Sure Thing

by Jana Aston

  I worry that a week won’t be enough and contemplate taking more meetings stateside this year. Should I? Would she want that? I don’t even know which state she lives in. Am I getting way ahead of myself? She’s hiding something from me and I don’t like deceit. But the real problem is this: I’m curious if it’ll matter. Will whatever she’s hiding be enough to break this spell she has on me?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Violet

  I take a second head count, verifying everyone is on board before giving George the okay to hit the road. The suitcases have been counted twice and loaded underneath the bus and I haven’t lost any guests. This tour guide thing is easy-peasy. Besides feeling like someone is going to yell ‘You’re not Daisy!’ at any given moment, easy.

  I drop into my seat with a small sigh of relief and check my notebook. Today we’re traveling a couple of hours from Washington, DC to Williamsburg, Virginia where we’ll spend two nights. But first we’ll stop in Mount Vernon, home of the first American president George Washington, for a tour of his estate and then it’s on to some revolution museum somewhere—I really need to check my notes.

  Which is going to be difficult because Jennings has just deposited himself into the seat beside me.

  “I believe we’ve established that you cannot sit there,” I remind him without looking up from my notebook.

  “We established that as a tour guest I sit wherever I like.”

  “First of all, that’s not true. You’re supposed to be in a seat rotation along with everyone else in order for everyone to get the chance to sit up front and enjoy the scenic view.”

  “I’m not taking up anyone’s spot though, am I? I’m just taking this empty seat beside you.”

  “I’m working,” I remind him.

  “I can see that. Well done, you.”

  I turn to look at him now so he won’t miss me glaring at him. I need him to go away so I can focus on this tour. It’s bad enough that I’m hyper-aware of him to begin with, my idiotic heart beating faster whenever I know he’s nearby. I sure as heck don’t need him sitting right next to me. “What about your nan, Jennings? Shouldn’t you be sitting with her?”

  He winks at me and tilts his head towards the back where she’s sitting. “She’s made fast friends with the three Canadian ladies traveling together. It’s easier for them to talk if they sit together.” He shrugs. “So I’m odd man out, it seems.”

  I blow out a loud breath and shake my head. “How convenient for you.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” he agrees as he holds up a piece of candy wrapped in cellophane. “I’m supposed to give this to you. It’s a maple candy from the Canadians.”

  Of course it is.

  “Checking your notes again?” he inquires with a glance at my notebook.

  I snatch the candy out of his hand and twist the wrapper open then pop the candy into my mouth. I don’t want a maple candy but I’ll take it to buy myself a minute. Hmm, it’s pretty good actually.

  This man is a distraction. And while I’m enjoying the distraction, I can’t risk one. If I get Daisy fired this week she’s not getting paid for this tour. If she’s not getting paid then I’m not getting paid—and that’s a problem. My savings have dwindled to almost nothing and I can’t live on my sister’s couch forever. Or go to jail. Do people go to jail for impersonating another person if they had that person’s consent? I’m in way over my head. And I will never get a new job with an arrest record.

  “So what am I to call you during the daytime?” Jennings asks, interrupting my thoughts. “Am I to call you ‘love’ or is that reserved for when we’re alone?”

  Oh, yeah. Forgot about that problem.

  “You can call me Daisy,” I say as breezily as possible. “The ‘love’ thing is just a sexual fetish.”

  “I thought it was an Anglophile fetish,” he reminds me. He’s really turning out to be a pain in the ass. Which reminds me about last night. He might have a bit of an ass fetish with his roving fingertip. I had no idea a finger there could make me orgasm like I did. No idea. None. Nada. I sorta want him to do it again.

  “That’s what I meant, guv’nor,” I say in a stupid British accent. Holy hell, someone stop me. “It’s my sexual Anglophile fetish,” I add in my normal voice with a nod. I sound insane. I cannot believe this guy wants to have sex with me. Well, maybe he won’t after this. That’d solve at least one of my problems right now, wouldn’t it? I really like having sex with him though.

