Sure Thing

by Jana Aston

  “You don’t know that. I could still fuck this trip up.” You have no idea how true this is.

  “I’ll put in a good word for you.” His voice echoes a bit from the bathroom. The door is open and the water is running but I can’t see him from where I’m at.

  “How? You’re the one causing the disruption. I hardly think you’d get a vote.” Men, Jesus. They think they can solve anything.

  The water stops and Jennings steps from the bathroom. The view is good from this side too, so help me. It makes my breath catch in my throat to look directly at him. He’s such a man—I know that sounds dumb, of course he’s a man. But like, holy shit, he’s a man. Tall, filled out. Sculpted abs and a strong jaw. His veins are hot, for crying out loud. The ones on the backs of his hands drive me wild with distraction. The way they trail up his arms, perfection. And the one large one running the length of his dick? I’m a big fan of that one. Big, big fan.

  As he steps closer to the bed I notice he’s got a washcloth in his hand. Hold up. Is he?

  He is.

  “Oh, my God.” I slap my hands over my face and attempt to snap my knees together as he lowers the cloth to my bare pussy. It’s warm and wet—and oh, Jesus, so am I—and this is really, really embarrassing. Jennings doesn’t seems to have any qualms about cleaning me up though, pressing my knee outward with his other hand to widen my legs as I squeak beneath my hands.

  “You said you were too tired to get up.”

  “This is so dirty.”

  “This is dirty?” There’s laughter in his voice. “You coming all over my hand was dirty. Your ass bent over the bed was dirty. Shagging you until you’re too tired to walk was dirty. This isn’t dirty. This is revering your pussy.”

  I peek at him between my fingers. “Revering? Really?”

  The pressure of his hand through the washcloth increases. He drags it across the inside of one thigh then the other. My skin tingles in its wake as he dips to my core and finishes his task. I’m turned on again and more than a little flustered. No one has ever done more than hand me a paper towel before.

  “Like a religious experience, love.”

  “With my pussy?”

  “I hold your pussy in the highest of esteem,” he says with a straight face.

  I groan and he laughs.

  This guy is so much trouble.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Violet

  The next two days fly by in a blur. I’m floating on the high of the best date—and the best sex—I’ve ever had. There’s a spring in my step, a smile on my face and hope in my bruised heart.

  I’m nailing the tour guide gig thing and nailing Jennings at the same time. In fact, I think I’m going to update my résumé and add multitasking under my useful skills.

  In Williamsburg, while the group happily watches blacksmiths forge iron into tools the same way they would have during days gone by, Jennings pulls me around the corner and kisses me until I’m breathless.

  In Jamestown, as the group takes a tour of a recreation of the three ships that brought America’s first English colonists to Virginia in 1607, Jennings drags me into an alcove past the ticket office, slips one hand under my skirt and makes me come, his other hand clamped firmly over my mouth the moment before I would have given us away.

  In Richmond—oh, Richmond. Our stop in Richmond is to visit St. John’s Church, the spot where the American Revolution was ignited when Patrick Henry made the famous “Give me liberty or give me death” speech. While the group enjoys a guided tour of the church and sits in the original pews—pews George Washington and Thomas Jefferson themselves might well have sat in—Jennings and I are in the bathroom having sex.

  I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to think of Richmond without blushing.

  We drive through the Shenandoah National Park and the Blue Ridge Mountains on our way to Gettysburg. The views are spectacular and the time spent sitting next to Jennings chatting about nothing and everything is—well, it is everything.

  At one stop we find an arcade and I kick his butt in ski-ball. At another he takes me to dinner at an IHOP and I torture him by moaning as I stuff pancakes into my mouth, his eyes darkening as I try not to laugh with my mouth full.

  We exchange stories from childhood, mine carefully edited not to include any mention of Daisy. I ask him questions about living in London and make him recite words I find especially attractive in his accent.

