Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
There’s a choked noise, a cross between a curse and a groan.
I growl without turning around. “Don’t you dare look, Jamie.”
“Hey, that was Jack,” he replies, sounding a bit smug.
Before I can second-guess myself, I toss the bra on the couch and give Lee a defiant stare. “Well?”
He stands in front of me, hands on hips, forehead creased in concentration, like he’s a fashion designer examining a prototype on a mannequin.
“Which one is supposed to be bigger?” he finally asks.
“This one!” I point to my right breast, betrayed that he couldn’t discern it right away.
He purses his lips and squints harder.
“See?” I challenge. “It’s bigger, right?”
“I truly don’t see it, babe. And you know me. I’d tell you if I did. I live and breathe the drama.”
I can’t argue with that. “You really don’t think one is drastically bigger?”
“Not at all. But did you know you have a freckle under your left nipple?”
Jack starts to cough.
I snatch up my bra and shirt, throwing the latter on without bothering with the former. “All right. You’ve lost your breast privileges,” I tell Lee, jabbing my finger in the air. “You took liberties. Freckle assessment wasn’t on the table!”
He howls and walks over to sling his arm around me. “I love you, Abbs. You’re the best flatmate I’ve ever had.”
After that, the excitement dies down and we start cleaning up. Despite the fact it’s one in the morning, Jamie announces he’s going out after getting booty-called by a girl in Chelsea.
I swear, that guy has so much sex I’m surprised his penis still works.
“I’m going up to bed now,” I say once we’ve collected all the wineglasses and trash.
“Me too.” Jack joins me in the living room doorway.
“Night, darlings. I’m staying up a while longer to sext with George.” Lee flops back onto the couch, engrossed by his phone within seconds.
Upstairs, Jack doesn’t turn toward his room but follows me to mine.
I glance over my shoulder. “Can I help you?” Somehow I manage to sound nonchalant even though my pulse is racing again.
Why is Hot Jack coming to my bedroom at 1 a.m.?
“I’m walking you to your room,” he says gruffly. “You drank a lot tonight.”
“I’m fine.”
“You just took your shirt off in front of Lee.”
“So?”
Our eyes lock. There it is again—the surge of heat.
We have chemistry and I think we both know it, but I don’t know what to do with it. There’s that pesky house rule, for one. But also the fact that Jack is clearly determined not to make a move. And I’m not sure I want him to. It’ll only complicate our living situation.
And yet I say, “Jack?”
“Hmm?” He’s still watching me.
“Tell me a secret.”
He’s right. I drank too much.
I almost take it back, but now he’s coming closer. Dragging a hand over the stubble on his jaw. His gaze sweeps over me. Rests briefly on my breasts, which are now perfectly outlined by my thin top thanks to my braless state. My stupid freckled nipples tighten the second they have his attention.
For a moment, I don’t think he heard the question. But then that big broad body is mere inches away as he brings his lips close to my ear.
“A secret? Hmm. Well…” His breath tickles my hair. “When you took your top off downstairs…” His voice gets dangerously low. “It got me rock hard.”
Oh my God.
Before I can even register that, he’s gone, softly closing my door behind him.
12
THE THING ABOUT POLO IS, I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT POLO.
Standing under a long white tent, I stare with fascination at the horses galloping around the pitch. With every crack of a mallet, I struggle to keep track of the ball. Like golf, I don’t know how anyone follows the damn thing. All I see are hooves and sticks and flying tufts of dirt and grass. It’s exciting, though. Energetic. Even if I don’t understand the rules or exactly what I’m watching. Celeste tries her best to sum it up for me when she sees my eyes glaze over, explaining it’s not too dissimilar to football, a comparison that makes even less sense until I realize she means soccer.
She was right about the scenery at least. There’s no shortage of hot guys who’ve stepped off the covers of a fashion magazine in their crisp white button-downs, blazers, and perfect Amalfi Coast tans. A lot of tall, gorgeous women on their arms too.
“Who’s that?” I ask, nodding at the raised platform where a small group of spectators watch the match.
“You certainly aim high, don’t you?” She grins at me. “That’s Prince James. The queen’s sister’s son.”
I don’t know what I expected a royal to look like in real life. Not that he should be adorned with medals and sashes or anything fancy, but he just looks so…average. A regular guy in a casual summer suit. Maybe because in England, the monarchy isn’t surrounded by a dozen Secret Service agents in dark suits and sunglasses.