Lingerie on the Floor (The Londonaire Brothers Series Book 1)

by Amanda Aksel

  I shoot him a wry smirk. “You wish.”

  “I do! I would’ve been all over him. I can’t believe you left him hanging last night. And his family’s worth billions!” Garret’s eyes bulge with the word billions.

  “You know, now that I think about it, he knew I wasn’t a model when he propositioned me at the party. And just now. He had me right there. In lingerie. Next to a luxurious bed! Why didn’t he just take me?”

  “Would you have let him?”

  I chew at the dry lipstick on my mouth. Would I have let him fuck me in the studio with a bunch of people just waiting outside the door? The naughtiest place I’ve ever done it is in my pool, and that’s only because it’s so private, it might as well be my locked bedroom. So ordinarily I’d say probably not, but the idea of him laying me down on that bed, sliding my stringy thong down my legs, and putting his tongue on my . . . is so hot.

  “I guess we’ll never know, huh?”

  “Well, if he only dates women for a few weeks, then you should definitely get on that while you’re here. It would be great publicity. Kate Golden dates London billionaire photographer, Drew—”

  “Stop,” I say, holding my hand up. Sometimes, Garret only thinks in terms of good publicity and bad publicity. “I’ve done enough promoting my business today, don’t you think?”

  He lets out a long sigh. “Honey, I’m just saying it wouldn’t hurt the business. Or you for that matter.”

  When I return to my hotel room later that evening, I plop down on the bed and clutch the fine linens in my hands, letting out a frustrated grunt. It’s been two hours since Drew walked out of the studio and my body still hasn’t recovered. Maybe a cold shower will help.

  It does a little. Plus, I’m too tired to think about it anymore. I crawl in between the sheets and close my eyes, letting my mind wander as usual. My thoughts make their way back to the studio. I can see him, standing tall over me, dark eyes penetrating my soul, a sexy smile making my knees weak, and looking so delicious in the tight white T-shirt stretched around his biceps. I shiver thinking about the way he ran his hand up my body, his breath tickling my skin, pushing me close to the edge. I imagine what his hands would feel like wrapped around my waist, his lips playing with mine, and the weight of his body on top of me as I run my nails down his sexy British back. I want him to do things to me, things I never dreamed of doing before. I moan at the fantasy.

  If Drew makes me feel like I’m close when he’s barely touching me, I can’t even imagine what he’d do if he had all of me. I bet it would be amazing. I’ve never had amazing sex. Good sex, sure. Not great, but solid—crossing the finish line. I bet Drew could get me to cross the finish line again and again and again. Not that I’ll ever find out. I doubt I’ll ever see him again.

  ***

  The next day, as I head into my London boutique, the memory of the photo shoot has already started to fade, like a distant daydream I made up. Which is all it was or ever will be—a fantasy. In reality, my focus needs to be one hundred percent on keeping my store and my brand viable.

  The town car driver pulls up to a row of quaint-looking, four-story brick buildings on Mount Street. I’ve always loved this block and I was thrilled when a space opened up just as we were looking for a storefront almost three years ago. Kate Golden Lingerie Boutique is placed beautifully between a luxury clothing boutique and a fine leather handbag and shoe store. I let the driver know that I’ll call when I’m ready to return to the hotel. My stomach flips as I push my way through the glass entrance doors. My eyes scan every inch of the store for anything that’s changed in the last eleven months since I’ve been here. Everything’s the same aside from the pieces on the racks. Looking at it now, it’s even more beautiful than I remember. Flecks of gold in the marble flooring reflect off of the elegant floating chandelier, my designs hanging from every rack, a portrait of a model in my lingerie displayed behind the counter.

  “Kate, you’ve arrived!” Layla, the store manager I handpicked before the opening, walks over. Her golden-blonde hair is swept over one shoulder of her fitted ivory dress with an asymmetrical neckline. “How are you?” she asks, pecking polite air kisses near my cheeks.

  “I’m well. How’re things here?” I glance around the store, remembering how it felt two years ago on opening night when Layla and I clinked our champagne glasses together as we toasted to the success of the new store. Owning a store with my name on it all the way across the Atlantic is the one thing that makes me feel like I’ve really made it—that the world takes my business and me seriously.

