He wasn’t looking for the love of his life or the woman of his dreams. He was merely looking for a countess.
“He was snobbish,” I concede. “But I wouldn’t call him a…”
“Prick?” Cannon finishes for me.
“Right.” I’m not used to saying such things in front of a man. Especially a man I’m trying to impress. Flirt with.
Of course, this is a man who I will most likely never see again after tonight, so I can be whoever I want to be if I really want to.
The idea flits into my head, flashing bright like one of those giant signs in Piccadilly Circus.
You can be whoever you want to be.
Our server magically appears, an older gentleman with graying temples and a wide smile. “Good evening. Can I start you out with something to drink?”
“Do you have champagne?” I ask.
“We do. Would you care for a glass or a bottle?”
“We can get a bottle,” Cannon says firmly, his gaze meeting mine for the briefest moment before he looks up at the server. “And I’ll take a beer.”
My mind shifts as the server lists the various beers they serve, excitement coursing through me at the promise this evening suddenly holds. The idea of doing whatever I want, being whoever I want…is exhilarating. I’m so used to portraying a certain role. Lady Susanna Sumner. Youngest child of the Earl of Harwood. Dull, dutiful daughter who jumps whenever her parents ask her to do something. I did well in school, I traveled throughout Europe before I turned twenty and now I work a nice little job at an art gallery in London, all while waiting for a man to come along and sweep me off my feet like I’m Cinderella or something.
Waiting for my prince.
Or a marquess or duke or whatever.
Just thinking about what I’ve done these last few years makes me want to yawn.
The realization is startling.
Tonight, I’m sitting across from a sexy American. An American celebrity, a football player who could probably crush me with his hands if he wanted to.
But he doesn’t want to. He’s watching me right now, the server long gone, an unfamiliar gleam in his eye as he contemplates me.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, surprising myself. I would normally never ask a man a question like that. But tonight is for new adventures.
When my champagne arrives, I’ll definitely drink to that.
“I’m thinking about how beautiful you are,” I answer Susanna truthfully. She really is stunning, in that classic, elegant way some women are. She’s just very…refined? Is that the right word? Her cheekbones and jaw are sharp, her nose is straight, her blue eyes are extra bright and her full lips are the color of a classic red rose.
Her cheeks are the color of pink roses, thanks to the compliment I just gave her.
“Thank you. That’s very sweet of you to say,” she murmurs, casting her gaze downward for a brief moment before she lifts her head. “I can’t believe we’re here. Together.”
“Why do you say that?” I feel the same way, but want to hear her reasoning first before I make any confessions.
“You’re not my type,” she blurts, covering her mouth after the words escape for a brief moment before slowly dropping her hand. “Not that there’s anything wrong with you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Gee, thanks.”
Her cheeks turn redder. “Oh goodness, I’m not trying to insult you, I just—I’m making a mess of this, and I apologize. What I meant to say is…” She takes a deep breath, exhaling loudly before she continues. “You’re not the type of man I normally date, but there’s something good to be said in that.”
She’s not the type I normally go for either, that’s for damn sure. She’s too prim, too proper, too sweet. “Like what?”
“There’s nothing wrong with trying something a little different sometimes. Clearly who I’ve been dating in the past hasn’t worked, since I’m still single,” she says with a self-depreciating laugh.
“I thought Dickie was your ex-boyfriend,” I point out with a wince. That is the damn worst name on the planet, I swear.
“Oh, it was never too serious with Dickie.” She waves a hand. Laughs again. “That was a long time ago, though.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. Six months? Nine?” She tilts her head, as if she’s quietly counting back the months. “Eight months, actually. During the winter. He told me I was a bright light on a cold, dreary day once. That was nice.”
For some godforsaken reason, jealousy rises within me, making me clench my fists in my lap. “I guess he’s a goddamned poet.”
I would never think to say something like that to a woman. I’m not one to say a bunch of flowery nonsense to get between a woman’s legs. I’m a little more direct.
She seems startled by my response. “Oh, he wasn’t a poet. Not at all. That was probably the nicest thing he ever said to me while we dated.”
Huh. Well, I guess that makes me feel a little better, but not much.
And why the hell do I care what her ex-boyfriend said to her? This is a one-shot deal. I’ll take her to dinner, hopefully kiss her a little bit in the back of an Uber, maybe even feel her up a little bit too, and then we’re done. I’ll play my game tomorrow, we’ll win because that’s what we do, and then head back home.
End of story.
The server returns to the table with our drinks, making an elaborate show of popping the cork on the bottle of Veuve Clicquot before pouring us each a glass. I didn’t want any champagne, but when Susanna lifts her glass toward me in a toast, I grab mine and clink our glasses together.
“To new friends,” she says, smiling prettily.
“New friends,” I agree, downing most of the champagne in one swallow, making a face when I’m done. The alcohol fizzes in my throat, and I know I’m going to burp something good in a few minutes. Beer does that to me too.
Of course, I shouldn’t burp at all in front of Lady Sus. I need to watch myself.
