Thinking About You

by Monica Murphy

  He shrugs those massive shoulders. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  We go silent for a moment and my brain scrambles to keep up the conversation.

  “Have you been to London before?” I ask.

  “Never.” He shakes his head. “I don’t get to travel outside of the country much.”

  “Oh. Me either, I’m afraid,” I say ruefully. It’s my biggest regret. I would love to travel the world. I’ve done the European jaunt in ten days, where you go to the highlight cities and see the tourist sites, but I’ve always yearned to see more of the world.

  Maybe someday.

  “You don’t? That’s surprising.”

  “Why do you say that?” I ask, genuinely curious.

  “I figured someone of your…social stature would travel a lot,” he answers.

  “Just because my father is an earl doesn’t mean that we have loads of money.” The moment the words fall from my lips, I want to shove them back in. I am a Sumner. We don’t talk about our finances. It’s no one’s business but our own.

  Though we do have money. We just don’t like to talk about it.

  “Really? Can’t you, like, sell a crown or something?”

  He appears downright baffled.

  And I can’t help it, I start to laugh.

  Uncontrollably.

  After a few seconds of helpless silence, he joins in, hesitantly at first, and then we’re both on a roll. I’m laughing so much, I’m clutching my stomach, and I have tears in my eyes. Oh, and people are starting to stare. Normally, I would straighten up by now, aware that I was on display and making a fool of myself, but I don’t straighten up. Not at all.

  It’s as if I can’t stop.

  Cannon is no help. His booming laugh encourages mine, and as people walk past us they smile helplessly. Some of them even laugh along with us, like they’re in on the joke.

  But they’re not.

  It’s just us. Cannon and I. Sharing a private joke.

  And I like it.

  Lady Susanna’s laugh is beautiful. Infectious. Normally I’d be insulted by someone laughing at me for what I said. I’m not the smartest guy in the room, not by a long shot, but I always tried hard in school. I still try hard in life. Shit doesn’t come easy for me, it never has. And when it comes to my smarts—or lack thereof—I’m a little sensitive sometimes.

  But I know in my gut she’s not laughing at me like I’m an idiot. My selling a crown comment made her laugh because, let’s face it. That shit is kind of funny. I mean, seriously, what the hell am I even talking about?

  I have no idea what to do with this girl. And besides, why is she talking to me? She’s in a totally different realm, and that realm is way above mine.

  “Does your family actually have crowns?” I ask after the laughter has finally died and we’ve somewhat composed ourselves.

  She dabs at her eyes, a little hiccup escaping her. “Actually, we do. Sort of. They’re called tiaras, really, and only the women wear them. But we can’t sell them.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “They’re part of the family jewels.” She waves a dismissive hand, like that one sentence should explain everything.

  I chuckle, my stomach aching too much to burst into full-blown laughter again. “Family jewels? Don’t those, uh, belong to your father? Maybe your brother, if you have one?”

  Her cheeks go red and she covers her giggling mouth. “You’re funny.”

  I puff out my chest at her compliment. “Thanks.”

  “But rude,” she adds, dropping her hand as she composes herself once more.

  She’s not wrong there.

  I glance around the crowded room, wishing we were anywhere but here. We should go. I want to talk to her some more.

  Alone.

  Grabbing hold of her arm, I tug her in close, so I can whisper in her ear. “Want to get out of here?”

  A shiver moves through her and she pulls away slightly, those luminous blue eyes gazing up at me, her expression serious. “Where would we go?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Find a bar and have some drinks? Or maybe grab some dinner?” Lord knows we could find better food than what they’re serving here, and I’m fucking starving. “There’s gotta be a couple of decent restaurants nearby, right?”

  “Quite a few of them actually,” she says with a nod.

  “Then we’ll go to whatever restaurant you recommend.” I smile at her. “Somewhere nice and quiet.”

  She frowns. “But what about my father?”

  Please tell me she doesn’t want to bring her dad to dinner with us. “Did you drive him here or somethin’?” I ask, fighting the frustration running through me.