  “We had a pretty good day yesterday. You were mentioned on a few London fashion blogs, so I think that helped.”

  “Really? What are they saying?” That I’ve gotten desperate enough to pose in my own designs to promote my company.

  Garret marches toward us from the back of the store wearing a paisley-patterned shirt buttoned up to his Adam’s apple and staring at his phone. “They’re saying the fabulous Kate Golden has arrived in London Town and was last seen leaving Nina Savoy’s mansion party. Early.” He draws the corners of his mouth down in an exaggerated frown like a sad emoji.

  Layla gasps, bringing her hand to her chest. “You went to a party at Nina Savoy’s house? And left early?”

  I shrug like it’s no big deal. “Yes.” Then, I turn to Garret, snatching the phone from his hands. “And it doesn’t say that.” He’s not even reading a headline. He’s scrolling Instagram. I hand his phone back. “I didn’t know you’d be here today.”

  “Of course, Danika from Lux will be here to interview you in an hour. I think it’s good for me to hang around. The spread is a huge fucking deal.”

  “Oh, that’s right!” Layla flashes her bright teeth. “How was the photo shoot?”

  My mind flashes back to the moment Drew slipped his finger over the top of my stocking, and suddenly, the memory is fresh again. My stomach tightens and tingles.

  Garret shoots a knowing look. “It was hot. I can’t wait to see the pictures. Kate’s totally a model now. Aren’t you, Kate?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” I’m not a model unless it’s Drew’s photo shoot, then I’ll play model. “Anyway, I’m gonna get some work done in the office. Just let me know when Danika gets in.”

  “Sure,” Garret says and I leave the two in the store.

  The moment I sit at the desk and log into my email, I’m in full work mode. Nothing can distract me. I still have a ton of things to do before the London Lingerie Fashion Week show. I click away on my laptop, bouncing back and forth between my calendar, my email, and digital sketches.

  A figure appears in the corner of my eye. Knock, knock.

  “Ah!” I startle, throwing my hand onto my chest.

  “Sorry!” Layla says. “Danika’s here.”

  “Oh.” I take a breath. “I’ll be right out. See if she wants something to drink.” Layla smiles, then waltzes off.

  I shut my laptop and use the picture app on my phone to check for any loose strands of hair or smudged eye makeup. When I’ve smoothed back my locks, I give my skirt a quick brush with my hand and head to the front for my interview.

  I’ve never met Danika before, but upon first sight she’s not what I expected of a high-fashion magazine journalist—casually dressed in ripped jeans, suede ankle boots, a loose top, and a light-colored blazer with the sleeves pushed up to the crooks of her elbows. Her dark-root, golden-highlighted hair’s pulled back in a messy ponytail, with strands dangling around her oversized glasses. “You must be Kate,” she says between chomps of bubble gum. “So nice to meet you.”

  “Welcome to my store,” I reply, smiling.

  We share the English air kisses, then sit on a velvet-upholstered bench I found at an antique shop in Kensington back before we first opened. The blush-pink fabric is still lavishly soft.

  “Are you ready to get started?” Danika asks.

  I nod, half-waiting for her to pull out some sort of recording device but there’s nothi
ng. Danika and I begin the conversation informally, just getting to know one another. Forty minutes in and she still hasn’t asked me a single interview-style question and yet, I’ve told her the entire story of my journey from growing up with a famous lingerie model, to my days at FIT, and turning my childhood dream into a multimillion-dollar business. Garret hovers nearby and I know he’s listening to every word but surprisingly, he never interjects. I give her the tour of the boutique, including the bright-white, Ikea-style office in the back, fighting back giggles every time she uses the word “knickers”.

  “Well, this has been great,” Danika says, grinning as if she’s enjoyed her time at the store. “It was really nice meeting you, Kate.” She extends her hand and I give it a friendly shake.

  “You too. Come visit anytime,” I say and I mean it. That interview was painless. Danika is awesome.

  “Aw, yeah, cheers! I will.” She waves goodbye and heads out of the office.

  After she’s left, I pull up the twenty new emails on my phone, including one from the potential investor, and stroll out of the office toward the storefront. My three-inch booties echo against the stone floor as I read his email from the screen less than a foot from my face.

