip my chin at the door. Finally, he gets the message and departs.

While I didn’t think he was a virgin by any means, especially given how we met and his more recent demonstration in bed, the notion that he routinely sleeps with his sisters’ friends makes my stomach pitch. And right this minute, one such sister is lurking downstairs. Bollocks.

In a flash, I’m yelling, “Hold on!” I want him gone, but not at the risk of stumbling into Yvonne.

Grabbing a towel, I pat myself dry before knotting it under my arms. I wriggle into jeans hanging on a hook behind the door—foresight hadn’t extended to bringing any of my Tesco-issued knickers inside with me. It’s not the only lack of foresight I’ve shown recently, is it?

Jake, by some miracle, has strayed only as far as the edge of the bed, idly scrolling through his phone. He glances up with a dry, “You yelled?”

Well, I’m not about to indulge that uppity tone. I rush to my suitcase, grab the first thing I touch, a blue vest top, and slip it over my head. Only then do I let the towel fall. Good lord, I’d hate to be my housekeeping service right now. I snatch my purse and coat off the floor they ended up on last night, step into my shoes, and stride to the door, pausing to issue a stern, “Stay here while I deal with Yvonne.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Jake says, giving me a mock salute.

God help us both if he can’t follow orders.

I’m still finger-combing my hair as I stumble into the lobby. I spot Yvonne sitting at a cluster of chairs across the check in area and weave through a maze of guests trying to get their rooms, with a series of “Pardon me,” narrowly avoiding collision with a man and his rebellious trolley bag.

When Yvonne sees me, she cuts through the bustling crowd, the billowing tails of her long green cardigan mimicking the cape of an urban vigilante.

She wraps me in a tight hug. As she pulls back, her gaze narrows on my neck. “Is that a hickey?”

My blood goes cold. Bloody hell, did the man mark me? “No.” I retreat a step, my hand flying to my chest.

“You got laid last night.”

Her statement rings with the power of the queen’s proclamation. Or the king, these days, I suppose. “Shh!” I scan the lobby, hoping no one else has overheard.

She waits expectantly.

“No.” My denial holds as much backbone as a soggy biscuit.

Skeptical brows raised, she steps back and launches into a bottom-to-top assessment of findings: “Flushed cheeks.” Up goes a wagging plum-tipped finger. “Swollen lips.” A second joins the lineup. “Bed hair.” Number three. She squints. “Sparkly eyes.” A pinky makes its debut. Finally, her thumb unfurls, concluding in a jazz-handed accusation: “Ergo, sex.”

“Do people really say ‘ergo’?” I ask, attempting to change the subject.

“It’s an American thing. Trust me,” she dismisses. “Plus, you reek of luuurve.”

My breath sticks in my throat. “I do?” Didn’t I just shower?

She cranes her neck, trying to peer over my shoulder, gaze glinting with the glee. “So, where is he?”

My body stiffens. It’s dreadful enough that she can tell I slept with someone, but the real horror would be her spotting Jake and connecting the dots.

I beckon her, already stalking for the exit. “Aren’t we late for brunch?”

“It’s first come, first serve,” she shoots back, but thankfully follows me outside into the brisk morning.

Pausing, I scan both sides of the bustling street before turning to her. “Which way?”

She crossed her arms. “Tell me about last night first.”

My stomach churns, and urgency pushes against my ribcage. I need to get us out of here.

“Nothing to tell. I met someone at a bar. We did the deed. That’s it,” I mumble, downplaying the magnitude of the event, though my mind begins to whirl with memories. I blush. Stellar, starry memories.

“Huh.” She stares at me for another moment, while I pray she leaves well enough alone. At last, she relents, pointing right. “That way.”

I march in the direction she indicates, the bright New York sun in my eyes, as if I’ve stepped onto center stage under a brilliant spotlight, a far cry from my usual place in the murky cloudiness of England.

My innards twist—there’s the high of euphoria, the jolt of shock, a surge of empowerment, and the most curious sense of being laid bare, all topped with a generous helping of “Did I really do that?”

Why, yes. Yes, I bloody well did. And I’m shelving any doubts and embarrassment to bask in it. This is my moment of triumph. My first walk of fame, because I refuse to let it be anything else.

I’ve slept with someone who isn’t Ben. Go me. I mentally update my biography, proudly adding a new chapter titled, “Embracing My Inner Vixen: A Journey from Boring to Bold.”

