by Emily Bow
I gestured to his computer. “Are you finishing a class?” This was shaky ground, because I did not want to end up typing his term papers. What would that teach me? This internship was for me; I was supposed to be benefitting. In essence, he worked for me. He owed me the dog show as a way of sharing knowledge of his culture. Knowledge I’d return home with to America, enriched and ready for my real job. Whatever that would be.
“How do you know I’m not searching for someone to fancy me? An online love match?”
I ignored his sarcasm, tilted my head, and refrained from sharing my sordid theories as to his browsing history. “I’m prepared to make a straight-up offer for the favor.” I put intrigue into my voice to tempt him.
His gaze was on my lips. “Let’s hear it then.”
What did I want to do for him? I eyed his perfectly pressed clothes and monogrammed shirt. He didn’t need a valet. I wasn’t doing that. He'd mentioned online love, and he’d been looking at my mouth. Sometimes people made jokes about what they really wanted.
I checked out his mouth. Nice lips.
“Let’s hear it,” he repeated, his blue gaze even more intent on me, as if he were reading my mind and willing me to say it.
“A kiss,” I said.
A kiss.
My brain went blank. Meant to think that, not say it.
Said it though.
How long had the room been quiet? My heart pumped faster, and heat flushed my lips. I waited for his response.
Wythe’s grip on his laptop slipped. The screen tilted and slid. He caught the base before it fell and put it on the ledge beside him. “Okay then, I’d do that.”
The sincerity in his voice was hot. I wanted to melt forward, lean into him, onto him. Flat out on him and kiss him right then.
I leaned away, back against the wall, instead.
Had I just creeped on him?
He worked for me.
Sort of.
Or I worked for him.
I tilted my head. He didn’t look creeped out. That was the definition, right? How the other party took it. He looked extremely interested. This hot handsome guy was into me. I liked that. Though kissing did probably fall under the “no touching” rule. Maybe. Ah, well, what Peppa didn’t know wouldn’t destroy my summer.
A kiss.
His agreement had been fast. I should have offered to hold his hand and worked my way up from there. Live and learn. The bargain was struck.
His computer screen was now angled toward me.
I shouldn’t look, but I couldn’t not look.
I looked.
Chapter 8
Wythe’s computer screen was split. One had numbers, some kind of math. The other screen had cryptic words. Car park. Sun. Not new.
Not what I’d expected. I’d expected sports, or loose women, or…I don’t know, engineer stuff. Whatever that was. Equations.
Instead, it was cryptic. Like a puzzle. The clues popped answers into my brain: Car park. Parking lot. Like where the news had reported that they’d found their king. Sun. Not new. I knew the answer. I pointed at the laptop. “Richard the third. Mom says he got a bum rap, but I don’t know.” Okay, that was one thing I liked about Britain—the history and the literature. Austen. Bronte. Churchill.
Wythe froze and leaned back. “What’s that?” A sharp tone entered his voice. He looked a little stunned.
I had it right. Didn’t I? I re-read the onscreen words before I spoke again. Car park. Sun. Not new. “Richard the third. He made the news at home when y’all dug him up out of a parking lot. That was epic.”
Wythe slid off the window seat and paced along the dark maroon rug covering the hardwood floors. “Richard the third.” He clapped his hands together with one sharp pop. “I should have seen it.” He returned and tilted the computer so we both could see the screen easily as he typed in the answer. Correct flashed across the screen, followed by red flashes. “This lit class sucks.”
I was not offended. Not everyone could love literature…or even Hornicorn. Someone had to do math. “My degree’s literature. You know. Richard III, Shakespeare. ‘The sun of York. Made glorious summer of this sun of York; and all the clouds that lour’d upon our house.’”
His eyes glazed over and lost their feral brightness, so I stopped quoting Shakespeare.
