by McCoy, Katie
She tosses a pillow at Eve—which hits me in the face. “Hey!” I protest, laughing. “Weapons down.”
“OK, OK.” Eve lifts the remote. “And be quiet. I don’t want any interruptions to Jude’s sexy British accent this time.”
“Never mind his accent,” Zoey adds. “There are like, ten other things he should be doing with that mouth.”
It’s late by the time we finish the movie, and the girls head home. I change into my pj’s and then settle back on the couch again with my laptop, prepping for work tomorrow.
After hustling together a bunch of part-time freelance gigs and internships after fashion school, I finally landed a full-time job (with benefits!) at Styled, a new fashion start-up. We’re virtual stylists, so people upload photos of themselves and their wardrobe, and we conjure up a makeover, complete with online shopping recommendations, hair and makeup tips, and more. Most of our work is done online, but I have a client coming in for full makeover. Carol has been a stay-at-home mom for nearly fifteen years, but now she’s about to get back out there, working in tech, and needs an upgrade from yoga pants and Skechers to interview outfits.
Clients like this are my favorite. Sure, the high-fashion stuff can be fun, but I love jobs that are about helping a client be the best that they can be. Starting from scratch and seeing the massive transformation gives me a kick every time—not just the changes on the outside, but the effect on clients’ confidence and self-esteem, too.
I’ve been prepping samples and storyboards for Carol for a couple of weeks, all online, but tomorrow is when it all comes together, so I make sure I’m prepared: mentally putting the outfits in order. Figuring out which shoes go with which suit. My mind whirs away with all the clothing combinations.
Until I suddenly feel I’ve been dropped into a nightclub, complete with high-energy dance beats and bass that could shake the rafters. If I had rafters, and not just peeling popcorn ceilings.
What the hell?
Following the music, I head across the hall to Zach’s door. I knock. Louder. “Zach!” I holler, beating on the door. “For God’s sake, would you please turn down the—”
The music shuts off, and the door swings open, in time for my yell to echo at full volume.
“—MUSIC!!”
“No need to yell,” Bigfoot says evenly. He’s shirtless, wearing a pair of jeans he must have just pulled on, because only the bottom couple of buttons are done up . . .
And he’s definitely going commando.
A squeak escapes me and my eyes dart back up to his face. I flush.
“So, Emma,” he drawls, crossing his arms over his hairy (yet maddeningly well-defined) pecs. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I ignore that he called me Emma—and punched up the word pleasure—and raise my eyebrows. “Can you please keep it down? It’s almost midnight.”
“Aww, am I interrupting your beauty sleep?”
“Come on.” I try to stay calm. “Some of us have to work in the morning.”
“Sucks to be you.”
I cross my arms, getting annoyed now. “Look, all I’m asking is a little neighborly consideration. Play whatever you like, just keep it regular level. Unless you’re killing someone in there and need it to drown out the screams,” I add.
He smirks. “Well, they’re not screams of pain . . .” He glances back into the apartment, and I realize he must have a girl there.
Typical Bigfoot.
“Bigfoot?” he asks, and I realize I was muttering out loud. Then he looks down at his bare feet before shrugging. “Well . . . You know what they say about big feet . . .” He waggles his eyebrows, and I throw up my hands with a frustrated,
“Mneugh!”
“Zach?” I hear a female voice, and then the screaming girl in question comes sauntering to the door. She’s cute, dark-haired and petite, wearing an oversized Harvard sweatshirt over . . . clearly, nothing else. “Oh, hi.” She smiles prettily at me.
Zach puts his arm around the woman and pulls her into his side. I am one thousand percent sure he’s making a point. “Shonda, this is my neighbor, Emma. She just came over to tell me how much she’s enjoying the music.”
“Gemma,” I correct with an exasperated sigh. He knows my name. He just loves getting a rise out of me. “And it’s not like I want to be a buzzkill, but other people live in this building, too.”