  “No, he actually drove me,” she answers, glancing around, like she’s looking for him.

  Shit. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I realize something. I don’t even know how old she is. What if she’s…

  “How old are you exactly?” I ask, my voice gruff. I take a deep breath, fighting the panic rising within me.

  “Twenty-three.” She’s still frowning. So hard, there are little lines in her forehead, and she pulls out of my hold. “Wait, did you think I was underage?”

  “Maybe.” I shrug again. She’s younger than me, but at least she’s legal, thank God. “Most twenty-three-year olds I know don’t need to ask their father’s permission to go anywhere.”

  She stands a little straighter, her eyes narrowing, her lips forming into a thin line. I don’t think she liked that I said that.

  Worse, I feel like shit for saying it, too.

  “I don’t need to ask his permission,” she says, her tone haughty. “I just—we came together. And I certainly don’t want to abandon him. Telling him I’m leaving with someone else is the polite thing to do.”

  “Sure. I get it.” I scrub a hand along my jaw, trying to come up with the right thing to say. “Maybe you could send him a text.”

  Susanna scoffs. “He never checks his text messages. I’m not even sure if he brought his phone with him.”

  Impossible. Everyone I know is constantly on their phone. “Well, let’s go find him then.”

  “How about I go find him?” She’s smiling at me once again, and seeing it makes me feel like I’ve won the big one—not Super Bowl intensity, but close. Playoff intensity for sure. She keeps looking at me like that, and I’ll probably let her do whatever she wants. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll search him out and let him know I’m leaving with you.”

  Shock hits me right between the eyes and I blink at her. “So you really want to go to dinner? With me?”

  Jesus, I sound like a complete idiot. But she makes me feel like one, so it’s like I can’t help myself.

  “Yes.” Her eyes are bright. I swear they’re twinkling, like she’s amused. “I do. Want to go to dinner with you.”

  With that, she turns on her heel and disappears into the swelling crowd. I watch her blonde head move through the clusters of people until she gradually disappears, and the moment I lose sight of her, I’m off to find a bathroom, where I can take a quick piss and assess the situation.

  Minutes later I’m at the sink washing my hands, staring at my reflection, wondering what she might see in me. I’m all right looking. Not movie star handsome like Jordan Tuttle, and I’m not classically handsome like my teammate Tucker McCloud either. Those are the two most popular players on our team—the ones who the ladies scream and cry and generally freak the fuck out over.

  Me? The one thing I’ve got going for me is my body. I’m tall. Broad. Muscular. Probably intimidating, though I don’t mean to be.

  Well, that’s a damn lie. I try my best to intimidate every motherfucker I face out on the football field.

  Sometimes I’m a little awkward, like I don’t know my own strength, which is true. I have to be careful so I don’t scare the ladies. And while I realize I’m not the guy to make all the girls’ panties wet, I do know I’m okay looking.

  I guess.

/>   Turning my head this way and that, I check out my profile. I shaved carefully tonight, so there aren’t any stray hairs. I have a few scars I don’t even notice anymore, I’ve had them so long, but did Susanna notice?

  Did they turn her off?

  She’s leaving with you, dumbass, so she must see something in your ugly mug.

  I stare into the mirror straight on, my gaze dropping to my crooked nose. Broke that more than once, and I’m probably going to need surgery on it eventually. My hair has grown darker over the years, most of the dark blond from my youth gone, though my mother constantly tells me I should dye it.

  Hell no. I’m not that vain.

  Overall, I’m nothing special. Not really. Just a hulking mass of flesh, that’s about it. And there’s plenty of other guys in the NFL—hell, in any professional sport—who look just like my ass.

  So what’s this fancy British girl see in me?

  I dry my hands and haul ass out of the bathroom, thankful it wasn’t far from where Lady Susanna Sumner—damn, that’s a mouthful—last saw me. The room is even more crowded now, and the dull roar of conversation and clinking of glasses is starting to make my head hurt.