My mouth curved, and I tried to squelch my amusement. Nor did everyone appreciate a fine turn of phrase. Maybe he’d like how I’d solved the puzzle part. “We don’t say ‘car park’ in Texas, and Mom commented on the newscaster saying, ‘parking lot.’” I shook my head. “I was young, but I remember it because it was such a cool story. Finding your king buried under a parking lot. Way to revere.”
Wythe tapped on the computer, shooting off an email. “We’re not allowed outside help on this project. I’ll have to forfeit the answer and take the time penalty if I don’t make you my partner. I’ll send the professor your information.” He said it as if it were decided, as if I’d agreed to something.
I was still recuperating from some jetlag, so I wasn’t fully tracking. “Partner in what?”
“My final class is literature. I have to finish the class. There’s a treasure hunt going. The more clues you solve, the higher your grade, and it drives you toward an answer to the ultimate class question. Get it wrong, and I’m stuck with a thousand papers.”
And I could help him get it right, by taking the class with him. No. “I’m done with school. Graduated.” Bachelor of Arts in Literature. Check. Real life job prospects. Zero. And frankly, my brain was a bit fried over it all. I needed the Hornicorn book to escape and clear my literary palate. No more classes for me. “Nope. I’m done.”
“This is your love. Literature. Or so you implied.” Wythe spoke like a lawyer at a serial killer murder trial. His expression was determined, unrelenting. He was manipulating me, and he wasn’t going to accept a refusal.
I did love books. And this would give me bargaining power with him. Plus, I’d get time with this hot guy who intrigued me. I’d help him. I’d even join his class. But he didn’t need to know that yet. “Why don’t you have a class partner already?” Class partner. Life partner. I had many more questions for him. I should relax; I had six weeks to get to know him. But I had a desire to know about his personal life right now, and it was making me quiz him.
He shifted toward the window. The weak British sun glinted against his blond hair and bright eyes. The understated glow framed him like the subject of a painting, and it was almost too much for me. Wythe would’ve been unbearably handsome in the brightness of the Texas sun.
“I did have,” Wythe said. “Vihaan Laghari. It didn’t work out.” He waved his hand like he was shooing away the rest of his evasive answer. “Vihaan jumped ship and became Peppa’s partner.”
“Peppa, as in…” I jerked my thumb toward the door because I didn’t want to say, ‘Head Intern Peppa’ and I couldn’t recall her last name. “And no one else would team up with you?” I didn’t believe that at all.
He frowned. “None for the right reasons. I turned them down to go it alone. But I need someone to bounce ideas off. You’ll do.”
I’ll do? How super not hot.
He clicked on a website, and navy blue filled the background along with an image of the honey-colored Oxford University.
I didn’t know their admission requirements, but I knew I couldn’t get in. That was an old-money, old-school, freak smart kind of place. Or maybe new money was let in, too, as long as the student had the freak smarts. I was reading a book called Hornicorn. Should I put that on my application and imagine the admissions letter getting tossed in the can? My eyebrows rose. “I can’t get into Oxford.” I couldn’t even feel embarrassed about the statement. Oxford was that far out of my reach.
He waved me off. “My mother’s prime minister. You’ll get in.”
There was that. A prime minister could get me a passport or a new identity. She could probably get me in to audit a class at Oxford. Wythe had me ther
e. And, somehow, he’d taken over our meeting. Bargain, bargain, bargain. I had the one point with the dog show. I needed two more points. “I might do this. But you’ll have to do an event for me, too.”
“Of course. We’ve already agreed on that. The price is one kiss for the dog show.”
“Didn’t I just solve your puzzle? That won’t get me the dog show? You want a kiss, too?” I was teasing him now, because I was totally open to the kiss and pretty much had been since he’d zipped me up in that dark closet.
“We already struck up an agreement. Gentlemen don’t renege on their agreements.”
I rather liked that, but I crossed my arms over my chest and tapped my shoe while tilting my face away in a classic hard-to-get pose.
He huffed out a breath. “Maybe. A second event. If you can solve the whole puzzle.”
I could do that. I didn’t stop my grin. “Tell me all you know.”
