“You smell so good it’s nuts!”
“Thank you!”
The red head’s gaze moves to me. Her smile falls. “Oh. You’re here.”
“I am indeed,” I say, feeling more unwelcome than ever. It’s clear Emily does not like me.
She turns to Laura. “Jeez, Laur, you got skinny. Like. Really skinny.” She looks at me. “Have you been feeding her? Like, at all?”
Her accusatory tone takes me off guard. Heat rushes to my face.
“I try my best,” I say tightly. I hold out my hand. “You must be Emily. Nice to meet you.”
She looks at my hand, then looks away. I quickly pocket the offending appendage. Emily really doesn’t like me.
“So.” I clear my throat. “What can I get you to drink, Emily?”
“Hm.” Emily falls back, her red hair glittering with droplets of rain. “How about some shots?”
“Shots?” I ask.
“Shots,” she replies, unspooling a plaid scarf from around her neck. “I’m in the mood to celebrate. Plus, chances are I’ll run into Kit later—all of the sudden this is his favorite pub, too, so annoying!—so I need a good buzz to deal with him.”
I arch a brow. “Is Kit the Baron or whatever?”
“Prince,” Laura and Emily reply in unison.
“Right. The Prince.”
I’ve never been much of a royal watcher myself, but like most of the world during the nineties, my mum was a huge fan of Princess Diana. I believe I’ve heard of this Kit fellow—one of the Queen’s grandsons, I think?—a member of the lucky sperm club for sure. He probably lives in his parents’ posh palace here in London while partying away his days like the playboy he was born to be. I’d be jealous if I wasn’t, well…me.
“So, these shots,” I say. “Are we talking whiskey, vodka…?”
Laura and Emily exchange a glance. An evil little grin breaks out on Em’s face; a second later, it appears on Laura’s, too.
“I think something a tad more ridiculous than that,” Emily says, rubbing her hands together.
“Hm.” Laura taps a finger against her lips as she pretends to mull this suggestion over. “What about…buttery nipples?”
“Buttery nipples?” I say, heat returning to my face with a vengeance. “You can’t be serious.”
Emily glowers at me. “It’s buttery nipples or bust, Manbun.”
I look at her. She looks back, defiant as ever. It’s clear to me that this is some kind of punishment. What sort of tosser orders butter nipples, and at a pub no less? For a minute I consider fighting it, but the longer I lock eyes with Emily, the more I realize I don’t have a choice.
I’ve got to buy these girls buttery nipples.
Laura settles onto a stool beside Emily, their arms looped, and joins in on our staring contest.
“Come on,” Emily says. “What’s the point of being so rich and famous if you can’t buy your lady and her friend a buttery nipple?”
I drain what’s left of my pint. Lord help me, this is not how I imagined my Friday night in London would go. But I’ve got to appease Laura. Just for tonight, and then tomorrow everything will be back to normal.
“Buttery nipples,” I say. “All right then.”
“Thank you,” Laura says.
Her face glows, her color high. The purple smudges beneath her eyes have disappeared. I didn’t realize how drawn she’s looked until now. How pale. Now—now she looks happy. Giddy, even.
She looks so damn sexy when she’s being mean to me.
I grin. “You won’t be thanking me later when that buttery nipple comes back up.”
“Good thing I have you to hold my hair back for me.”
“What a lucky man I am,” I say.
The girls talk to each other as I belly up to the bar. The back of my neck burns. I know they’re talking about me—Emily is capable of many things, I’m sure, but whispering is not one of them—and it’s making me self-conscious. A little nervous, too. Is Laura telling Emily about the bucket list, I wonder? Is she telling her that we’re done, Laura and I, that I can’t possibly help her with that list, that she’s leaving me when we land in Madrid on Sunday?
I’ll be without my good luck charm. I don’t believe in karma, not really, but I can’t help but feel the good energy I’ve got going this season will abandon me if Laura does.