  Why is nothing in my life simple?

  The friends I graduated with are married and on their first kid—if not their second. I’m playing twin switcheroo with my sister, hooking up with a stranger and finagling ways for him not to call me by my sister’s name while we’re having sex. Because he thinks I’m her. Sort of. I suppose technically he thinks I’m me and he’s just confused about my name. Right? No, that’s not right either. He thinks I’m a tour guide, which I most definitely am not.

  I’ve got issues.

  “I like barbecue potato chips,” I blurt out. Daisy hates them, which has been great for keeping her out of my snack stash while I live on her sofa, because who wants to share their unemployment potato chips? So I’ve just shared something about myself with him. Something about Violet and not Daisy. Then I physically slap myself on the forehead, because potato chips? Really? It’s as if I’m trying to guarantee he never sees me naked again.

  “Are you all right?” Jennings looks at me, confusion creasing his brow. He’s got really nice eyelashes, I note. Super thick and dark.

  “Yeah.” I nod and look out the window. “I’m just tired.”

  “I should imagine so,” he replies and I don’t need to turn to look at him to know there’s a satisfied smirk on his face because I can hear it in his voice. I turn anyway because I’m a glutton for looking at his face. He’s attractive, and comfortable in his skin. Perfect jaw, full lips. I like to examine the few tiny lines I can find—they add character that intrigues me. Then his pocket rings so I look at his crotch instead. He tucks left, as it turns out. And now I’m thinking about sex again.

  He pulls the phone from his pocket and glances at the screen before hitting the ignore call button.

  “How far are we from our first stop?” he asks as he taps out a text. I wonder if it was a woman. I bet she doesn’t even eat potato chips. Probably nothing but grilled chicken and kale. Do they have kale in London? Then I wonder why I’m wondering. Of course they have kale—it’s not like London is in another universe. They probably eat it with their fish and chips or something.

  “How would I know?” I mutter.

  “Because you’re the tour guide, Daisy. That’s how you’d know,” he says slowly, looking me over. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine!” I wipe my palms against the fabric of my skirt and try to remember what the notes said. “We should be there in less than twenty minutes,” I announce. I think that’s right. One stop was twenty minutes and the other was two hours, who can remember which order they were in? A real tour guide, likely.

  Maybe she’s one of those women who eat whatever they want and don’t get fat. Whatever. I can eat whatever I want like… twice a year and not gain a thing. “Will twenty minutes be suitable for you?” I ask as he taps away on his phone.

  “Suitable?” he repeats as he keeps typing without looking at me. “I should think it’ll be fine.”

  I should think it’ll be fine, I singsong in my head, annoyed. Until my own phone rings. It’s resting face up on the small flip down tray in front of my seat—and it’s Daisy, her name flashing across the screen in what feels like foot-tall letters. I slap my hand over the phone and send the call to voicemail as fast as I can. Why didn’t it occur to me to change how I have listed her in my phone? I flick my eyes to Jennings to determine if he noticed that the person calling me was, well, me. So awkward.

  He seems absorbed in tapping out an email on his own phone so I breathe a
sigh of relief and open the contacts so I can change Daisy’s name. I wonder if I should change it to Violet? I hit the backspace button to retype before deciding that it will only confuse me more if my phone display tells me I’m calling myself. Ugh, what a mess. This is most surely going to end in disaster, but if it doesn’t, I say a silent pledge vowing to never, not ever, let Daisy talk me into one of her shenanigans again. No matter how unemployed I might be or how convincing she might be. I backspace again and type ‘Sister’ onto the screen before hitting done and tapping closed on contacts.

  That’s when my phone rings a second time. I recognize the number even though it’s not programmed into my phone. It’s a job recruiter I’ve been working with. Yes! But I can’t answer it right now. Not on a bus with no privacy and background noise. Dammit. I stare at the screen longingly for a moment before sending the call to voicemail while saying a silent prayer she’s got good news for me.