  Kate,

  Looking forward to meeting you after the show.

  See you there—BAM!

  My forehead jams into some guy’s rock-hard chest. My phone somersaults out of my hand, crashing to the ground with a loud smack. I immediately drop to my knees to rescue it, not caring whether my own “knickers” are peeking out of my short, flared, red dress. A web of cracked glass spreads across the screen of my beloved device.

  “Shit!” I’ve never cracked my screen before. Ever. My phone’s been fully protected with a shock absorbing case. Or at least I thought it was safe. My cheeks flush in irritation at the thought of having a broken screen for the next couple of weeks that I’m in a foreign place.

  “Ouch,” a deep, familiar voice says. I look forward, finding myself faced with a decent bulge in a pair of dark jeans, inhaling a sweet, musky cologne. My eyes trace up to his dark-gray shirt covered with a black leather jacket. “Hello, again,” Drew says, flashing me that annoyingly sexy smirk.

  He offers his hand and I have no other choice but to take it. Feeling his warm skin against mine sends a spike of heat up to my already flaming cheeks and back down to my “knickers.”

  He lifts me to my feet like I’m as light as Chantilly lace.

  “Why do we keep running into each other? Literally,” I ask, trying desperately not to blush, which seems to be some kind of biological response to his presence. Coming face-to-face with the Londonaire’s, sorry Londoner’s, denim crotch twice in one week can’t be a coincidence. Can it?

  “I think the universe must have a sense of humor.” He stares into my eyes, and for a moment I feel like he can read my thoughts. Luckily, I don’t know what to think when he looks at me like that. It’s like I’m Just Kate.

  I glance away, tucking my hair behind my ear. “What are you doing here?” Has he come here to find me? Is he going to ask me out? Do I want him to ask me out?

  Yes!

  No.

  I don’t know.

  Drew holds up his Nikon digital camera. “Just getting some photographs of the store for the magazine.”

  “Oh,” I drop my shoulders, feeling like I’m a deflating balloon making that sad little squeal. Maybe I do want him to ask me out. Ugh, it’s strange feeling, like a typical girl crushing on a guy. Oh, my God—I have a crush. An actual, bona fide crush! No, no, no. I don’t get crushes. I don’t like them. The result of a crush is literally in the name. “Well, I’ll let you get to it.” I move past him and lock eyes with Garret who’s ten feet ahead. He waves me back to Drew, but I shake my head.

  “Leaving so soon?” Drew asks.

  Soon? Drew knows a thing or two about leaving soon. I turn back, deadpan; hoping my lack of expression will lead to a lack of emotion. “Isn’t this what we do? Crash into each other and walk away?” I should walk away. Right now. My legs are not getting the signal. Why can’t I leave?

  He seems to hold back a laugh and arches his brow instead. Why is he so damn cute? “I suppose there’s some truth to that.” He runs a finger over his chin, averting his gaze like he’s thinking. “I’ll tell you what, I won’t leave you hanging if you don’t.”

  I drop my jaw in an offended glare. “So you were playing games?” I knew it! Having a crush on a man is one thing, but crushing on a player . . . that’s another.

  Drew gives me a sensual look and steps closer. “Games are for children. Yesterday was business.”

  I tilt my chin up, keeping his gaze. “And I suppose today is business too?” My tone is flirty. Unintentionally flirty. But I can’t help it.

  He takes another step and my pulse begins to race. “Just until I get all the shots I need.” Any closer and he’ll crash into me. I want him to.

  “And then what?”

  He drops his eyes and I feel his fingers graze my hand. But he doesn’t take it. Instead, he pulls my phone away. “Then, I’ll take you to get your phone repaired.” And the debonair act is gone and his face relaxes into a casual expression. I almost completely forgot about my phone and the fact that we’re standing in the middle of my store.

  “Really?” I ask, looking at the hopeless broken screen he’s holding up. “Today?”

  “Sure, if you’d like.”

  “Yeah, I guess we could do that,” I say trying to sound cool as a cucumber. Okay, the fact that I’m even thinking that phrase tells me I’m not cool at all. I clear my throat and straighten my spine before folding my arms over my chest.