  He asks me about my goals. I’ve never been with a man so interested in what I want out of my future. He even offered to look over my résumé—he mentioned he does some of the hiring at his company and would be happy to look over my résumé and give me some pointers. Only he called it a CV, so I’d no idea what he was referring to at first. Based on the conversation we were having at the time I sorta got that he wasn’t offering me a sexual favor, but it still took me a moment to catch on.

  I deferred the offer, obviously. Even if I could have quickly changed my name to Daisy’s, I’d have had to add Sutton Travel on there somewhere and I’ve been avoiding any concrete answers about how long I’ve been doing this tour guide gig.

  The point is that he cared enough to offer.

  But still, I haven’t told him. That my name is Violet, not Daisy. I hardly remember it most of the time, the lie. I feel more myself with him than I’ve felt in a long, long time.

  Somehow I’ve managed to justify it in my own head. It’s not even that odd to me that the guests all call me Daisy. I’ve heard the name my entire life. I’ve been called Daisy accidentally more times than I can count. In school, with friends, by my own parents. It’s second nature to respond to it as if it were my own name. The only person who really matters is Jennings, and most of the time he calls me ‘love.’ In front of the other guests he calls me Daisy. Or Miss Hayden. But when it’s just us it’s ‘love.’ And I convince myself that it’s a small technicality—as if my actual real name is insignificant. It’s me he’s spending time with, not Daisy.

  I’ll tell him after—if there is an after. We haven’t talked about the future—not in specific detail, anyway. I’ve told him about my background in design, keeping it as vague as possible. I’ve mentioned that I’m looking for another job in that field and he’s questioned if I’m willing to relocate for work. Relocate to London? I’m not entirely sure that’s what he was asking. Perhaps he was asking if I’d move to New York or Los Angeles or Detroit if the right job came along.

  But he did ask it.

  He did mention a meeting he has in New York in a couple of months. And his cousin in Las Vegas. Were those invitations? Feelers?

  And he suggested that I could look for a position at the parent company of Sutton Travel—which is located in London. He mentioned it twice, in fact. Reminded me about what an Anglophile I am—and I don’t think I was imagining the silent look he gave me when he said it, a whole conversation passing between us without words.

  And…

  I did it. I applied for a job in London. Two of them, in fact. I mean, fuck it, right? I’ve dreamed of living overseas my entire life. If now’s not the time, when? Most everything I own was packed into a storage unit when I moved in with Daisy and honestly, I don’t even miss my stuff, not really. It’s just stuff. I could sell off most of it at this point and not think twice about it. Pack up a few suitcases and move anywhere. What do I need besides my laptop, cell and some personal items?

  Jennings.

  I need Jennings.

  But it’s not like I’d be moving just for him—it would be for me too. Because in the long run of my life, what’s more important? Playing it safe or taking risks? Playing it safe hasn’t gotten me what I expected. If anything, it’s the safe choices I regret.

  Both with my career and my heart.

  So why the hell not reach for the stars? Do something crazy? Crazier than a one-night stand. Something with no sure outcome.

  We’ll see how things play out.

  Until t
hen, I’m on cloud nine.

  Giddy about the possibilities. Optimistic about my career. Enchanted with Jennings.

  It doesn’t last long.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Violet

  The stop in Gettysburg went off without a hitch. We toured the battlefield where the Civil War ended and the site where Abraham Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg Address. In the afternoon the group took a walking tour with a local expert while I returned calls to my recruiter and sent off a few more résumés.

  That evening we had another group dinner. They’re included with the tour, and fun, even if they take forever. Jennings sat with his nan and eyed me at the table I shared with George and a couple from Canada, winking at me while no one was looking.

  Afterwards we went to his room and watched a movie while we waited for dessert from room service. I have no idea how the movie ended, but I’m sure I’ll catch the rest of it on cable sometime. Totally worth it.