I chew on my lip. Does it count as a one-night stand if you know the person? Not that Jake and I know each other well. Though now I suppose I know him better. Biblically.

“So, was he any good?” Yvonne catches up, more persistent than a seagull in a chip shop. Not exactly helpful, since I can’t seem to stop revisiting all the delicious details myself.

“I’ve had worse,” I admit.

It’s true. Given my breath of experience, Ben certainly didn’t have the moves that Jake did because last night was stand-up sex. In every sense of the phrase. A pose often glamorized in steamy movie scenes and romance novels, but up till now, the practical mechanics remained an enigma.

How was it even comfortable? How did things line up properly with so little room to maneuver? It always seemed like the position required some sort of IKEA-esque assembly guide: Anchor Arse (Part A) with Hand (Bolt B). Insert Phallus (Screw C) into Vagina (Hole D) screw in until fit is secure. Do not over-tighten. Repeat drilling motion until cerebral function is minimized.

But Jake Cunningham? No instructions necessary. He’s the bloke you hire who assembles the furniture with his eyes closed. There were no awkward shoulders or aimless hands or extraneous body parts. No dangly bits unaccounted for, just pure, unadulterated skill.

“Umm… So-so. He had some moves,” I venture.

She perks up at my statement. “Oh? Are you seeing him again?”

That question dashes my pleasant reminiscing into a cliff. No. Absolutely not. It was a onetime thing. Come Monday, we’ll be colleagues, and I’m not sleeping with another of those—been there, done that.

Plus, I have no desire to add one more notch under my name on the friends-of-his-sisters-he’s-slept-with list, especially since Yvonne is genuinely delightful and I would hate to upset her. The niggling disappointment there won’t be a sequel? I shove that aside.

Her face falls. “Bad, huh? Don’t worry. We’ll find you a palate cleanser. Plenty of choice in the city.”

I should agree, right? Now that I’ve invoked my inner femme fatale, it makes sense to maintain this bold streak. However, the thought of increasing my own tally has me feeling a tad squeamish.

Before I can answer, we arrive at our destination, a little spot called Buvette, only to find a queue stretching almost to the corner. Disappointment swells. She points to the end. “Get in line. I’ll go put our names down.” At least this spares me more ceaseless interrogation.

Obediently, I join the throng, taking in the surroundings. The picturesque, tree-lined street with its elegant brick homes reminds me of Mayfair. Time seems to stretch out as more people come up behind me—two couples and a squad of thirty-something women.

“Another forty-five minutes,” Yvonne grumbles when she rejoins me. “Fucking brunch is a competitive sport in this city.”

“We can go somewhere else,” I offer. Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind. I’m starving. Must have been all those extra calories I burned last night.

“Nah. Trust me, it’s worth the wait. Plus, it gives us plenty of time to talk about finding you Mr. Right.”

“No,” I snap.

She blinks, taken aback, and I instantly regret my brusqueness. Before I can apologize, her expression softens. “Why not?”

“Remember the photo of the man in my feed? That was Ben,” I begin, choosing my words with care to make up for my brief lapse in composure. “Well, about two years ago, Gran hired him to be the bartender at the inn. Was extremely popular—charismatic, flirtatious. In the way that bartenders usually are.”

My eyes lower, captivated by the pavement’s network of cracks, as if they were mystical lines of foretelling. If only I could’ve consulted them sooner. “We got to know each other…and one thing led to another. But he insisted we shouldn’t tell people—we worked together, and Fordwich is all gossip, all the time. Gradually, he took on more responsibilities at the inn—he had all these grand ideas for revamping it.”

“But wasn’t it your family’s business?”

I nod. The sheer cheek of the man and his presumptions hits me all over again, and a sardonic laugh escapes me. “I got a bit ahead of myself—thought it was fine if Ben and I ran things together. Meanwhile, he thought it would be fine to get it on with every woman who stopped by. One day he showed up with a fiancée. He’d gotten her pregnant.”

Yvonne grimaces. “Damn, that’s harsh. What an assnugget.”

“Exactly my thoughts.” Even though the sting’s still fresh, Yvonne’s blunt assessment brings a reluctant grin to my face. “So yeah, I’d rather nothing serious…”

She snaps her fingers. “Got it. We’re looking for a hookup, not a happily ever after. Tell me how you found yesterday’s guy.”

I allow the memories of the previous night to bubble back in, tossing off the Ben baggage in favor of better things. I want to crow. A bit of selective sharing shouldn’t hurt, right? “We met at The Bitter End. He bought me a drink. Just some ordinary—” not “—bloke.”