And then who will I be? Another unemployed, washed up Maddox, just like my father. And just like my father, I won’t be able to take care of mum and Mags and all my loving, dysfunctional, hilarious aunts and cousins. I’ve got practically nothing saved—not the way I’ve been spending to keep both my career and my family afloat. I abandoned my education at sixteen. I have no diplomas, no technical skills. I’ll be a loser, a nobody, and I’ve fought too hard and too long to see that mum’s sacrifices, Maggie’s too, go unrewarded. I’ve got too much momentum to mess up now.
“You all right, mate?” the bartender asks.
I blink. “Yes. Sorry.”
He looks me in the eye. “Looks like you need another pint.”
“Yes, I’ll have another bitter, please.” I set a fifty pound note on the counter. “I apologize in advance, good sir, for the request I’m about to make. But have you ever heard of a buttery nipple?”
His withering glare is all the answer I need.
Sighing, I place another fifty on the counter.
Plus—I’d never admit this aloud—but I’m having a good time. Sort of. Yes, I should be at the champagne party, putting pictures of the lobster I didn’t get to finish on SnapChat. I should be more responsible, because my father certainly wasn’t. I should be thinking of everything, and everyone, that depends on those paychecks I get from sponsors like the champagne company.
But I’m not. I’m thinking about me, and Laura, and how lit up she is tonight, despite this new mean streak of hers.
I leave the bartender an eighty-five pound tip and gather the girls’ shots between my fingers.
Chapter 15
Rhys
A few hours later, and the girls are finally gathering their things to go. Kit the Prince never showed, but he did reply to Emily’s text about the location of nearby falafel stands.
“How great is this? The falafel’s right across the street,” Emily is saying. She sways on her feet, and I hold her steady as I help her into her coat.
“Per-rr-fect,” Laura slurs in reply.
“We gotta”—burp—“get you some fried shit to fatten you up, Laur. I thought you were supposed to finally eat in Madrid.”
I blink. I guess she’s been struggling with this weight issue for a while. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before. I mean, I have hassled Laura about not eating enough—really, she eats like a bird—but she’s always sworn she’s full.
“I was,” Laura says. “I am, I mean. I’m gon-nnn-a start rinow. Eating, I mean. I am so-oo hungry.”
“It’s pouring outside,” I say, glancing down at my tux. The fashion house that made it is paying me ten grand to be seen in it tonight. They’ll be none too pleased if I’m seen ruining it in the rain. “You girls really want to stand in line for falafel when it’s this wet?”
“Yes,” Laura says. “In the rain. Kit says the falafel is the best in London.”
“We could go back to the hotel, order up some room service—”
But Emily is already out the door, and Laura is weaving her way toward it.
A thumb another fifty from my money clip. I offer it to one of the lads standing at the bar with a black umbrella tucked beneath his arm. It’s not terribly cold outside, but the rain will soak through the girls’ jackets in two minutes flat. I don’t want Laura to catch a chill, especially not after seeing her so bright and lit up tonight. And I have to make an attempt to save this tuxedo.
Umbrella in hand, I chase after them.
Despite the rain, the line for the falafel stand is long. Swelled, no doubt, by the tipsy people stumbling out of nearby pubs.
Or, in the c
ase of Emily and Laura, the absolutely obliterated people stumbling out of nearby pubs.
The umbrella is tiny. Fuck. It’s not going to cover all three of us. I glance around, my gaze catching on a couple guys in black coats across the street who stand beneath an awning, smoking. They’re looking at me. My pulse picks up. After a beat, they stub out their cigarettes and head down the street, away from us.
I let out a sigh of relief. Then I look down at my tux.
God I loved it. Maybe a good dry clean could save it? I guess we’ll see. In the meantime, the girls need shelter from the rain far more than I do.
“Aren’t you”—another burp—“a gentleman,” Emily says as I sidle up behind them, holding the umbrella over their heads.
“So,” I say when the girls get their giant falafel pitas. I watch Laura lick a stray bit of tahini from her finger, her tongue darting between her lips. A sudden, potent warmth sharpens between my legs, and not for the first time tonight I wish my pants weren’t quite so tailored. Who knew watching Laura eat street meat would be such a turn on?
