Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
It’s true I never was any good with a Rubik’s Cube, not that it ever stopped me.
“Tell me you’re not leaving me here.” Which is clearly what he’s about to do. “Lyle, you can’t leave! I’ve got nowhere to go but back in there.” I point exaggeratedly back the way we came. “I’m staying in that hotel.”
“I don’t quite see—”
“If I go back in there, Mr and Mrs Let’s Get It On might think I’ve changed my mind about that three o’clock appointment.”
“You could always go somewhere else,” he offers, arranging his features into something that looks like polite confusion. But I’m not buying it.
“Somewhere else?” I repeat, not really worried about going back to my hotel room alone but realising that maybe I don’t want to. I also don’t feel like wandering around London because it’s no fun when you’re by yourself. And I would know, having roamed around the city lots of weekends to kill time as I waited for Amelie and Aurora, the kids under my charge, to finish up at birthday parties and playdates. I’ve visited enough bougie cafés and drunk enough coffee to sustain a third-world country’s GDP and wandered around museums and parks, and designer window shopped till I’ve been ready to drop. These are all things I have no plans on doing today. Not when Mr Viking here is intriguing the hell out of me.
“But I might get lost.” The words fall out of my mouth without even a flicker of remorse or the itch to hitch my liar-liar pants higher.
“I beg your pardon?” he asks, his diction razor-sharp.
“I’m on vacation.” It’s not technically a lie. “Today is my last day in London, but my first away from the tour company, and I’ve already gotten lost three times looking for a CVS.” As he frowns at me, I weave my lie a little tighter. “A pharmacy? I have the blisters to prove it. Want to see?” Tightening my grip on his forearm, I tentatively lift my foot.
“That won’t be necessary,” he answers with a worried frown. “I really don’t—”
“Honestly, I’m amazed I found my way back to the hotel.” Oh, woe is me. I’m just a poor damsel lost in the big city and laying it on a little thick. Did I mention I majored in drama in college? “I have such a terrible sense of direction. Oh!” I add as though struck by a sudden thought. “Why don’t you let me buy you a coffee?” I say.
At the exact same time as he says, “Perhaps, I can . . . escort you to the nearest coffee shop?”
“Deal!”
“I’m sorry?” He shakes his head, a little dazed, I think.
“I can buy you a coffee as a thank you and replace the one you left behind.” I slip my arm through his and lean on him a little, but his feet aren’t budging.
“I’d really rather not.” He looks surprised, almost as though the words had escaped from his mouth.
“Oh, do you have to go back to work?”
“No, but—”
“You’ve got somewhere you need to be?”
“Not exactly.” His frown deepens. I’m guessing regret, maybe because he’s not as good at lying on the fly as me. What can I say? It’s a talent.
“I guess I overstepped the mark.” I pull my arm reluctantly from his. “I forgot I was in a big city for a minute.” I frown and bite my lip for good measure, my brow creasing. “I can’t imagine the folks back home turning away a stranger. It’d probably make the evening news.” I look up at him, all sad doe eyes, throwing in a hint of teary glisten. “Come to think of it, it might even make the evening news here. Especially when I wind up lost. Or dead.”
Okay, so I’m not laying it on a little thick but a lotta thick. Why not? I just want to see what I can get away with is my recently adopted motto for life. I just want to see how far I can get. I mean, it’s mostly a case of me faking it until I make it, attitude-wise, but so far, it’s worked out pretty well.
Look at me, hanging out in London. YOLO!
Something tells me Lyle would be good company, as well as excellent eye candy. And he was nice enough to save me from the terrible two-some threesome people, which proves he’s a gentleman.
But no ordinary gentleman, my mind supplies.
Whatever. Being with him will be way more fun than staring at the hotel walls. I might even get a covert photo for my Instagram and caption it:
Hanging out with hotties in London, living my best life!
Suck on that, people of Podunk-Mookatill!
“Do you have a wife?” While this is important, if he answers yes, I’m calling bullshit because that hand isn’t usually home to a wedding ring.