Bigfoot shrugs. “The Kowalskis are out of town, Pete and Kev are at a club, and Cecily works nights.” He gives me a sad-clown face. “It’s the three of us, princess. But if you want to come join the party . . .” He holds the door wider.
Wait, is he seriously inviting me to a threesome right now?
Ugh!
“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” I say sarcastically. “Maybe another time.”
“Sure thing, sweetheart.”
“It was nice meeting you,” Shonda pipes up. “And I’m sorry, we’ll keep the music down.”
“Thank you!” At least one person here has a heart.
I turn on my heel and stalk back across the hall. Zach’s voice follows me. “A pleasure, as always, Emma.”
I flip him the bird over my shoulder.
He chuckles.
I slam my door, feeling like I won that one. Until twenty minutes later, when the music starts up again.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I yell at the wall.
Although, maybe the music is better than hearing his name yelled out in the throes of passion. For a hairy, rude asshole, the man gets way too many girls. Either he’s right about those big feet, or . . . I have no idea. Hypnosis?
Either way, I’m going to have to figure out some way to deal with him before I wind up a stumbling zombie. Blackmail, or bribery, or sneaking in while he’s gone to disconnect his surround-sound speakers. Nobody would blame me for a little light sabotage, right? Sleep-deprivation is against the Geneva Convention.
I pull my pillow over my head and try to get to sleep.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Will she tame the Bigfoot and his big… feet? Gemma and Zach’s hot and hilarious romance is just getting started! How to Choose a Guy in 10 Days is available now - CLICK HERE to order from your retailer of choice
ROYAL PLAYER
A Standalone Romantic Comedy
Charlie Davenport is the bad boy of British tennis - and third in line to the throne. He’s a beast on the courts, and a wild animal in bed (according to all the tabloids). Girls are lining up for chance at his crown jewels, and when I stumble into the wrong Wimbledon dressing room and catch a glimpse of his game, set, AND match, I can see why.
So what’s a little good luck kiss between friends strangers?
I know better than to get involved with a bad boy like Charlie. But now he’s on a winning streak, he thinks I’m his lucky charm - and you know what’s luckier than a kiss?
Everything.
Suddenly, I've got paparazzi on my trail, exes coming out of the woodwork — and you don’t know ‘cutthroat’ until you’ve seen a pack of hungry socialites set loose near the Royal Family.
I’m in way over my head, and even worse - I’m falling in love. Can this American girl win her Prince Charming? Or will we both crash out of the championships in flames?
Wimbledon-meets-The Prince and Me in this hilarious, sexy new romance ROYAL PLAYER
Read on for chapter one!
2
Emmy
If you made a ranking of the world’s sexiest sports, I’d have bet my (empty) bank account that tennis wasn’t anywhere on the list. Believe me, I was the same. Give me a baseball player rounding third in his tight white pants, or a muscular quarterback any day. But stepping through the front gates at Wimbledon on Opening Day, I could see I’d gotten it all wrong.
There were hot guys. Everywhere.
It was like being a kid in a candy shop, if the candy was tall, muscular, well-groomed men. Guys with brown hair, blonde hair, even a few that had that scruffy Prince Harry redhead thing going for the
m. Guys with bashful dimples or badass beards; in dashing linen suits or strolling past in athletic clothes, their tanned, gorgeous bodies glistening with sweat.
I was pretty sure I was drooling.
I was also totally lost, jet-lagged, and exhausted after a cramped eleven-hour flight in coach from San Diego and a forty-minute tube ride to my Aunt Suze’s in King’s Cross to get here. But looking around at the manicured courts, the buzz of the crowds—and did I mention the guys?—I knew without a doubt that all my scrimping and saving to afford this summer after college in London was so. Freaking. Worth. It.
I pulled out my cellphone and called the reason I was here at all, my BFF, Paige.
“I’m here, and I’m lost,” I announced, looking around again. The crowds were surging around me, like this was the biggest sporting event of the year. Which, in England, I guess it was. “Where are you?”
“The refreshments tent,” Paige answered. “Do you see the clock tower thing?”
