Sure Thing

by Jana Aston

  “Oh! I love old buildings!” Her entire face lights up at the mention. “I majored in urban planning but my focus was on honoring historic preservation while incorporating modern design. I’d have died to do an internship in Europe but I couldn’t afford a semester overseas.” She sighs before continuing. “Whenever I see an old building in disrepair I imagine what it must have looked like when it was built. And then I immediately envision its potential in today’s age.” She’s talking with her hands and she pauses with one hand in front of her as if she’s picturing a particularly enticing old pile of bricks. “What it would look like restored and how we’d use the space today. You’re so lucky to live in a country with such a rich architectural history,” she gushes. “When I see pictures of old European castles my mind races with ways to incorporate an HVAC system and how I’d retrofit bathrooms into the design. How I’d integrate a kitchen suitable for today with materials honoring the past.” She sighs again when she’s finished talking, a little smile on her lips as she daydreams about turning a dungeon into a wine cellar or some nonsense.

  “So you’re a designer? When you’re not running tours?” I say because no, I’ve got no vision for piles of old rubble. When I see an old building, all I see are drafts and a bevy of maintenance costs. Issues with building regulations and delays on planning permission.

  She snaps her mouth shut and flushes and it occurs to me that I might be coming across like a dick. Which wouldn’t normally bother me, but I find that it does when it comes to Daisy. Her opinion matters to me more than it should. I can’t figure her out—she glows when she talks design, and looks nothing short of uncomfortable when leading this tour. So why is she wasting her time on this job? Has she been unable to find employment in her chosen field? She must be several years out of university. It doesn’t add up. She doesn’t add up, yet with every word out of her mouth all I want to know is more. Anything more. Everything more.

  She bites her lip and closes her eyes briefly before opening them again only to glance away. “I had a job in design, but the company was sold and my job was eliminated. It was mostly CAD work anyway, drafting the designs and schematics for the project managers. I didn’t get to do much creatively.”

  “So you’re working as a tour guide until something else comes up?” I ask. But that can’t be right. She said she’s worked at Sutton Travel for years. How was she doing this while also working at the design company that went under? The guide positions are by contract, meaning they work when they want to and based on tour schedules. But it still doesn’t make sense.

  “Um, I’m not sure,” she murmurs but she’s examining her fingernails instead of looking at me. “I mean sort of. Maybe.”

  “Perhaps you could move up within this company?” I suggest, ignoring her nonsensical answer. “This tour company is owned by a parent company, isn’t it? With hotels and the like, surely. They must have designers on staff to handle the acquisitions and remodels.”

  She looks at me, interest sparking briefly in her eyes before it disappears just as quickly. I wonder if I’ve overstepped the line. Then she frowns, tiny lines appearing on her forehead before she’s rising in her seat and slipping past me into the aisle. “I’ve got to prep the group for Mount Vernon,” she states without looking at me, but I’m not sure if that’s true or if she’s just looking for a way to end this conversation. A conversation that’s left me with more questions than answers.

  I watch as Daisy turns on the microphone and grabs the group’s attention. Then she reiterates that we’re on our way to Mount Vernon—the same information she gave them when the bus left the hotel not twenty minutes ago. I tap my finger on my mobile while I try to recall the time difference between the East Coast and Las Vegas.

  I think it’s time to start digging.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Violet

  I’m the worst. Literally the worst. My pulse is racing so fast. Why did I just tell him all that? It’s a good thing no one’s life depends on my ability to lie because I suck at it. I suck all the sucks. That sounds sorta perverted, doesn’t it? Perfect, now I’m thinking about sucking his dick.

  It’s a nice dick. A great one, really. I smile thinking about my naïveté regarding uncut cocks. I can’t believe I told him I didn’t know what to do with it. I’m so ridiculous. It was basically the same, except easier to give him a hand job. And more sensitive. Like when I swirled my tongue around the head and he made that little groaning noise that almost made me come. I swear groans in British sound different than American ones. Like a way better kind of different, which sounds crazy but I promise is true.

  I take a huge breath and try to calm myself as I grab the microphone so I can repeat the same information I gave the group twenty minutes ago. Information that doesn’t need to be repeated, but I needed to get away from Jennings. Granted, I’ve only managed to get two feet away from him, but I’ll take it.

  I can’t believe I just word-vomited out all that information about myself, but it’s not like he’s going to check, right? It’s not like he would know what Daisy majored in or what she does when she’s not on tours. It’s not like he has access to her employment files to verify anything I just told him. I almost laugh out loud at the idea. Can I be any more paranoid?

  He knows nothing.

  Nada.

  Zip.

  Zilch.

  I like him.

  Wait. Where did that thought come from? I glance over my shoulder to where he’s sitting, still next to the seat I just escaped from. His head is bent over his phone and he appears to be tapping out a text or an email. From this angle I can see his jaw ticking in concentration as he types.

