“I should go,” I murmured, keeping my eyes down.
Before anyone could stop me, I had grabbed the tea tray and edged out the door. It didn’t take long to find the equipment manager’s office after that, and he was kind enough to give me clear directions on how to get back to the tent, even though I was certain his tea was far past cold by now.
I walked back to the tent feeling as if I was in a daze. What had just happened? I wasn’t fully convinced it actually had happened. I had been in London less than twenty-four hours and I had already kissed someone? It took me eighteen years to get my first kiss, and that one hadn’t been half as good as the one I had just shared with Charlie.
Charlie. A guy I didn’t even know.
“You look flushed,” Jules said when I got back to the tent.
I nodded and she poured me another glass of water.
“There you are!” Paige came over, looping her arm through mine. “Where have you been? I have to train you before people start arriving!”
It was the perfect distraction. I had worked at a coffee shop during college, but I quickly learned that American coffee was nothing compared to British tea. Especially cream tea, which involved scones, jam, and something called clotted cream. Even with a couple of seasons watching The Great British Baking Contest under my belt, there was a lot of new information to absorb, and it was exactly what I needed to keep myself from replaying the kiss over and over in my mind.
“Phew.” Paige leaned against the table once the rush of customers had thinned and the first match had started. “Exciting, isn’t it?” she asked.
I nodded, keeping my attention on clearing the dirty dishes left on the tables. Paige and I were best friends. There wasn’t much I could keep from her. And it wasn’t that I didn’t want to tell her about what had happened with Charlie, but for some reason I didn’t want to tell her just yet. I wanted to keep it to myself. Just for a little longer.
“Come on.” She took my arm. “Let’s go spy on the games for a little bit.”
I didn’t know much about tennis, but Paige was a fanatic. We snuck over to the court, standing in the aisle towards the back, straining to see what was happening. I could barely see the players, but Paige, who was several inches taller than me, apparently had a better view since she was able to give me a play-by-play.
“Oh! The prince is playing,” she squealed. “I was hoping to see him. Everyone has been talking about him.”
“The prince?” I asked. “There’s a prince here?”
“Third or fourth in line for the throne,” Paige said with a wave of her hand as if that was nothing. “He’s supposedly a beast on the field. All passion, no polish.” Her eyes were darting back and forth. “But damn, he’s got passion in spades. Check it out.” She pushed me forward.
I stood on my toes, trying to get a glimpse of the field. I saw the net first, then one of the players, a tall red-headed guy, sweating and flailing as he struggled to return each volley.
“Which one is the prince?” I asked, still unable to see the other player.
“The brunette,” Paige pointed.
I finally found him, and my knees buckled. Because the prince was none other than the person I had just been playing tonsil tennis with.
Charlie Davenport.
AKA, His Royal Highness Charles Edward Alexander Davenport the Third.
To be continued…
What happens next?
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BET ME
A Romantic Comedy
What happens when your sex strike goes viral -- and suddenly every man in town has their eye on your prize?
All I wanted was little old-fashioned romance. After a parade of Tinder disasters who think chivalry is giving me a pearl necklace on the first date, I made a pledge: until guys step up their game, my goods are off the market.
But one bottle of chardonnay later, and my drunken rant has gone viral. I’m the most famous person NOT having sex since the Jonas Brothers put on their purity rings. A men’s magazine has even put a bounty on my (ahem) maidenhead: fifty Gs to whoever makes me break the drought.
Be careful what you wish for...
Now my office looks like an explosion in a Hallmark factory, I’ve got guys lining up to sweep me off my feet - and the one man I want is most definitely off-limits. Jake Weston is a player through and through. He’s also the only one who sees through the mayhem to the real me, but how can I trust he’s not just out to claim the glory?
And how will I make it through the strike without scratching the itch - especially when that itch looks so damn good out of his suit?
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Lizzie
You know what they say about a guy’s hands. No, not that myth about dick size. I mean, that’s what they might say, but I can confirm with an almost scientific certainty that hands don’t lie. Guys with great hands—hands with fingers that can tease concertos out of a piano, or that have the light, sure touch necessary to make life-saving incisions with a scalpel—it’s hands like that that will make you come your brains out. I mean, some girls are into arms, or abs, or the way a guy’s happy trail leads down his stomach, but me? I’m all about the hands.
So there’s a part of me that’s both impressed and horrifyingly turned on as I watch Colin’s near-surgical approach to tearing the chicken meat off one Super Sizzling Sweet Sauce-slathered chicken wing after another.
Be careful what you wish for.
“Sure you don’t want any? It’s two-for-one,” Colin grins through a mouthful of chicken. “I’ve got a coupon and everything.”
“Thanks, I’m good,” I say weakly, watching those gorgeous, elegant hands smear barbecue sauce across his chin. So this is where a Sunday afternoon spent swiping right on cute dudes without bothering to read their profiles can land you come Monday evening.
I pick up my glass of warm chardonnay and try not to grimace. Not that he’d notice. I’m fighting to be heard in a packed sports bar just off of Times Square, where “the game” plays at an ear-splitting volume on an endless series of flat-screens, and the beer is served at such frigid temperatures that you almost forget that you’re drinking something that would taste like piss if it happened to be warm.
“What in the fuck was that?” Colin yells suddenly, his hands flying up in tandem with every other dude in the bar—solo dudes who clearly didn’t have the balls or the enterprising nature to combine Monday Night Football with a Tinder date.
“Sorry, sorry—I just can’t believe this ref,” he says, finally turning away from the screens. He shoots me a bashful smile, exposing a set of blindingly white teeth. “So what’s your name again?” He downs his beer in one gulp and lets out an almighty belch.