Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 102683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
“I don’t need more girls pissed at me—that Allie looked like she wanted to murder me.”
Probably because she does. “She’ll get over it.”
“Will she though?”
“No.” I laugh. “I play rugby with Stewart, Allie is his girlfriend, Ariel is her best friend—they have grand plans for the four of us.”
“Ariel. With the red hair.”
“Uncanny likeness, yeah?”
“Do you think that’s her real name? I mean, what are the odds?”
“Maybe her parents are Disney freaks.” I sound so American right now; Mum would be having fits if she heard me. “With red hair.”
“Maybe.” She’s nibbling her bottom lip again. “You know your friend is going to hound you about this.”
Oh, she’s reading my mind now? Ugh.
“What are you getting at?”
“I just think…you should let me make it up to you. I’ll be the best fake date you’ve ever had.”
The only fake date I’ve ever had. Never have I bloody ever had to blackmail a woman to spend time with me.
“I…don’t know.” I hesitate. “I don’t want to send mixed signals.”
“Mixed signals?” She laughs. “Trust me, I know darn well you can’t stand me and want nothing to do with me. I know this would only be a favor. I promise I won’t go falling in love with you.” Her eyes get wide when she realizes her gaffe. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant—because you don’t want me to like you.” She pauses. “I mean, you don’t like me. I know that. I won’t—”
I hold a hand up. “It’s fine. I get it. You won’t fall in love with me.”
“So long as you don’t go falling in love with me,” Georgia teases unnecessarily. “Not that you will. I’m only kidding.”
She gulps.
“Alright.” I glance at the house, through the crowd and toward Stewart. “Want me to walk you home? I don’t feel like going back in.”
“Um. I have friends inside…” Pause. “Nalla and Priya, but I can see if they’re ready to go? Hold on.”
I nod as she darts through the door, back within minutes, seemingly out of breath, brushing the hair back from her face.
“I’m good to go—they want to stay.”
Of course they do—this party is hoppin’. It’s bouncing, or whatever they say, and I haven’t known the two other girls long, but they definitely seem like they’re ready for a good time.
Wordlessly, Georgia and I set off down the steps toward the sidewalk, awkwardly walking in silence the first block—I’m assuming we’re heading in her direction because she hasn’t told me to go the other way.
We stroll along quietly until Georgia asks, “What part of England are you from? I can’t remember.”
“Surrey.”
“How far is that from London?”
“’Bout fifty kilometers.”
“Um…I don’t have the conversion rate down.” She laughs.
I think for a few seconds, doing the math. “Roughly thirty or so miles, I wager? My parents have a flat in London but don’t spend much time there.”
“Why do they have a place there if they don’t go there?”
Because that’s what aristocrats in England do. The townhouse in the heart of the city has been in our family for generations—you don’t give that up unless you’re desperate for cash or want to trade up.
The family seat in the country, too.
Gets passed down from generation to generation, and someday, it will all be mine, along with the taxes and other debts.
But I digress…
“They don’t go often, but sometimes my brother and I will use it if we want to visit friends from school. Or whatever.”
Fundraisers, charity balls.
“Or whatever, he says,” Georgia scoffs, trudging along, not asking any more questions.
It goes from awkward to more awkward.
It occurs to me that she might not feel safe. She’s agreed to walk home with me, but it’s dark, I’m huge, and we’re alone.
I stick my hands in my pockets, shoulders slouched.
Shoot her a sidelong glance, tempted to lecture her on what a dumb decision it was to walk alone with a strange guy who outweighs her by probably a good hundred pounds.
For an aristocratic Brit, I’m stockier than most. The bulk of lads I went to school with haven’t seen an honest day’s work in their puny lives, weight rooms not a priority, and the blokes I played rugby with were never as large as I am.
Smaller by half.
Shorter.
Leaner.
More suited to the sleek gentleman’s club of their fathers than a rugby field.
My mates from home play cricket, a posh sport, or ride polo ponies on the weekends—something I’ve never been partial to myself.
Few of them have ever had a tooth knocked out from an elbow jab or a knee to the face.
I’ve had both.
It’s a bloody miracle my mum never banned me from playing, and Dad enjoys having a son who’s more masculine physically than his peers’ offspring.
He may be stuffy and proper, but he’s proud to have raised a strong son.
His heir.
Georgia and I trudge along, cars passing every few minutes, slowing to gawk at the pair of us on the sidewalk.