  It’s not like she’s going to change her mind because I couldn’t answer the call, right? That’s ridiculous. I’ll call her back in the next hour—just as soon as we get to Mount Vernon. We’ve got a walking tour of George Washington’s estate scheduled and I think once the tour starts I can fall behind the group and return the recruiter’s call, along with Daisy’s. I probably don’t even need to follow the group through the walking tour, do I? When I tagged along with Daisy that one time she gave them free time to take pictures, visit the gift shop and all that jazz before they boarded the bus again. So I’ll just deliver the group to the beginning of the walking tour and give them a spot to meet me at after and that’ll free up a couple of hours for me to return calls and check my email. Perfect.

  “Are you avoiding someone, love?”

  It appears I have Jennings’ attention again, his eyes on the phone I’m holding and nervously tapping my fingers against.

  “No,” I reply coolly. “Are you?” I question with a nod to his phone.

  “Not at all.” He laughs.

  “Okay,” I retort for lack of having anything else to say. Then I thump my head against the headrest and groan.

  “Everything all right?”

  “I’ve just got a lot going on.” I shrug.

  “Tell me about it,” he says and he seems genuinely interested and I wish I’d met him as Violet.

  “Do you ever wish you could start over?” I ask.

  “You’re pretty young to be worried about starting over, aren’t you?” He says it quietly, then frowns while examining my face. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

  “I’m almost thirty.” I sigh.

  “You’re twenty-six, Daisy, you’re not almost anything.”

  “I’m on the wrong side of twenty-five, is what I am,” I grumble and rub at my forehead with my fingertips. “When you’re under twenty-five and your life goes to shit you can just shrug and be like, ‘I’m only twenty-three.’ Once you pass twenty-five…” I train off and shake my head. “Get it together, right? At a certain age it’s just, this is your life. This is who you are.” I throw my hands up to emphasize my point a moment before I remember he’s almost forty and on a vacation courtesy of his grandmother. Awkward. “Sorry,” I say. “I just feel like I’m running out of time.”

  “Daisy, you’re twenty-six, not terminal.”

  “I suppose,” I agree, but I smile because he’s smiling and it’s contagious.

  “So what are you in a rush to accomplish then? What exactly is it you’re running out of time on?”

  I glance at him, wondering if I should continue. He still looks as though he’s genuinely curious about what I have to say, so what the heck. I’m never going to see this guy again when the week is over and we’re not in a relationship so there’s no need to be politically correct.

  “I’m going to be honest with you, Jennings.”

  “Please,” he agrees, the hint of a smirk on his cheek.

  I might as well be honest, since I’m lying to him about almost everything else. “Oh, by the way, I love carrot cake,” I add as an afterthought. Daisy hates it—says carrots should only be consumed when dipped into ranch dressing.

  “Carrot cake.” He nods. “Noted. Thank you for being honest about that. It must have been quite difficult for you. Dicey topic and all.”

  “Hush, that was just a side note,” I say, waving my hand. “I’m going to tell you something else.”

  “Please. I’m fascinated.”

  “I want to have a career and a family and sometimes I’m afraid I’m going to wake up at forty with neither.” I glance in his direction. “No offense.”

  “Very well.” He nods with that same smirk on his face. “None taken.”

  “You’re a man so you have more time,” I point out. “I’m sure it’ll work out for you. I mean, assuming you want those things.”

  “The compliments just keep coming with you, don’t they, love?”

  “I just meant everyone has their own life path, you know? It’s okay to be a free spirit. My sister is a free spirit. It works for some people, I’m just not one of them.”

  “Sure enough,” he agrees. “So you think you’re running out of time? Your biological clock is ticking, is it?”

  “Oh!” I laugh. “No, not yet. Not ticking. I want to re-establish my career first. But I can see the clock, you know? I can’t hear it ticking, but I’m aware that it’s there. That it might need a battery at some point.” I shrug before continuing. “It turns out that I’ve wasted the last couple of years and now I’m starting over. Which is fine, it just feels like the starting line got pushed back, that’s all.”