  Then—before I know what’s hit me—we’re en route to our final stop on this tour. The week I went into kicking and screaming I’m now wishing would last just a little bit longer. I’ll miss this group. It’s crazy how fast you can bond when you travel together. How quickly you develop inside jokes and find little quirks in people that endear them to you. I’ll miss the way Mrs. Jarvis stops to take a photo of every interesting door we pass. How Mr. Boero cannot leave a stop without a souvenir magnet. How Mrs. Delaine compares the coffee at every stop to Tim Hortons and how Isaac—a young man traveling by himself from Africa—insists on telling the group riddles while we travel from city to city. Except they never make any sense.

  “A woman swims across a river of crocodiles to get to a party, but she doesn’t die. Why?”

  The punchline? Because she was at the party.

  So. Stupid. Yet he made an impression and now I’ll never see him again. I don’t know how my sister does this. I’m a homebody. I get attached. I’m already sad about saying goodbye to this group when we haven’t even parted yet.

  ***

  Our final stop is Philadelphia, which makes me happy. I went to college here—at Penn—and I love any opportunity to visit my old stomping grounds. Just being back in the city is filling me with nostalgia. Now that I’m here, I’m kicking myself for not arranging a coffee date with my old school friends. I haven’t seen the girls since Chloe’s wedding, but I was so wrapped up in the anxiety of pulling off this tour guide gig I didn’t think of it until now. Maybe I’ll send a group text later, see who’s available.

  We’re booked into a hotel downtown in the Society Hill area on a tree-lined street still paved with bricks—it’s part of the charm I love in an old city. The Delaware river is a block away and my old dorm room is less than five miles from here, just on the other side of the Schuylkill. Thinking of it reminds me of all the hope I felt at graduation. The way the possibilities of the world felt endless and all I had to do was jump.

  I lost that somewhere in the four years since.

  I’m not losing it again.

  My attempt to get my groove back with a sexy stranger turned into so much more than I expected. More than a kickstart. More than affirmation. It gave me my life back, in a sense—reminded me of the glee of the unknown. The sheer joy of a blank slate and endless options.

  Today we’re going on a walking tour of Philadelphia. It’s the final day of the tour and we’ve got a local expert who will be leading the tour. All I have to do is trail behind and make sure no one gets lost. Tomorrow the coach will make two trips to the airport to drop the guests and then it’s over. If I can get through today I’ve pulled this off. And today should be easy. I know Philly. Granted, I wasn’t frequenting historic sites much during my university years, but I’m familiar enough with each of our stops today to answer anything I’d be expected to know about this city without Daisy’s notebook.

  I’m in the home stretch.

  There’s a bounce to my step as I arrive in the lobby to greet the group. An actual bounce. I pulled this off—well, almost. But today will be a piece of cake, so yeah, I’ve pulled it off.

  Minus the one thing.

  I haven’t figured out how to tell Jennings my name is Violet yet.

  Tiny detail, really.

  I gnaw on my lip and wonder if he has to know. Of course he has to know, I chide myself. If this is going to continue—if we’re going to continue—I have to tell him everything. As much as I feel like what’s happened between us is real, only one of us has the facts.

  I’ll tell him after. The end of the trip is so close now it doesn’t make sense to mention it today. Or tonight.

  Tomorrow. I’ll tell him tomorrow.

  He’ll probably think it’s funny.

  It’s sorta funny. Right?

  Fuck.

  “Daisy!” Someone is calling my sister’s name as I walk across the lobby. I can’t place the voice and as I turn to follow it, I find a man in maybe his late thirties or early forties approaching me with a wide smile. He’s very good-looking. I’ve never seen him before, but since he’s calling me Daisy I’ll assume Daisy has—and prepare myself to fake it until I can figure out if they know each other. I say a silent prayer that they don’t ‘know’ each other.

  He’s wearing a polo with a logo of the walking tour we’re taking today and holding a small white envelope that he extends in my direction.

  “Hey.” I smile at the guy. It appears his name is Gary, based on a name badge pinned to his shirt. I take the envelope from his hand. Daisy’s name is handwritten on the front in large letters that appear to be the penmanship of a girl under ten. The pink glitter ink helps me narrow it down.