  So of course I like him. I’m sleeping with him and it’s not as if I go around sleeping with men I don’t like. I liked the look of him when I smiled at him in the bar that first night, didn’t I? I liked his eyes. And his jaw. His dark hair and the way his shirt fit his shoulders. I liked that he sent me a drink when all I did was offer up that stupid three-second smile. No one’s ever sent me a drink before. In the movies men are always sending drinks, but in reality it doesn’t happen that often. At least not in my reality. In college I had guys offer me red Solo cups filled with beer from the keg, but it’s not the same thing.

  I like the tone of his voice and his British accent. I like the way he smells and the feel of him pressed against me.

  It’s just the sex, right?

  Except I like the way he pays attention when I talk. The way he wants to know more—even though I can’t tell him more because I’m a big fat liar. But nonetheless, I like the way he pays attention. It was sweet how he suggested I look for openings within the company. It wouldn’t be a terrible idea, if I actually worked for the company. Daisy isn’t qualified for positions I’d be interested in, not to mention it would be problematic to apply as her and keep this charade running any longer. I’m still not convinced I’ll make it to the end of this tour without blowing it.

  But I could have Daisy keep an eye out for the jobs I’d be qualified for and then apply for those as myself, couldn’t I? Daisy’d probably even get a bonus for referring me. Wouldn’t that be something? She dumps her job on me and then ends up getting a bonus out of it. Quintessentially Daisy.

  I like the way Jennings keeps an eye on his nan and makes sure she’s got everything she needs. How he always exits the bus ahead of her so he can hold her arm as she takes the last step from the bus to the pavement.

  I like the way he watches me when I’m fumbling through this tour, a look of curiosity on his face as if I’m more interesting than I actually am.

  I also like the way he looks at me when we’re having sex. The way his eyes stay on mine when he thrusts into me. The way he cups my chin and moves my gaze back to his when I’ve turned my head away. How he touches me and—enough. It’s the best sex I’ve ever had. I know it’s cliché and semi-dramatic, but it’s that good. And maybe twice doesn’t exactly equal a case study, but i
t’s enough of a sample to make a pretty good argument in his favor. Dammit, why does it have to be so good? It’s making me feel things, things I have no business feeling.

  So what if I like him? It’s not a big deal. It’s just a week. My perfect one-night stand turned into the perfect one-week fling. It’s what I wanted, isn’t it? A no-strings-attached liaison to help me get back in the game. A rebound relationship, so to speak. One I should have had six months ago to get my ex out of my system. Because it totally worked. Maybe it’s the time that’s passed or maybe it’s Jennings, but I can honestly say I’ve moved on. I feel hopeful. I feel glad—well, almost—that my last company went under because it forced me to face that neither my job or my relationship were a good fit. I couldn’t see it for myself so fate stepped in and forced me to.

  Just like fate is going to force this thing I have with Jennings to an end when the tour ends. So I like him. So what? There’s no crime in liking your temporary lover. When I remember this week it will be filled with happy memories. Torrid, scandalous memories. Sinful, dirty recollections of brown eyes, perfect abs and sly smiles that wet my panties and restored my confidence.

  No big deal.

  The bus pulls onto the Mount Vernon grounds, so I snap myself out of my lewd musings and focus on recalling how Daisy handled this part of the tour. The group is taking the premium mansion tour, which is led by someone who is not me, thank goodness. I’ve just got to run into the tour office and coordinate handing the group off.

  Twenty minutes later I’ve instructed the group where the meeting point is once their guided tour is over, with free time added in order for them to explore the grounds on their own. Then I sigh the happiest sigh of relief as I watch the group depart without me, Jennings along with them. I’ve got three hours of freedom. Three hours in which I won’t accidentally tell Jennings too much. Three hours in which I won’t be swayed by his accent, by his brown eyes, by the way he draws me into telling him too much.

  He’s just a fun distraction—and that’s great. But a week from now he’ll be gone so I need to keep it together. I don’t need to fall for him. And I don’t need to blow my sister’s job and lose this week’s paycheck because of my big mouth.

  What I need to do is focus on the future. On finding a new job, a new place to live. On getting my life back on track. Not on falling for someone I can’t be with. Not to mention—he’s not even my type. I go for goal-oriented men. Suits. Mr. Casual Concert T-shirt is so not my type.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jennings

  “What exactly do you need to know and why can’t you ask her yourself?”

  I’ve put in a call to my cousin Rhys. My American cousin, younger by two years. His mother is my father’s sister. She grew up in England but left when she fell for a foreign exchange student during university—and followed him home. All the way home to Connecticut. Somehow Rhys and I have always been close despite growing up on different continents. It helped that once we were old enough we spent summers together, alternating between the US and the UK each year. Looking back I suspect our parents made this deal to buy themselves a kid-free summer every other year, but the end result is that it made Rhys and I thick as thieves.

  “It’s complicated,” I reply and it makes me smile. I sound like Daisy with her evasive excuses.

  “What do you mean it’s complicated? Didn’t you introduce yourself? We don’t Undercover Boss the employees, Jennings. That’s policy. Senior-level employees introduce themselves whether they’re traveling on company or personal business. We don’t hoodwink the employees.”

  “Hoodwink? Really, Rhys?”