“Uh . . .” I squinted. “Nope?”
“Didn’t watch the Snapchat I sent?”
I laughed. “Which one?”
Paige had arrived the week before, and had not only given me detailed directions for how to get to the club from the station (hint: it required taking a shuttle set up just for the weeks of Wimbledon), but had also sent me no less than three Snapchats of herself on that same shuttle. There were also additional Snapchats of her getting from the shuttle to the tent where we’d be working. Apparently, since I had never been abroad, she thought I was incapable of using public transportation. It might have been annoying if she wasn’t so freaking funny in all the videos she sent me. Or if it hadn’t turned out she was right.
“Just do what I did.” Paige sounded smug. “Find the nearest hot guy and ask him for directions. Oh crap, they’re starting training. You better get here soon!”
She hung up, and I looked around for rescue. There were plenty of hot guys on offer, but I figured my travel aroma wouldn’t exactly be the best introduction, so I found a nice-looking older couple with backpacks, sunhats, and a cooler.
“Excuse me . . .” I approached them. They looked prepared, and sure enough, they gave me a spare map and pointed me on my way.
I hurried down the path. I was already late for the waitressing gig my Aunt Suze had set up for us. I’d barely had enough time to drop my bag and trade my comfy travel clothes for my uniform before I was out the door to the All England Tennis Club. Since my meager savings just about got me across the Atlantic, I would be spending the next couple of weeks working as a waitress serving cream teas during Wimbledon to fund the rest of my trip. As you do.
The refreshment stands were halfway across the grounds. I spotted Paige as soon as I approached the tent. It was hard not to spot Paige, even if you weren’t looking for her. Even though all of the waitresses had been told to wear all black and have our hair pulled back away from our faces, Paige had her bright red hair piled up in a messy bun on top of her head and was wearing a short black skirt and low-cut black shirt, all in contrast to her pale and beautifully freckled skin. In true Paige fashion, she had managed to look classy instead of trashy, which probably had to do with the fact that she was tall and lean. If I had tried to wear what she was wearing, my big boobs and Kim K butt would have made the whole thing look obscene.
Which is why I was wearing a black shirt that I had altered myself. I had tailored it to fit my curves and managed to keep it from doing the usual D-cup drama of looking like I was about to bust the buttons open. My plain black pants were similarly adjusted. I had long learned that it was far easier to buy things in a bigger size and tailor them down than trying to find anything off the rack that would fit my rack. Because not only was I curvy, I was short. If I didn’t know how to sew, I’d probably have to make do with straining seams and trailing hems all the damn time.
When Paige spotted me, she let out a squeal loud enough to make everyone around her turn and stare. Then she was rushing through the tent, already in the middle of a sentence when she reached me, nearly tackling me to the ground.
“. . . all day, and I’ve been trying to focus but OH MY GOD, Emmy, they are all so freaking hot.”
I detangled myself from her grip.
“Stop, rewind, and start again,” I told her.
Instead she gave me another hug.
“I’m SO glad you’re here.” She let out another squeal, and then looped her arm around my shoulder. “Let me introduce you to everyone.”
But instead of introducing me to “everyone,” she propelled me toward the bar, where another girl a little older than both of us was standing, cleaning glasses. She had blonde hair with short bangs, cat-eyed glasses with rhinestones, and was wearing bright red lipstick, both of which added to her unique vintage-y look. I immediately liked her.
“Emmy, this is Jules.” Paige pushed me forward. “Jules, this is Emmy, my best friend in the entire world.”
“Charmed.” Jules extended her hand, her accent posh and British and to die for. “I’ve heard loads about you.”
I tried to remember if Jules had been in any of the Snapchats Paige had sent, but before I could respond, Paige sucked in a breath, her hand fanning her face rapidly.
“Holy shit,” she murmured.
I turned and immediately seconded the sentiment. There was a group of guys just by the tent, looking like they’d just stepped out of the pages of GQ: all button-down shirts and tailored pants that hugged their strong thighs.
“Is this what all guys in London look like?” I asked, unable to stop staring.