We order our meals—steak for me, trout for her—and make idle chitchat while we nibble on our appetizer, some sort of meat and cheese tray Susanna highly recommended, as did the waiter.
I’m just along for the ride on this dinner date tonight. The menu was in English and I still had a hard time reading it. The way they described the entrees was sort of confusing. I drink both the champagne and the beer, and the server brings me another one when I request it. Before our meals even arrive, I’m feeling nice and toasty.
Okay, maybe I’m buzzing, but so is Susanna. I can tell by her flushed cheeks and the way her eyes sparkle extra bright. Her voice is getting louder too, and when I tell her a joke right after the server delivers our entrees, she bursts into laughter so loud, people turn to stare at us.
“Uh oh. I’m getting a little out of control,” she singsongs, giggling as she grabs her fork and knife and starts carving into her trout. Which has the head still on it, I might add.
I glance down at my steak, eternally thankful no sad cow face is staring up at me. “I kind of like it when you get a little out of control,” I tell her, cutting off a slice of steak and popping it into my mouth.
Damn. The meat is so tender, it practically melts in my mouth.
She goes completely still. “Really? You actually like me this way?”
I nod and keep eating, my stomach demanding more.
“Even though I’m being loud and obnoxious?” When I don’t say anything, she continues, “Those are my parents’ least favorite traits in a person. When they’re loud and obnoxious.”
“Everyone acts like that at least once in their life,” I say after I swallow. Some more than others. I’ve been known to behave that way a time or two.
Or twenty.
“No.” She’s shaking her head. “Not my parents. They are the epitome of well-behaved nobility. They are completely unruffled at all times. Nothing bothers them. They don’t drink too much, eat too much, or talk too much. In fact, those are their rules.”
“Their rules?” Every parent has rules, I get that. I was raised by a single mama, and she just wanted the best for me.
Just do your best, was always something she said. And stay out of trouble.
That’s it. And guess what? I did my damn best, and I tried as much as possible to stay out of trouble—except for those years in high school when I was causing as much trouble as possible and never getting caught.
But I learned from that. Trouble gets you nowhere. Doing right is what sets you on the upward path.
Susanna nods enthusiastically. “When I was younger, I wanted to be just like them.”
“And you don’t want to be like them now?”
“I don’t think I could be like them now,” she admits, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. I stare at that lip, momentarily entranced. The little move is sexy, I can’t deny it. “I’d most likely fail. I’m afraid I’m not up to their exacting standards.”
I set my silverware on the edge of the white plate, my appetite satisfied for the moment. “You want me to be honest with you?”
She nods once more, her eyes still so wide, her lips formed into a pout. The candlelight flickers across her face, casting her in shadows, and I’m seized with the need to grab hold of her and kiss her senseless. “Absolutely,” she breathes.
“Here’s a little secret.” I lean across the table and she mimics my movement, meeting me halfway. “Your parents aren’t perfect.”
Susanna blinks at me, but doesn’t say a word.
“No one is perfect,” I continue. “Not your parents, not me, not you. We all have flaws. And the only one who believes you can’t do something is…you.”
I brace myself for her to say I insulted her the longer she remains silent. A lot of people don’t want to hear this kind of stuff. They think I’m being rude, too harsh, whatever.
I’m just being real.
Eventually, her lips curve. “So what are you? Some sort of self-help guru?”
I shrug, all of a sudden embarrassed. “Not even. I just know when to—believe in myself.”
“Is that how you became a professional football player?” she asks. “By believing in yourself?”
“That and working damn hard every single day. I lived and breathed football all through high school and college,” I say, grabbing my silverware and starting in on my steak again.
“So what you’re telling me is that you’re the type of man to go after what you want,” she continues.
“Yeah. Because if I don’t, someone else will,” I say, taking another bite of my steak.
“Hmm.” She taps her index finger against her lips before she grabs her wineglass. “I like that,” she says before she takes a drink.
Pride flashes through me. Something about having her approval is a total turn on. Crazy, right? Like, why should I care what this woman thinks? She’s hot and I’m attracted to her, but I know, this won’t go anywhere, and that’s facts. I’m leaving this city in a few days, and I’ll never see her again, unless it’s over social media or text.
Susanna lives in another country, for the love of God.
I can’t pursue this.
We spend the remainder of our dinner discussing my football career. She seems truly fascinated, asking lots of questions, curious about what position I play and everything I did to get where I am today. I tell her everything I can remember, probably too much, but it’s not every day I have a woman interested in football. Interested in everything I’ve done over the years.
I mean, yeah, there are women who claim they’re interested and like to talk about the big football player, but it always feels like they’re faking it. It’s like they think they have to pretend like they’re into me, or otherwise it feels like they’re just using me for my body or my fame.
Pretty sure most of the time that’s exactly what they’re doing.
She gets me talking about myself so much, I realize as we’re leaving the restaurant that I never really asked much about her, which makes me feel like a shit, and I tell her so as we climb in the back of the Uber Black car I ordered.