I clear my throat. “Sorry to duck out, but I’m knackered. If you’re ready, Laura, I’ll call the driver.”
“You can call him whenever,” she says around a mouthful of food.
“We can drop Emily off, too, if that works for you?” I glance at Emily.
Emily, in turn, glances at Laura. I dig my phone out of my pocket. I hope it’s not soaked beyond repair, like my tux.
“We’re not going with you,” Laura says.
“What?” I look up from my phone. The half-chub I’m sporting suddenly disappears. “Not coming with me? What does that mean? Is this about the car again? Because we can take a—”
“It means I’m staying at Em’s tonight. Her flat’s just up the street from here.”
My pulse thuds, panicked, in my ears. Good God, is she serious? Fat drops of rain drip from the umbrella spindles and land on my nose. I stare at Laura, my thoughts rioting with confusion. I thought for sure Laura’s sudden change in mood didn’t mean anything. I thought it wasn’t serious.
Now I’m not so sure.
I want—need—her to stay. Watching her smile and eat and enjoy herself tonight has spurred my desire to new heights. I want to see more of that smile, hear that throaty, genuine laughter again and again as I make her come. I feel so…free, I suppose, and I don’t want that feeling to end.
I meet her eyes. She’s determined, that much I can tell. I know no matter what I say or offer her, she’s going to stay with Emily tonight.
I just hope that she plans to say with me in the long run.
“All right,” I say. “You promise to call?”
She nods. “Sure. Yeah. We’ll talk in the morning.”
I kiss her mouth, lingering there longer than I should. She tastes like Laura, but different. Sweeter.
When I let her go, something inside me tears, and begins to bleed.
Chapter 16
Laura
The Next Morning
I glide my knife through a perfect pillow of poached egg, my stomach rumbling as the silky yolk seeps across my plate of eggs benedict.
“Hell. Yes,” I say, sawing off a giant bite.
Emily looks up from her own benedict—she ordered the smoked salmon, I did the Florentine—and meets my eyes. “When was the last time you ate, Laur? Like. Really ate real food. You look even thinner than you did back at Meryton.”
“I ate that falafel last night,” I reply around a mouthful of egg, spinach, and the best damn English muffin on the planet.
“Yeah, but eating crap when you’re drunk doesn’t really count,” she says. “This—you ordering eggs benedict for breakfast—this is progress, but it’s not enough. I’ve been worried about you, Laur.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m going to start working on it. Me, I mean. My weight. Being around Rhys and all the beautiful people he hangs out with hasn’t exactly done wonders for my body image.”
I set down my silverware and wash down that bite with a long, slow sip of latte. I didn’t even ask for skim milk; I just let the restaurant make it with whatever they usually do. Whole milk, maybe? It’s freaking delicious.
When Emily suggested we grab a bite at her favorite, “awesomely bougie” breakfast place in Piccadilly, I jumped. I gotta say it’s an amazing spot, a former bank with black tiled walls and a beautiful, buzzy clientele. It feels very…British, I guess. Utterly charming and cute.
“Yeah, I imagine that’s a total mind fuck,” Emily says, setting her wrists on the edge of the table, fork and knife still in her hands. “I’m obviously not Rhys’s biggest fan, but he was kind of a gentleman last night. I think I remember him even holding an umbrella over our heads. I think. My memory’s a little fuzzy after that third—fifth?—shot.”
“It was the sixth, I think. We stopped at six.”
Em swallows, slowly, like she’s deciding whether or not that bite of benedict is going down or coming back up. “Never again,” she says.
“Until tonight.” I grin. “It’s Kit’s birthday, right?”
“Yeah,” Em says. I can tell she’s fighting a grin of her own. “I don’t know why he invited me—I’m probably not gonna go. Who throws themselves a birthday party anyway? It’s at this ridiculous restaurant in Marylebone, definitely not my scene. Gah, he’s the worst.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Well I mean it. Every time I say it, I one hundred percent mean it.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “You sure you don’t have a secret crush on this guy?”
“Ew. No. He’s totally gross,” Em says, hiding her face behind a giant cup of English breakfast tea.