“Mmmhmmm,” she said, beaming. “Aren’t you glad I dragged you into this trip?”
“Definitely,” I laughed.
Apparently Paige had unwittingly found paradise. And paradise was the Wimbledon refreshment tent in spring. Because, oh my lord, the things that had sprung. I fanned myself, feeling very, very warm.
“Here.” Jules pushed forward two tall glasses of water full of ice. “You both look like you need it.”
I took a long gulp, while Paige pressed the glass to her chest and wiggled her fingers saucily at the guys walking by. They all smiled—and all of them had great smiles—and one of them winked, slowing his step to let the others walk ahead.
Paige put her glass back on the bar. “I’ll be right back.” She had never been a girl to pass up an opportunity.
I watched her go with a twinge of jealousy. The guy was seriously smoking—they all were—and they seemed to surround us. I took another long, long drink of water.
“The pay might be shite,” said Jules, “but you can’t beat the view.”
We clinked our glasses, both of us still watching Paige flirt. Paige was totally convinced she would end the summer with a hot, rich, British boyfriend. I was in total support of her ambitions, but I had far less lofty goals. All I wanted was to explore London—especially all the places I’d seen in my mom’s favorite movies—and find inspiration. A boyfriend was not high on my list. Boy-watching, on the other hand, well, there’s inspiration and then there’s inspiration.
Jules let out a low whistle as Paige wrote her number down on his hand.
“Damn, girl.” She clapped as Paige returned. “You’ve got some serious game.”
Paige dropped into a mock curtsy. “I’ve only got a few months to bag a Tom Hardy or Henry Cavill of my very own. I can’t be wasting any time.”
“What about you, Emmy?” Jules asked. “What type of bloke are you looking for?”
I tried to hide my blush by looking down at my feet. But Paige came to my rescue.
“Emmy’s not looking for a guy,” she explained. “Though I can’t figure out why.”
“I have to go back to San Diego in September,” I reminded her. “What’s the point of looking for a guy that I have to leave in a few months?”
Secretly there were a few other reasons I wasn’t looking to get involved with a guy, but most of those were reasons I kept to myself. It also didn’t help th
at when it came to guys, I was the polar opposite of Paige. Shy, tongue-tied, and not sure what to do with my hands. Most of the time I couldn’t even tell if a guy was interested. I wished I had half the confidence that Paige did.
“What’s the point in looking for one you have to keep that long?” Jules quipped. “This is the place for flings. Hot, sexy, short flings. Trust me.” She looked over at another group of hunky guys walking by. “Most of them look like Jon Snow, but they tend to know about as much as him as well. Which is to say—”
“Nothing,” I said along with Paige.
“As long as they know something in the bedroom,” Paige said with a purr. “I don’t care what they do outside it. They could be as dumb as a tennis ball for all I care.”
“I thought you were looking for a rich British boyfriend,” I said.
“Sure.” She shrugged. “But not all of them have to be boyfriend material.”
“Just lu-vah material,” Jules joked.
“Precisely.” Paige’s eyes were already following another group of guys, getting a wink from one of them. “Excuse me, ladies,” she grinned.
I rolled my eyes. If Paige wasn’t my best friend, I don’t know what I’d think about her outrageous behavior. But because she was, I could only pretend to be annoyed by it. Especially since I was secretly envious. Maybe I had been a little too quick to reject the idea of a fling while I was here. Not that I’d get much more than a second glance with Paige around.
“Well, at least one of us will be getting lucky,” Jules muttered, excusing herself when a phone rang behind the bar.
While she was talking, a harried looking gentleman came barreling towards me.
“Are you one of the tea girls?” he asked.
“Um.” I glanced around. Because while I technically was one of “the tea girls,” the only training I had received was on how to ogle cute British boys.
But the gentleman ignored my hesitation, shoving a tray into my hands. It was heavier than I expected and I nearly dropped it.
“This needs to go to the equipment manager,” he told me. “It was supposed to be there ten minutes ago.”