  “It’s a word, asshole. Stop avoiding the question.”

  “I would’ve,” I tell him, “but I’d already met her. The night prior. And then things got… complicated.” There’s that word again.

  There’s a brief pause while he takes that in. I hear him stop typing and imagine he’s settled back into his chair so he can focus on giving me shit.

  “You British bastard. You have all the goddamned luck, don’t you? When I took Nan on a tour of the Canadian Rockies last year our guide was a fifty-year-old-man named Marvin.”

  “Sorry, Rhys.” I grin even though he can’t see it. “I do have a rather lucky way with the breaks, don’t I?”

  “Asshole.”

  “Plus I’m older, better-looking and better at sport than you.”

  “Better at sport,” he mocks. “You’re such a British wanker. Better at cricket, maybe. And you’re nowhere near as good-looking as me. Everyone knows I’m the best-looking of the cousins.”

  “Everyone knows? You’ve taken a poll, have you?”

  “I heard it discussed at Christmas. Uncle David’s new wife mentioned it.”

  “She did not.” I snort.

  “She thought it though,” he replies, undeterred. “In any case, you’re taking Nan next year too. This trip doesn’t count as a turn if you’re banging the tour guide.”

  “Deal. And don’t be crass, Rhys, Daisy’s not a showgirl.”

  “There’s not a showgirl in sight,” he says easily.

  “Of course not.”

  “And they prefer to be called entertainers.”

  “There you have it. Difficult life you lead in the desert, Rhys,” I deadpan. He’s currently in Las Vegas overseeing the newest acquisition for the family business, Sutton International—the opening of a two-billion-dollar hotel and casino on the Vegas strip.

  “I don’t have access to the employee files in the tour division,” he finally says. “Isn’t this the shit? Who do I need to fuck around here to get clearance?”

  “Likely a relative, so you might want to reconsider that.”

  “Shit. Way to ruin that fantasy, asshole.” I hear him tapping again at his keyboard before announcing that he’s sent a request to the casino’s human resources director. “She’ll either have access to all the US employment files or know who does. I’ll get the file sent over to you as soon as I have it,” he says.

  “Thanks, Rhys.”

  “No worries. It’s not as if we’re in the midst of hiring and training four thousand employees in time for the opening.”

  “Appreciate it,” I drawl as I walk through the garden of the George Washington estate. I ditched the group once we were through the orientation area, Nan happily waving me off when I told her I had calls to make.

  Rhys and I both work for the family business—the one founded by Nan’s father some sixty years past. This makes us the fourth generation of family members involved in the running of Sutton International, parent company to a hotel group, river cruise line and three brands of bus tours. Including the one I’m on right now.

  We have offices on six continents and offer holidays to over two hundred destinations worldwide. Rhys is heading up the Vegas project while another cousin presides over our business in Canada. An uncle runs the river cruise division out of an office in Switzerland.

  And me? I’m responsible for overseeing all of it.

  “What is it you need anyway?” Rhys interrupts my thoughts. “You want her phone number? Date of birth? Home address? Because you could save all of us a lot of trouble and just ask her yourself.”

  “I’m curious. I need more information.”

  “That you can’t get from her.”

  “That’s right.” The gravel below my feet crunches as I walk and I smile at this mini-inquisition from Rhys.

  “Are you sure this girl is even interested in you?”

  “She’s interested.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Nothing is wrong with her. She’s quite lovely. Possibly a pathological liar, but lovely.” I look up to find the woman herself standing not ten feet away. She too is on her mobile and spots me the same time I spot her. She takes a half step back, keeping her eyes on me as she talks. I take a step to the left, avoiding a small child running full tilt through the garden, and adding an add
itional step between myself and Daisy.

  “She sounds interesting,” Rhys says into my ear, amusement clear in his tone.

  “Oh, she is,” I agree as Daisy and I continue to eye each other across the garden. Clearly neither of us is interested in the other overhearing their conversation. She turns and walks down a graveled path until we’re separated by a large planting bed filled with an ornate pattern of shrubbery, both of us continuing our conversations with the other in view. “She most certainly is that.”

  “You like her,” Rhys says slowly, dragging the words out as if the concept is new to him.

  “I’m enjoying myself. That’s all.” A breeze passes through the garden, ruffling the hem of Daisy’s sundress. It’s pale yellow, ending a couple of inches above her knees. My eyes travel lower, down her tan calves to her sandal-clad feet and back up again. She’s pulling a strand of hair from her lipstick and ignoring me.

  “Good. It’s about time.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I stop walking and examine a flowering ornamental tree of some sort while keeping Daisy in sight.

  “Sperm mobility decreases with age. It might already be too late for you.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I mutter.

  “The family line is depending on you.”

  “Stop taking the piss out of me, cuz. You’re only two years younger than me and I don’t see you planning your nursery.”

  “Planning my nursery?” He laughs. “This British shit never gets old and I’ve known you my whole life.”

  “Yes, your American colloquialisms continue to delight me as well, Rhys.”

  “I’m sure. So are you headed straight back to London after the tour or can you squeeze in a visit to Vegas?”