  “Well, then,” he says quietly. He looks pensive and I wonder if I really have just ensured I won’t be coming again this week, which was so not my goal.

  “No, I don’t wish I could start over,” he says after a moment. He slides his arm behind my headrest and leans in. “I’m good. I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. As are you.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Jennings

  I am exactly where I’m meant to be. If I’d settled down earlier I wouldn’t know how Daisy sounds when she comes. What she feels like wrapped around my cock. What she tastes like on my tongue. And not knowing those things? That’s what regret would feel like.

  Do I wish I’d settled down in my twenties and filled a nursery? Fuck no. I’ve still got time for all that. I’m youngish, loads of time. So what if I’ve worked hard and put family off? I’ve never questioned it before, yet suddenly this woman has me thinking. This woman who thinks I’m a free-spirited playboy with a dodgy career.

  I might be guilty of one of those things. It’s not as if I’ve ever had issues finding a woman to spend time with. But my career is solid—ten thousand employees rely on my career being solid—and I’m far from a free spirit. A structured workaholic is more like it. To a fault.

  My parents had me just out of university, before my dad finished his legal training. Too young to my way of thinking. I was in short trousers by the time he qualified as a solicitor. A picture of me in one arm and his new practicing certificate in the other has been on his desk as long as I can remember. I used to look at it and think how exhausting it must have been to have a toddler at that stage in his life.

  My mum must have agreed, because it was too much for her. The one who gave birth to me, not the one who raised me. My birth mum was gone before I was out of nappies. “She was too young to settle down,” my dad would say when I asked about her, skipping over the fact that he was the same age. “She needed time to find herself.” She found herself in Scotland, as it turned out. Married a Scotsman and had a couple of babies. Perhaps she was ready by then, as my half-sisters are both well over a decade younger than I am.

  We did okay though by all accounts. Dad and I on our own. And then he met Elouise and she stepped in and became Mum. I’m not sure I remember a time before her. It’s her I see in my childhood photos, a huge grin on her face as we posed in front of one tourist s
pot or another. Her soothing words I remember when I scraped my knee or broke a bone or lost a game. She’s the only mum I’ve known and I’m okay with that. She really loves my dad. Must do, to have been so willing to accept me along with him.

  So do I want a family of my own? Of course I do. Who doesn’t? And having a family business does sort of require a family to pass it along to, doesn’t it? Not that I don’t have cousins who can take care of that. But I’ve got plenty of time. Loads.

  No need to rush.

  Daisy’s got plans. Timelines. Goals. I’m a planner too—in business if not my personal life. It occurs to me now that I’ll be forty in four years and this moment is the first time I’ve given it a second thought. Why has this girl who was supposed to be a one-off suddenly got me questioning my goals? I’d like to blame the memory of her on her knees with my cock in her mouth for my temporary insanity, but the truth is she’s hypnotized me since the moment she gave me that shy smile at the hotel bar and then glanced away three seconds later. She’s captured my attention more than I care to admit.

  “I own a home,” I tell her, and dammit if I don’t sound a little sullen even to my own ears.

  “You do?” She looks surprised. Likely because she thinks I’m some sort of jobless tosser living on contributions from my nan. I do own a home—a huge pile in one of the most expensive districts in London, bought for investment and location purposes as opposed to any actual need for it. I use one of the six bedrooms and bathrooms. I’ve never even sat in the formal dining room, choosing instead to eat at a stool at the kitchen island. The entire place could use a renovation but I’ve been loath to proceed. Loath because the space was more than I needed and I didn’t want to bother customizing it for myself. I didn’t see the need when I didn’t have a family to fill it—a family there’d be plenty of time to have. Later.

  “Yeah.” I wave it off. “It’s a fixer-upper.” A fixer-upper with a current value of twelve million pounds. I paid under ten for it less than three years ago, but that’s London for you. “Historic properties, you know how it is,” I add so I don’t sound like I’m living in a heap. I sound like a right wanker instead.