“It’s Jake.”

I blink. “No! Why would you say?—”

But Yvonne’s focus has already shifted past me, locking on a target over my shoulder. “Jake!” she bellows.

I whip around to catch sight of a familiar figure, rooted in place across the street. It is him—the jacket, cap, and arse are unmistakable. And there’s no doubt he heard her. It would be hard not to—her volume has the chattering surrounding us coming to an abrupt halt.

Honestly, why am I even surprised? The man has shown an astounding aptitude for showing up at unexpected moments, so really, it would be more shocking if he didn’t appear and ruin things.

Keeping my outward face calm. I fire off frantic prayers to every deity I can name. Keep going, keep going. “No. I don’t think it’s him.”

“It is.” Yvonne, undeterred, yells again, “Jake!”

He slowly pivots, scanning the crowd until he spots us. I jerk my head to the side, silently saying scram, but Yvonne beckons him over. No prizes for guessing who wins.

His shoulders slump, a silent white flag, and he crosses to us.

An urge to bolt washes over me. Jake might be able to maintain a blasé facade, but I’m worried just-slept-with-your-brother vibes are radiating off me. I take a shuffling step back, glancing at Yvonne, almost certain her Spidey sex senses are tingling, because if she could tell I had sex, she’ll soon figure out he had sex, too. It won’t be long before she guesses our individual escapades were actually a double act.

“Could you be any louder?” Jake drawls, his voice oozing sarcasm, as he comes to a stop in front of us.

“I could,” Yvonne responds with a dismissive wave of her hand. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s a free city.” His eyes slide to mine, and his irritated expression softens. “Amelia.”

All thoughts of retreat disappear. My name is sex on his lips. I’ll never hear it any other way again after last night. Not when the dental assistant beckons me to the inner-office gallows. Not when some barista calls it out although that doesn’t happen often with their penchant for butchering names.

“Hi.” I sound like a frog. A big, fat frog. Whose heart is about to leap out of its chest. My normally placid exterior has been entirely nonexistent this morning.

A playful grin takes shape on his lips, lighting up his face. “Bumping into you here, what are the odds?”

The odds? Astronomical, really, given we rolled out of the same bed less than an hour ago. I narrow my gaze at his audacity, hyper aware that any twitch might reveal our secret. Not that he seems to share my concern, his smile growing as I strive to keep my expression neutral. For someone who’s supposed to steer clear of his sisters’ friends, he’s remarkably composed.

I can feel my face turn stonier by the second. Meanwhile, that grin of his? It’s grown into a full-on smirk, telling me that my efforts are useless and that he finds my flustered state not just obvious, but downright amusing. The impulse to drag him aside and demand to know what the bloody hell he is doing arises, but I clamp my mouth shut.

Clearly, the man has no sense of self-preservation.

Thankfully, Yvonne’s not paying us any attention, instead she’s assessing the people in front of us. She turns back to her brother, snatches the cap off his head, plunks it onto her own, and loudly exclaims, “Oh my god, you’re Jake Cunningham!” That’s followed by another surreptitious look around to ensuring everyone heard her. Yep. No one was going to miss that.

Jake groans under his breath. “For fuck’s sake… Are we really doing this?”

“You might as well make yourself useful,” Yvonne mutters before raising her voice again. “Can I have your autograph? It’s not every day you run into an NFL player who’s won multiple Super Bowls.”

“You’re fucking embarrassing,” Jake grits out, but manages a grin when a couple of blokes look our way.

“A girl’s gotta do what she’s gotta do. Now, go put your celebrity powers to good use and get us a table.” She waves to the front of the line.

“What makes you think they’ll work?” Jake retorts, but he pulls off his glasses and tucks them into his pocket.

“You’ll never know until you try. If you land us a spot, I’ll even let you join us.” Yvonne offers magnanimously.

Jake steals a glance at me, and there’s a mischievous gleam in his eye as he nods.

A sparkling, soda-pop fizz offsets the nervous churning in my gut as I watch as he signs autographs and poses with a few eager fans on his way to the front.

Please don’t get us a table. Please don’t get us a table.

Of course, no one’s listening because moments later, Jake returns with the hostess, a woman in her early twenties, dressed in a pristine white button-down and black pants.

She smiles at us, though I suspect it’s more for him. Unexpected jealousy hits me like a rogue wave, and I tamp it down as she says, “A spot for three’s just opened up. Follow me.”