“Emmy, this is Jules.” Paige pushed me forward. “Jules, this is Emmy, my best friend in the entire world.”
“Charmed.” Jules extended her hand, her accent posh and British and to die for. “I’ve heard loads about you.”
I tried to remember if Jules had been in any of the Snapchats Paige had sent, but before I could respond, Paige sucked in a breath, her hand fanning her face rapidly.
“Holy shit,” she murmured.
I turned and immediately seconded the sentiment. There was a group of guys just by the tent, looking like they’d just stepped out of the pages of GQ: all button-down shirts and tailored pants that hugged their strong thighs.
“Is this what all guys in London look like?” I asked, unable to stop staring.
“Mmmhmmm,” she said, beaming. “Aren’t you glad I dragged you into this trip?”
“Definitely,” I laughed.
Apparently Paige had unwittingly found paradise. And paradise was the Wimbledon refreshment tent in spring. Because, oh my lord, the things that had sprung. I fanned myself, feeling very, very warm.
“Here.” Jules pushed forward two tall glasses of water full of ice. “You both look like you need it.”
I took a long gulp, while Paige pressed the glass to her chest and wiggled her fingers saucily at the guys walking by. They all smiled—and all of them had great smiles—and one of them winked, slowing his step to let the others walk ahead.
Paige put her glass back on the bar. “I’ll be right back.” She had never been a girl to pass up an opportunity.
I watched her go with a twinge of jealousy. The guy was seriously smoking—they all were—and they seemed to surround us. I took another long, long drink of water.
“The pay might be shite,” said Jules, “but you can’t beat the view.”
We clinked our glasses, both of us still watching Paige flirt. Paige was totally convinced she would end the summer with a hot, rich, British boyfriend. I was in total support of her ambitions, but I had far less lofty goals. All I wanted was to explore London—especially all the places I’d seen in my mom’s favorite movies—and find inspiration. A boyfriend was not high on my list. Boy-watching, on the other hand, well, there’s inspiration and then there’s inspiration.
Jules let out a low whistle as Paige wrote her number down on his hand.
“Damn, girl.” She clapped as Paige returned. “You’ve got some serious game.”
Paige dropped into a mock curtsy. “I’ve only got a few months to bag a Tom Hardy or Henry Cavill of my very own. I can’t be wasting any time.”
“What about you, Emmy?” Jules asked. “What type of bloke are you looking for?”
I tried to hide my blush by looking down at my feet. But Paige came to my rescue.
“Emmy’s not looking for a guy,” she explained. “Though I can’t figure out why.”
“I have to go back to San Diego in September,” I reminded her. “What’s the point of looking for a guy that I have to leave in a few months?”
Secretly there were a few other reasons I wasn’t looking to get involved with a guy, but most of those were reasons I kept to myself. It also didn’t help that when it came to guys, I was the polar opposite of Paige. Shy, tongue-tied, and not sure what to do with my hands. Most of the time I couldn’t even tell if a guy was interested. I wished I had half the confidence that Paige did.
“What’s the point in looking for one you have to keep that long?” Jules quipped. “This is the place for flings. Hot, sexy, short flings. Trust me.” She looked over at another group of hunky guys walking by. “Most of them look like Jon Snow, but they tend to know about as much as him as well. Which is to say—”
“Nothing,” I said along with Paige.
“As long as they know something in the bedroom,” Paige said with a purr. “I don’t care what they do outside it. They could be as dumb as a tennis ball for all I care.”
“I thought you were looking for a rich British boyfriend,” I said.
“Sure.” She shrugged. “But not all of them have to be boyfriend material.”
“Just lu-vah material,” Jules joked.
“Precisely.” Paige’s eyes were already following another group of guys, getting a wink from one of them. “Excuse me, ladies,” she grinned.
I rolled my eyes. If Paige wasn’t my best friend, I don’t know what I’d think about her outrageous behavior. But because she was, I could only pretend to be annoyed by it. Especially since I was secretly envious. Maybe I had been a little too quick to reject the idea of a fling while I was here. Not that I’d get much more than a second glance with Paige around.
“Well, at least one of us will be getting lucky,” Jules muttered, excusing herself when a phone rang behind the bar.
While she was talking, a harried looking gentleman came barreling towards me.
“Are you one of the tea girls?” he asked.
“Um.” I glanced around. Because while I technically was one of “the tea girls,” the only training I had received was on how to ogle cute British boys.
But the gentleman ignored my hesitation, shoving a tray into my hands. It was heavier than I expected and I nearly dropped it.
“This needs to go to the equipment manager,” he told me. “It was supposed to be there ten minutes ago.”
Then, before I could ask for any more information, he turned on his heel and scuttled away, still looking just as frazzled.
“Mr. Smyth,” Jules told me. “Assistant Manager. Always acts like that.”
I shifted the tea tray in my hand. “Any idea where the equipment manager is?”
Despite having Jules repeat the directions to me twice, I got lost. Like, really, really lost. None of the doors were labeled in the main buildings, and every hallway looked the same. I kept trying to retrace my steps, trying to get to my starting point so I could try counting the rooms again, but I couldn’t find my way out of the long, never-ending hall I had found myself in. I knew the tea was getting cold, so I just bit the bullet and knocked on the next door I came across, hoping that someone else would be able to direct me in the correct direction.
But the room I entered was empty.
It was kind of dim and there was the sound of running water. The room seemed kind of hot and humid. I was already sweating from carrying the heavy tray, so I allowed myself a moment of rest and put the tea down on a table next to the door. Unbuttoning the top button of my shirt, I fanned my cleavage, trying to cool down before beginning my search anew.
I heard faint whistling, and before I could stop myself, I stepped further into the room. It took a moment, but I realized that I was in a dressing room—and the water I was hearing was the shower.
Shit. I probably was not supposed to be here.
I turned to grab my tray, but before I could, I heard footsteps. And then a masculine voice, slightly muffled.