London Prep

by Dodd, Jillian

  “Harry”—I giggle, pulling his hand away—“we’re in the middle of the street. Of course, here, I mind.”

  “All these rules.” He smiles, pulling me back to his lips.

  When I finally get back to my room, I feel like I’ve been holding on to one of those static electricity balls. The ones that you touch at the children’s museum and let the energy course through your fingers.

  Except with Harry, every piece of me feels like it is still tingling. I’m practically buzzing, but the time on my clock brings me back to reality.

  Because I stood outside, kissing Harry in the street, for well over an hour.

  And I liked it.

  Poor Mohammad.

  Sunday, September 29th

  You love to yell at me.

  9am

  “Hey,” Noah says, walking into the bathroom as I’m brushing my teeth.

  I’m still feeling light-headed from Harry’s kisses last night, and I’m in an extremely good mood.

  I give Noah a nod, scooting over so he can fit in the room better. I move the toothbrush across my teeth, watching in the mirror as Noah picks up the toothpaste and examines it.

  “Really?” he says, turning to me, holding the tube up with a look of disapproval.

  “What?” I try not to let any of the water spill out of my mouth as I respond.

  “This.” He points to the toothpaste tube. “Is. Disgusting. It’s covered in paste, and you’ve somehow managed to let it harden on.” He holds on to the tube with disdain before setting it back down onto the counter with a sigh.

  I roll my eyes then lean over to rinse my mouth. “Maybe if you weren’t in here for hours in the morning, I would have more time to care what the toothpaste tube looked like.”

  Honestly! No matter how far I think we’ve come, he can always find something to complain about.

  Noah lets out a laugh. “Please. You love it when I take extra-long, hot, and steamy showers.”

  And this time, I’m the one who laughs. “Really? And why is that? So I can be late for morning classes? Or, hey, maybe it’s because then I can smell like day-old Mallory.”

  Noah takes a step closer to me, and even though his shirtless chest is rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, his gaze becomes intense. “There are actually two—no, three reasons why you love when I take extra time in here.”

  “Oh, come on. Do tell.” I cross my arms in front of my chest. This should be interesting.

  Noah arches an eyebrow at me, and he’s wearing a cocky grin. “The first is, you love to yell at me. Something about banging on the door and screaming out my name really gets you excited.”

  “I see where this is going.” I laugh. “And you can just stop yourself right there—”

  “No, I’m not finished,” he says, holding his finger up to my lips. When it brushes across my bottom lip, it sends a shiver through my body. “The second reason is”—he takes another step closer—“you thoroughly enjoy seeing me come out shirtless and wet.”

  My mouth falls open in shock at his comment. As it does, all I can feel is his finger still pressing against my lip, trying to keep me shushed.

  I wrap my hand around his wrist, wanting to pull it away, but I’m so shocked by it all that I just end up hanging on to it.

  I lift my eyes up to his, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. His gaze softens, and I watch his lips part as he starts to move his head toward me. I can feel his breath against my lips, but then he stops, pulling back.

  “And the third?” I barely get the words out because the feeling of my lips grazing against his finger has my heart pounding.

  Noah smiles, turning his finger, tracing it across my lip. And my heart feels like it’s going to rip out of my chest.

  “The third and most important reason is,” he whispers, “you like to imagine exactly what I’m doing when I’m in the shower and who I’m thinking about.”

  My eyes go wide, and my mind has a mini freak-out because the air around me feels thick. I can smell Noah and feel his warm breath on my skin, leaving my body on fire. I suck in a hard breath and take a step back from him.

  His gaze connects with mine, and I can see the heaviness in his eyes.

  “So, does the thought make you uncomfortable … or excited?” he asks, a grin growing on his face.

  And I can see it right then.

  He’s taunting me.

  And it’s working.

  He’s getting into my head and definitely under my skin.

  And it pisses me off.

  “You’re being an ass,” I say, pinching my face in disgust while pushing him away from me.

  “And you are loving every minute of it,” he replies, still grinning, giving my shoulder a light push back.

  My whole body is still pounding, and now, my head is too.

  Because.

  What.

  Just.

  Happened?

  It’s like normal, irritating Noah left the building and was replaced by this dominating sex god.

  And now, here is regular Noah again, laughing to himself and grabbing ahold of his toothbrush while putting paste onto it.

  I look between the mirror and him, between the reflection of my shocked face and his easy expression, and internally scream.

  What the fuck?

  I try to come up with something, anything to say, but I’m actually speechless.

  It might be a first.

  “Noah, what the hell was that?” I finally get out, crossing my arms over my chest.

  He turns to face me again. “I was trying to prove my point.”

  “And your point is what exactly?”

  He needs to admit that he was teasing me.

  “Well, that you were definitely checking me out the first time you saw me shirtless.”

  “I was just surprised,” I reply, trying to prove to him that it didn’t mean anything. Even though it sort of did.

  “I know. You could barely keep your composure. Your eyes were all over me.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “You want me, Mallory,” he says, looking directly into my eyes. That taunting sex god Noah is gone, and he’s left my Noah.

  The one who is straightforward.

  And apparently blunt.

  “You think I want you?”

  “I think you don’t even realize yet just how much you want me.”

  “I’m dating your best friend,” I state, like that fact should change something.

  Noah lets out a heavy sigh, but his eyes are still sparkling at me. “Like you said yesterday, it’s over between you and Harry. But I promise, you want me. And I think I’ll have you practically begging for me before I give in.”

  Get London Prep: Book Two

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jillian Dodd is the USA Today best-selling author of more than thirty novels.

  She writes fun romances with characters her readers fall in love with—from the boy next door in the That Boy trilogy to the daughter of a famous actress in The Keatyn Chronicles to a spy who might save the world in the Spy Girl series.