“English Literature. The ultimate.” He said the words flatly, as if he couldn’t imagine anything worse.
That was the whole puzzle? English Lit. The ultimate. “That could be anything. The ultimate in not finding a job. Or the ultimate in alphabet use or…”
His mouth quirked up and his posture eased. “I didn’t think you’d solve it so readily.”
I might have. This was my degree, after all. If he’d given me more of a clue. “So now you get a kiss…and a classmate.”
His gaze fell to my mouth. “There is that.” His voice was deep and a little playful.
I really liked it. A lot. “I’m feeling outmaneuvered.” I wasn’t, and he knew I wasn’t.
His expression was intent, and it melted me. Talk to me more. Maneuver me some more.
A tap sounded on the door.
I walked over to the bookcase and grabbed a book, waving it in front of my face. Time to cool off.
His mother, the Prime Minister, stuck her head through the doorway. At least I recognized her this time, and it was an instant cold shower. I clasped my hands over the book and clutched it to my chest, hoping I wasn’t holding a ridiculous title. I put on an innocent expression.
The Prime Minister was wearing a business suit, like always, and a Parliament-negotiating expression. “Wythe, darling. Do get back to my secretary with the name of your date for the end of season ball. I really shouldn’t have to remind you again.”
“I won’t be attending that, Mother.” His voice was firm and bored, as if he’d had this conversation with her all year.
The PM’s expression hardened, like she was a judge and her will was the gavel. “Oh, but you will. And, you’ll need a date.”
“Were I to go, and I’m not saying I would, a date would not be a problem,” Wythe said.
What did that mean? Did he have a girlfriend? If so, wouldn’t he say something like that? If I needed a date, I’d just take “Anne” or “Mary.” Or whatever British girl he was seeing. He didn’t have a girlfriend. A pleased zing hit me, and the pleasure was way out of proportion to the moment.
“I have a meeting, Wythe. The council is waiting.” His mom closed the door, and then she reopened it. “An appropriate date.”
“There’s always a catch with you.”
The Prime Minister rolled her eyes, now looking more like a mom than a leader of the Western world. She focused on me. “You look like a sensible girl.”
Delight flushed my cheeks—an end of the season ball. How Cinderella. I’m in. I’m the suitable date. That would net me a point. I’d go to Regent Street for the dress. A blue one to set off his eyes. We’d pose together. I’d put that picture on my mantle.
The Prime Minister nodded toward Wythe. “Do find him an appropriate date to take to the Downing Street Palace Ball.” With that edict, the leader of Britain left, snapping the door closed on my misunderstanding.
The flush of pleasure drained from me. How deflating. “What’s wrong with me as a date?” I wasn’t even embarrassed about asking it. It wasn’t like he’d rejected me. His mother had. We hadn’t even been on a date and my mother-in-law was rejecting me. Mother-in-law? I had to slow the Freud down.
Wythe looked me over. "Opinionated. American. Intern. Then, of course, there’s your disdain for my country.” His expression was interested, and his words were a challenge.
“I only disdain the scones.” Heat built in my face at that untruth. “And the wool. And the lack of ice cubes.”
“There you go. Ice cubes are forbidden at a ball.” He rubbed his hand on the outside of his thigh. “Wool, not so much, but unlikely in August. Scones could be present. But, also, not likely.”
“You’d be with me on this if you tried one of my mom’s scones.” I wanted him to feed me another scone.
Wythe heaved a sigh. “Live to dream.”
“I wonder how many points I’ll get for getting you to the ball with an appropriate date? Two? I’d be managing two people, really.” I let the greed show in my voice.
“I won’t be pimped out for points.”
Oh, but he would. “We’ll see.” I didn’t ask him why he didn’t already have a girlfriend. I hated when people asked about my non-existent boyfriend. If I had him, I’d mention him. If I didn’t mention him, I was pissed at him and didn’t want to talk about him anyway. My status on social media? Mind your own business. Aka, single and free. Aka, caught him chatting up other girls online. At least I’d caught him before we’d gotten too serious. We’d both been seniors, together for six months, and I hadn’t known what was holding me back from getting closer to him. Maybe I’d sensed his disloyal side on some level. I knew he didn’t melt me the way Wythe’s hands on the back of my zipper had melted me. Maybe it was that simple.