  I want out of here. Stat. More than anything, I want to find a small, cozy restaurant with tiny tables—or even better, tiny booths—so me and Susanna have to sit nice and close to each other and there’s a candle on the table and the light flickers across her beautiful face and…

  Yep, I’m getting way ahead of myself. Caught up in my own fantasy. First things first, I gotta find the star of my intimate dinner fantasy before I can hightail it out of here.

  But I don’t see her pretty little blonde head anywhere.

  Defeat smacks me in the chest, and my shoulders sag. Did she ditch me? I sort of acted like an asshole earlier, about her coming with her dad. Can’t blame her if she’s pissed at me, which means I guess I can’t blame her if she left the party either. I should ask Tuttle to give me lessons in class.

  More like lessons on when to keep my mouth shut.

  “There you are.”

  I turn at the sound of her voice, smiling in relief when I see her. “Sorry, ducked into the bathroom real quick,” I tell her.

  The light dims in her eyes a little bit and I wonder if that was a mistake, mentioning the bathroom. But damn it, we’re all God’s creatures, and we all gotta go. So what’s the big deal?

  “Are you ready to leave?” she asks.

  “Definitely.” I offer my arm to her, but she doesn’t take it.

  “Isn’t there someone you should tell?” I frown at her words. “Someone you need to inform that you’re leaving?”

  “They don’t care.”

  “But this party is for you,” she says slowly.

  “It’s for all of us. The entire team,” I return just as slowly. “I’m one of many. I’m not even the most popular one.” Not by a long shot.

  She looks shocked. “Really? You’re not one of the most popular on your team?”

  “Really,” I say with a firm nod, taking her arm since she won’t take mine. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll text someone later. Let them know where I went.”

  I escort her out of the building before she can say another word.

  I scroll through my phone and find the address to a restaurant I know is not too far from the party and then enter it in my Uber app. The car appears before us in less than two minutes, and he drops us off at the restaurant in another five. Somehow in those last five minutes, the air becomes bitterly cold, and when Cannon opens the car door for me, a shiver takes over my body just before I exit.

  Cannon, of course, notices.

  “Cold?” he asks as I stop to stand beside him, his voice a low, deep murmur that warms my insides. I’m not wearing a coat—a rather stupid decision, but going out this evening had been such a last-minute thing, I completely forgot.

  “A little bit,” I tell him, sounding as if I’m in a daze.

  I blame the daze thing on having him so close, especially in the confines of the small car. His body radiates heat like a furnace, so maybe that’s why the night air felt so chilly.

  “Come here,” he tells me as we head for the front door of the restaurant. He lifts his arm, swoops me under it and tugs me close to his side. “I’ll warm you up.”

  I say nothing as we make those too-few steps to the door, savoring the sensation of having him plastered next to me. He’s solid as a rock. All muscle. So tall I barely reach his shoulder—I barely reach his chest—and I’m not what I would call a short person.

  But Cannon Whittaker? He makes me feel tiny.

  He drops his arm from my shoulders as he reaches for the door to open it, and I ignore the disappointment crashing through me as I walk through the door first. The disappointment disappears in an instant, though, when I feel his large hand gently press against my lower back. He guides me toward the front desk, both of us smiling at the hostess watching our arrival. Within seconds, she’s ushering us deep into the restaurant, to a small table that’s near the back of the room. We sit and she hands the menus to us, listing the specials for the evening before she dashes away to take care of another customer.

  I can’t recall a single thing she said.

  “I’m starving,” Cannon says as he wrenches open the menu, his gaze eagerly scanning the restaurant’s offerings. The menus are tall, encased in black leather, and Cannon’s hands span practically the entire thing.

  I stare at them, his long fingers, his wide palms, completely entranced. Are his hands smooth or rough? I’d bet rough, since he handles footballs all day long.

  Does he literally handle them all day long? My thoughts are exaggerating, I’m sure. Doesn’t deter me from thinking his hands are manly, though. I bet if they’d smooth over my dress, they might snag on the fabric. Does he have callouses?

  A little shiver moves through me. None of the men I’ve dated have rough hands. They definitely don’t have callouses. The men I date either work in offices or lounge around spending their family’s money.