“If by totally gross, you mean a total babe, then yeah. I googled him. He’s one handsome ginger.”
“Who cares? I think Luke is handsomer.”
“You think Luke hung the moon.”
“Whatever. I’m done talking about Kit and how terrible he is. Back to Rhys. I know you two were never really together together. But how do things stand now that you’ve…had it, I guess?”
I shrug. “You know, I started this semester thinking I was going to become this whole new person. I loved your idea of putting together the bucket list as a way to ditch some bad habits, and learn how to be okay with being…well, just okay. Okay instead of perfect, I mean. But then I bumped into Rhys, literally, and the bucket list went right out the window. I was so into him when we first met. Like, head over heels. I guess I kind of forgot about everything else.”
“I know.” Emily picks up her tea. “You liked him. A lot. Do you still like him?”
“Honestly? No. Not anymore.” I pull hand across my face. “So, like, at dinner last night, we sat next to this model—not one of those super skinny models, she actually looked healthy. She was unbelievably cool, you would’ve loved her.”
“Monica Cruz?”
“Yes!”
“I do freaking love her. I just read her essay on teenage drug abuse in British Vogue. I laughed. I cried. It was seriously amazeballs.”
“She’s funny and she’s nice, and she’s really interesting to talk to. What struck me most, though, was her attitude. It was very much ‘I don’t give a fuck’. Not in a bad way—she wasn’t rude or anything—but more like she doesn’t give a fuck what anybody thinks.”
“Easy enough to do when you’re that gorgeous and that rich.”
“Well, yeah. But I just got the feeling that she wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She’s pursuing her passion fearlessly. I admire that. I want to do that. I want to be that girl.”
Em offers me a lopsided grin. “So our little people pleaser was inspired by the girl who made a lot of money saying ‘I don’t give a fuck what you think, I like me and that’s all that matters’.”
“Yes,” I say. “Something like that. She’s the kind of girl I set out to be at the beginning of the semester.”
Emily chews thoughtfully on the last of her English muffin. “I want th
at for you, Laur. I do. And I agree with you that your current relationship with Rhys is standing in the way of you becoming that girl. You’re really sure don’t have any feelings for him?”
“I’m really sure. He’s terrible for me.”
“But he has helped you with the sex part of your bucket list, though, hasn’t he? You’ve been bragging about his prowess in the bedroom since day one.”
I look down at my cup. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“Yeah, about that…”
Emily’s eyes go wide. “Oh no. Don’t tell me—”
“Yeah.” My face burns. “Yeah, I’ve been faking it. The orgasms.”
“All of them?”
“All of them.”
“Wow.” Emily lets out a low whistle. “I thought you were done doing that. You gave all your boyfriends the biggest egos ever because they thought they could make you come just by looking at you.”
“I was done doing that—faking it,” I say. “Or I was going to be. But then things got hot and heavy between me and Rhys pretty fast, and he was so…good looking. And famous. And I liked him so much, and I wanted him to like me, too. So I didn’t want to risk turning him off with my yucky you-know-what.”
“Did he ever say or do anything that would make you think you’re ‘yucky’?”
I shake my head. “No. Definitely not. If anything, he kept offering to go down on me. He loves it when I come. Or when he thinks I come.”
“I love a guy who loves to make a girl come.” Emily looks at me. Her eyes narrow, like she’s got an idea brewing. “I know you don’t want to be with Rhys—”
“I’m done with him,” I say. “I’m putting all my focus on next semester. I’ve already signed up for spring classes back at Meryton, and I’m thinking of whipping up a whole new bucket list to tackle there.”
Emily sets down her knife and fork. She’s started to eat like a British person, holding both at once as she cuts a bite, eats it, then proceeds to cut another. It’s annoyingly cute.
“That’s awesome,” she says, making a steeple with her fingers. “However. I don’t think you should give up on this semester’s bucket list quite yet. As your best friend, I want you to have the best bucket list experience possible. And the sexual exploration thing—that’s something I know you really, really want to do.”
Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3) Page 13