Wythe moved over to the desk to plug his laptop in. “If you went with me to the ball, you’d be kicked out of the program for fraternization.”
That would be bad. I nodded and changed the subject because if he knew fully how important that intern photo was, he’d have all the power. It wasn’t just the photo. My job prospects improved if I finished this internship. The photo was only part of the reason. Well, it was a lot about the photo. But he didn’t need to know that. “Did your professor email back?”
“Yeah. You’re in.”
Mixed feelings about that went through me. School had pulled me back in. Like my graduation hadn’t happened or my diploma had been recalled. I’d had nightmares like that. Now I was living it. Living it with a really hot guy. A hot guy in my nightmares. My dreams. My…
“Where’d you go?”
How to answer that without using the word bed”? I smiled a toothy smile. “Think the credits will transfer to wherever I end up for grad school?” If I went to grad school. That was my best route without a job.
“It’s Oxford.” Wythe said the University name in that definitive way British people used when they’d named something of the highest echelon. “It’ll transfer.”
“Of course. Um, at A&M, I was a senior and an Aggie. What am I called as an Oxford student?”
“You’d be a first year. This is the end of the Trinity term. A special extension project.”
“Not much of a ring to that. I’ll call us Oxies.”
“You will not.”
“Oh, but I will.”
Chapter 9
Wythe, Caroline, their security team, and I entered the dog show through a private back entrance. Why was Caroline with us? Nanny was back at Downing Street with a migraine, and Georgiana’s duties had shifted toward Wythe’s brother, Zane. I needed the scoop on that, but her shift had left me with the privilege of taking Caroline to the dog show.
A petite, round lady, the event coordinator according to her name badge, rushed over. Brits weren’t really rushers. So, it was either the flush of his hotness getting to her or… I couldn’t think of any other reason. That had to be it. Wythe looked wonderful in his dark suit, given his awesome build.
Or maybe it was the intimidation factor of our group being accompanied by guards. That could’ve been it. Or it
was the knowledge that the leader of Western Europe had placed her family in her hands, at her event. That could’ve been it. Or a trifecta.
The coordinator went straight to Wythe and shook his hand, running down the highlights of the show and ignoring the rest of us.
Yep, she thought he was hot. Because, at first, she’d been all quick steps. Now she was leading us down a hallway at a slow crawl. I looked at two of the guards, trying to catch their eyes to see if they saw what I saw. Wythe needed some body-guarding.
The guards were scanning the area, clearly more interested in room safety than personal dynamics. I stepped to the side, letting Caroline get ahead of me. She scooted forward, catching up to Wythe, getting between him and the coordinator. She walked really close to Wythe’s leg. He took her hand, swinging it, and Caroline relaxed. So cute. Such a good little chaperone.
The noise of barking dogs hit us first, and then came the visual: row upon row of shiny cages containing glossy-haired, beribboned show dogs.
Caroline stumbled. Her head swiveled from cage to cage, her eyes wide. For the first time since I’d met her, the little girl was mute.
Not so the dogs or their handlers. Their handlers stood on runners sorting doggie hair products and chatting. Snippets of their conversations floated through the air: “shinier coat,” “tendency to whine,” “ease of training.” Enthusiasm filled the owners’ voices, and from the energy in the room, the onlookers had equal passion for the topic. “Unlike no other,” one lady declared, measuring the length of a Corgi with her hands.
There was a lot of intensity contained within these four walls, and the animals made me miss Trapper. I’d have to video chat with him tonight. He loved video calls. And for once, I was glad I wouldn’t see him in person. Had I smelled like this many other dogs when I got home to him, he’d have gone crazy with the barking.