  “Great. I should be done in about half an hour.”

  “Perfect.” I sound anything but perfect. Nothing about the way I feel around him is perfect. Except that it is. And that’s what makes me nervous. Maybe I shouldn’t let him take me to get my phone fixed. Then again, it’s an errand, not a date. Okay, I’ll go with him today but then that’s it.

  He lets out a small laugh and walks back to the front of the store. Did I say something funny?

  I look around the boutique. Every woman in here, working or shopping, has her eye on Drew as he points his camera around the store. I can practically feel the pheromones circling the air. But I can’t blame them. I want to watch him too, but I can’t linger. So I return to a Drew-free zone: the back office. I call the driver and request a pick-up in half an hour, then try to get back to work. But I’m hyperaware of him wandering around my boutique. It’s not only mental, it’s visceral. And it’s distracting. I’ve forgotten how nagging crushes are, how they pull at your attention every free moment.

  A short while later, I hear him down the hall chatting with Layla, and I can’t sit still any longer. I grab my purse and meet him in the hall.

  “I was just coming to get you,” he says.

  “Lead the way,” I reply, gesturing at the front door.

  Garret and Layla wave goodbye as a few of the customers give me the stank-eye. Hope they don’t decide against buying because I’m leaving with the hottest guy to step foot in my store. And I mean it, even though once a TV heartthrob took his girlfriend on a shopping spree in my boutique. That was very good for business. And that TV star has nothing on Drew.

  “This is our ride.” I point to the black town car as it pulls up to the curb.

  Drew gives the car a dismissive look. “I have another mode of transportation,” he says, walking up to the car.

  I tilt my head. Another mode of transportation? Garret said Drew was loaded. Maybe he has a personal chauffeur with a much nicer car, or a Bugatti, or a private jet. The driver rolls down the tinted window and Drew leans in. That’s when I see the motorcycle helmet hanging on his backpack. He pulls a stack of cash from his jacket pocket and hands the driver what looks like the equivalent of a twenty. “Sorry to trouble you,” he says. The guy takes the money, tilts his hat, and drives off.

  My gut twists tighter than
a motorcycle around a telephone pole, which is exactly what I’m afraid of.

  Drew turns to me. “You ever been on a motorbike?”

  “No,” I say, thinking it would have been safer to walk away earlier and that I’m not getting on the back of anyone’s motorcycle. Especially not in this dress.

  “A virgin, are you?” He arches his dark eyebrow and I feel that twist in my gut unravel.

  “There’s a first time for everything.” He waves me over and I follow him to the curb. I look ahead to a vintage motorcycle. This guy really is a James Dean wannabe. And I don’t wanna be cruising around the city in a vehicle with no doors.

  “Look, Drew. I appreciate you wanting to help me repair my phone but there’s no way I’m getting on the back of that bike.”

  “That’s because you haven’t been formally introduced. This is Black Jack.” Drew gestures to the metal machine as if it can greet me with a handshake or a smile.

  I shoot him a funny look. “It has a name?”

  “Of course. I name all my bikes.”

  “Well, thanks for the introduction but I can’t ride this. I don’t have a helmet.” Or the guts.

  “That won’t be a problem.” Then seemingly out of nowhere, he pulls out a small bowl-shaped helmet. “Safety first.”

  I suck in a deep breath and hold it. Before I can say another word, he places the helmet on my head and I don’t flinch or try to run away even though I’m willing my legs to move. If I were to name them, I’d call them Betrayer One and Betrayer Two. “I don’t think I’m a motorcycle kind of girl, you know?”

  “How do you know? You’ve never been on one before. Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” He begins fastening the strap around my chin.

  I hate to admit it, but he makes a valid point. When I was a kid, my stepmom was always eating salad with the grossest smelling Caesar dressing. So I thought it must be disgusting. Until I was at a dinner party at my college roommate’s family home and they served Caesar salad. It would’ve been rude not to at least try it. So I did, and it was the most delicious salad I’d ever had. I practically licked my salad plate that night. I missed out on years of Caesar salad and to this day it’s my favorite, and I never would’ve known if I hadn’t been forced to try it. Then again, riding a motorcycle with someone you barely know is not the same as sampling a salad.