“You must think I’m a total ass,” I say with a shake of my head as the car pulls away from the curb.
“What do you mean? Why would I think that?” She touches my forearm, seemingly concerned.
I feel her touch as if she branded me. My entire body flashes hot.
All because she touched me on my freaking arm.
“I went on and on about myself and never once asked a question about you. Talk about a jerk thing to do,” I mutter, my voice extra gruff. Maybe it’s the beer I’ve been drinking, but I feel extremely bad. Like over-the-top bad, which is ridiculous.
“There’s no need for you to apologize. Really.” She smiles up at me and I stare at her, hypnotized. Christ, she’s pretty. In that untouchable-yet-I-just-want-to-mess-her-up kind of way. “I enjoyed learning so much about you.”
The sincerity in her voice rings true. She means it.
“Maybe, uh, we could talk some more.” I hesitate, wondering if I’m asking too much. “There’s a nice bar back at my hotel.”
Her delicate brows lift the slightest bit, indicating my question has surprised her. But I had to ask.
I had to.
“It’s okay,” I say when she still hasn’t answered me. “Maybe another time.”
There will be no other time. I will play my game, I will leave this country, and I will never see her again. This is a one shot thing. I know it.
She knows it.
“No.” She squeezes my forearm, and I resist the urge to haul her into my arms. “I mean, yes. I’d love to go back to your hotel with you.”
“Your father won’t mind?” Aw jeez, I’m asking about her dad like we’re in high school or something.
She laughs and shakes her head. “No, of course he won’t mind. It’s not like I live with my parents. I have my own flat.”
Oh. Well.
That changes everything.
I can’t stop squeezing Cannon’s arm, silently marveling at how warm he is, how incredibly solid he feels beneath my palm. I remember when he swooped me under his arm before we entered the restaurant, how hot and firm his body felt pressed next to mine.
A shiver moves through me at the memory.
The car is silent, save for the quietly playing radio and the windshield wipers squeaking against the glass. The Uber driver doesn’t say a word, too busy concentrating on the busy street and the rain, and I’m suddenly filled with the need to…oh, I don’t know. Throw myself at this giant man and see if he’ll catch me?
He’d catch me. I can pretty much guarantee it.
“Think it’ll rain tomorrow during the game?” he asks, his deep voice interrupting the quiet.
“Doubtful.” Nervous laughter escapes me and I clamp my lips shut when I realize how ridiculous I sound. “It seems to rain almost every evening lately, and since your game is in the afternoon, you should be fine, just a little cloudy. Besides, most of the time the rain is really just mist from low-hanging clouds. It’s always so dreary here, especially this time of year.”
“Kind of like San Francisco,” he muses.
“I hear it can get quite foggy there.” I release my hold on him and settle more comfortably in my seat, hyper aware of Cannon sitting next to me. So close, yet not quite touching. His body heat radiates, tempting me to snuggle closer, but I keep myself firmly planted.
“So you have your own place, huh?” he asks.
He seemed startled by my revelation, which in turn surprised me. I guess he thought I still lived at home? I moved out at the ripe age of nineteen, unable to take it anymore at my parents’ grand country estate. It’s a beautiful place, don’t get me wrong, and I have such fond memories of my childhood, but when you’re in your late teens yearning to break free and make it in the big city, well, you…
Get the hell away from that grand country estate and move yourself into a tiny, leaky flat in London.
“It’s nothing special,�
�� I tell him with a wave of my hand. “It’s very small. And you have to climb four flights of stairs to get to my front door.”
“Not a problem. I’m a guy who loves a challenge.” He grins, his teeth extra white in the dim light of the car. “I can handle a couple of flights of stairs.”
“Hoping to see my flat, hmm?” I’m teasing him, but…is he really hoping to see where I live?
Excitement makes my blood heat, and I mentally tell myself to calm down. There won’t be a chance for him to see my flat. He’s leaving soon. Perhaps we’ll indulge in some…
Kissing?
Touching?
Fondling?
My blood runs hotter at the thought of his hands on my body. Am I being too hopeful?
“Sure,” he says easily, and that ease, the hopeful look on his handsome face, almost feels false.
Or maybe that’s my own self-doubt creeping in.
We arrive at Cannon’s hotel in a matter of minutes, and next thing I know he’s leaping out of the car, rounding the back of it to hold my door open. He takes my hand and helps me out, pulling me close and leading me into the hotel with my hand still clasped in his. The very hand that is so large, mine practically disappears.
The man is massive. I can’t imagine what he might look like without a stitch of clothing on.
A shiver moves through me. Then again, I might like to imagine Cannon naked. I’m sure he’s incredibly muscular, not an ounce of fat on him, while I’m a little more on the large-breasted and curvy-bottomed side of things. I can look sleek and refined when I need to, but that’s only because I’m strapped into the most confining bra known to woman.
Wait a minute. My brain takes off in that direction. Yes, we just might—mess around, and my undergarments aren’t very sexy.
Thinking About You Page 3