  “Um, thank you,” I offer. Please, please fill me in on what this is about, I think to myself as Jennings arrives in the lobby and stops beside us. I glance at the envelope and back to Gary again. “This is so nice.” At least I think it is. Maybe this guy is a psycho who writes Daisy letters in childish handwriting. Why did she not clue me in on a potential Gary issue in Philadelphia? They’ve clearly worked together on this tour before; he definitely seems to know her. She never was one for formulating a solid plan though. ‘Daisy’s my pantser,’ Mom always says. ‘Violet’s my planner.’

  “From my daughter,” Gary says, and I do my best not to audibly sigh in relief. “Thank you so much for helping her set up her blog. She said she’s up to three hundred followers. She’s pretty excited.” He laughs and shakes his head.

  “Oh, that was so nice of—” I’m about to say ‘her.’ As in, That was so nice of Daisy to help this kid. Except I’m Daisy right now, so I’d be complimenting myself. “So nice of her to write a thank you note.” I ad-lib that reply like a pro. That was close. Time to wrap this up before it goes bad.

  “She loved your photography tips too.”

  “Photography tips,” Jennings mutters to himself under his breath.

  “She said the way you explained moving around the shot for variety and working from the back of a scene forward changed how she sets up a shot. Whatever that means.” Gary laughs.

  I laugh too, a fake ha-ha kind of laugh. “Yeah, those are my best tips.”

  “She’s such a fan of your blog.”

  “You have a blog?” Jennings looks interested in that tidbit of information.

  “Um, thank you!” I beam a smile at Gary and take a half step away in the direction of the group waiting in the lobby. “She’s a sweetheart.” I have no idea if this is true, but everyone thinks their kid is great, so I’m sure I can’t go wrong with a compliment, factual or not.

  “We should stay on schedule,” I add, pointing a thumb towards the door. “Thank you for the thank you.” I wave the card in the air and take another half step. “Give her my regards.” My regards? She’s a child. “I mean, tell her I said hi!” I quickly amend.

  “Of course. Kaia adores you. She wanted to tag along again today but she had a traveling soccer game.”

  I say a silen
t prayer of thanks, because you know who’s great at telling twins apart? Children. They’re like little bullshit detectors.

  “Soccer is important,” I agree. I have no idea what I’m talking about. “So, ready to get this tour started?” I don’t wait for a response, just spin on my heel and start walking towards the group waiting by the lobby doors.

  I make it two steps before Jennings has questions.

  “What’s your blog about?”

  “It’s a travel blog.”

  “A travel blog,” he repeats. “But I thought design was your passion.”

  “It is. I just do the travel blog for fun.”

  “Right,” he says slowly, as if that doesn’t make sense.

  Rightfully so, because who does a thing they’re not really that interested in for fun?

  “Well, I’d love to see it,” he says.

  “Sure.”

  Hell, no. Like I need him asking me more questions I can’t answer? I don’t think so.

  “I’ll show you later,” I lie. By then we’ve reached the group, so I do what any good liar does—I change the subject.

  “Is everyone ready?” I turn my attention to the group and do a quick head count. “Looks like we’re all here!” I chirp in false excitement. I’m not normally this chirpy. I need to tone it down because Jennings is looking at me strangely.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Jennings

  We exit the hotel, Daisy trailing the group to keep an eye out and make sure no one lags behind. I stuff my headset into my pocket and walk beside her, neither of us speaking. Daisy seems jittery and I’m not sure why.

  We have to talk. Tonight. Tomorrow I fly to Connecticut to bring Nan to my aunt and then I’m on a flight back to London.

  There’s no way in hell I’m leaving without knowing when I’m going to see her again.

  Or bringing her with me.

  “So you enjoy photography?” I ask to break the silence. She shrugs and mumbles something about it helping her blog. How did I not know this about her? There are so many things I don’t know about her.