  “Have you been here before?” he asks a few seconds later, knocking me from my lusty thoughts of his hands. On my body.

  “Oh.” I startle, shake my head. Swallow once. “Yes, I have,” I say as I nonchalantly open the menu, my gaze going blurry when I try to read my options. I’m not particularly hungry. Too distracted by the man sitting across from me. “Once.”

  “Was it any good?” His gaze never strays from the menu, which makes me want to laugh. He’s not even paying attention to me, yet he’s all I can think about.

  “Delicious,” I say with heavy emphasis, finally causing him to finally glance up. His gaze meets mine, warm and friendly, and he winks before he returns his attention the stupid menu.

  I’ve always thought winking was silly. But I like the way he winked at me just now.

  I like it a lot.

  “I came here on a date,” I continue, trying to draw his attention back to me. “My ex-boyfriend brought me here.”

  Well. A tiny fib. He wasn’t my ex-boyfriend. More like a man I went on a couple of dates with. One day, we just stopped texting each other. And that was that.

  “An ex?” Cannon asks the menu. “How long did you two go out?”

  I’m tempted to say years, but that might be a bit much. “Months,” I tell him, which isn’t exactly a lie. Our three dates—or was it four?—spread out over about six weeks’ time.

  “So are you telling me the restaurant holds a lot of memories for you?”

  He is still looking at his menu, and I’m now annoyed. What’s so fascinating about his meal options?

  “Yes,” I tell him, snapping my menu shut and slapping it onto the table. “I’m remembering all the good times with Richard as we speak.”

  This, this finally gets Cannon’s attention. His gaze meets mine, his expression…amused? “Richard? That’s your ex’s name?”

  I nod, trying my best to keep my expression neutral. “He’s the heir to an earldom, like
my father.”

  “Lucky Dick,” Cannon says just before he starts chuckling.

  “That’s what his family called him,” I say, refusing to laugh with him.

  I’m still irritated that he’s not paying attention to me. Does that make me seem vain? Well, perhaps I am, especially when all I can do is stare at him.

  Why isn’t he entranced with me?

  “What? They called him a lucky dick? Are you serious?” Cannon’s laughter grows.

  “No, no. They called him Dickie. That’s his nickname,” I explain, my lips curling into a smile despite my annoyance.

  “Dickie? Oh shit, that’s even worse.” His laughter dies, his expression somber as he considers me. “You actually went out with a guy you called Dickie? To his face?”

  “I didn’t call him Dickie, his family did. I called him Richard.” I take a sip of my water, wondering at our roundabout conversations. We tend to veer off track easily. Is it because we’re from two different countries? Do we not have common interests? Opposites attract and all that, but are we too opposite?

  “Richard, Dick, Dickie, it’s all the same to me.” Cannon closes his menu and sets it on the table in front of him. “Let me guess. He was a total jerk.”

  “Not really,” I say with a little shrug. “More like he was…”

  “Arrogant.”

  “No.”

  “A womanizer.”

  I make a face. I can’t imagine Richard dating loads of women at the same time. “Not at all.”

  “A real smug bastard,” Cannon suggests eagerly, like he wants Richard to be a terrible, awful human being.

  “Not even close. He was just.” Another shrug as my mind scrambles for the most accurate thing to say. “Very…boring.”

  “Oh.” Cannon actually looks disappointed. “I thought with a name like that, and him being an earldom or whatever, he’d be a snobby prick.”

  I don’t bother correcting Cannon in his use of earldom. I don’t even flinch at his use of the words snobby prick. Instead, I think back on those past three dates with Richard.

  His wispy light brown hair that was fast receding even though he wasn’t quite thirty. His brown eyes and thin, hard mouth. The way he always spoke of his mother, like she ran his life as she ran her house. He worked in finance and it was apparent from the start how much he hated his job. Was merely waiting for his father to pass so he could take over the title. He had plans on opening the family estate to the public so they could earn money, and his mother was aghast at the mere suggestion.