  She adores writing big fat happily ever afters, wears a lot of pink, buys too many shoes, loves to travel, and is a distracted by anything covered in glitter.

  EXCERPT OF GIRL OFF THE GRID

  THE OFFER

  Camille

  “Morning, sunshine,” my best friend and roommate, Lexington Archibald says, waking me up by flicking on the overhead light. I pull the covers up over my head.

  “Lexi, what time is it?” I mumble.

  “It’s time for you to get up and help me! Today is the first day of my internship. I have to look perfect! Will you curl my hair into those bouncy curls you did the video on last week?” A heavenly scent fills the air. “I come bearing sustenance.”

  I throw the covers back to find Lexi sitting on the corner of my bed, coffee in hand. “Bribery will get you everywhere,” I tease, taking the cup and inhaling the wonderful aroma. “I can’t believe you are so chipper this morning. What time did you get home?”

  “Like three,” she says. “Probably not the best idea to go clubbing the night before my first day, but whatever,” she says with a wave of her perfectly polished fingers. “After a week vacationing with my parents, who did nothing but argue about who was going to get the Montauk house in the divorce, I needed to let loose.” She takes a seat at my vintage dressing table. It’s where I shoot most of the hair and makeup tutorials for my blog and YouTube channel, Effortlessly Camille. “You’re lucky that your parents understand your need to be creative and do your own thing and aren’t always harping on you to get a j.o.b.”

  “My parents only understand because my blog generates enough money for me to afford my share of the rent and not rely on them too much for spending money.” I smile at her, hoping to brighten her mood. “You should be excited about your internship, Lex. You’re going to be working for the Vera Wang. I bet you’ll get loads of free designer samples. I’m totally jealous.”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “I have to be there every day at 8 am, and more than likely, I will do nothing but fetch people coffee.”

  “You’ll be in her design studio. You’ll learn so much,” I counter.

  “Maybe,” she says, slurping her coffee. “It’s just so early. I should be spending the summers like I usually do, champagne sipping, hottie watching, and shopping.” Lexington and I first met freshman year of high school at the all-girls private school we attended when she commented on the vintage brooch I had pinned onto my uniform blazer in an attempt to make it a little less ordinary. Even though we couldn’t be more different, we share a love for all things fashion. Her father comes from old money, but the money her parents give her always seems to have strings attached. They expect her to excel at everything she does, while my parents expect me to do well in school, but want me to find my own way in life. My parents are wonderful and supportive, but their lives seem somewhat boring to me. My dad sells insurance. Lexington’s father manages a hedge fund at the investment firm his grandfather founded, and her mother lunches and buys couture fashion. And I’m sure the amount of money Lexington’s mother spends with Vera allowed the summer internship to happen. You’d think Lexi would be grateful for such an opportunity, but instead she feels pushed into it.

  “Are you at least a little excited? I applied for a lot of marketing, fashion, and journalism internships and most companies didn’t even bother to send me a rejection letter,” I tell her, hoping my excitement for her is contagious as I get up and plug in my curling wand.

  “Maybe if I knew what to expect, I would be. I’m just jealous of your freedom. I should have started blogging when you did.” She gives me a smirk as I start working on creating the perfect curl. “Of course, I’m too shallow for all that. You try to help people. I just want a bunch of people to think I’m fabulous.”

  “You are fabulous. And you’re going to do amazing. I’ll probably be bored.”

  “Doubtful. What are you doing today?”

  “I want to do something different for the blog this summer. I thought I’d go to the art museum and hit a few vintage stores, looking for inspiration.”

  “If I were you, I’d be smoking on the steps of the Met and watching the hotties play soccer in the park. I saw Jake last night,” she says, mentioning my high school boyfriend. “He was looking good.”

  “Looking good was never a problem for Jake. Finding something to talk about with him was a little more difficult.”

  “Oh, rubbish,” she says. She’s been watching the Housewives of London lately and has started tossing British slang into her vocabulary. “Jake is at Columbia. He’s smart.”

  “Please. He pays someone to do his homework for him.”

  “Nothing wrong with delegating,” she counters.

  I finish curling her last strand of hair, carefully use balm to remove any stray frizz, and then brush the curls out.

  “Oh, Cammie, you are a genius. I look amazing!”

  “What are you going to wear?” I ask her.

  “I don’t know. Come help me decide.”

  After twenty minutes of trying on outfits, she dashes out of the apartment with the promise to text me all day. I pull my hair back, create a messy braid, throw on a pair of skinny jeans, ballet flats, a white t-shirt, and the Burberry scarf my mom got me for Christmas, and am contemplating searching for cute wallpaper to hang behind my dressing table when my phone rings.

  I glance at it, noticing the New York City area code and answer absentmindedly.

  “This is Camille,” I say with a slight edge to my voice.

  “Camille, this is Lacey Malone, ass
istant to Janet Hall, editor of Fashion Forward,” a polished voice says. “Please hold.”

  “What—” I start to say, a million questions immediately running through my head.

  “My apologies. Janet would like to set up a meeting. Would today at two o’clock work for you?”

  The editor of one of my favorite fashion magazines wants to meet with me? “Uh, yeah, sure,” I stutter. I regain a bit of composure. “May I ask what the meeting will be about?”

  “To talk about your blog—Effortlessly Camille. That’s you, correct?”

  “Yes, that’s me. Two o’clock sounds great.”

  “Perfect.” She recites an address. “Just give the doorman your name, and he will send you up. Have a pleasant day.”

  “Uh, you, too.”

  I hang up the phone wondering what just happened. Fashion Forward isn’t quite in the league of Vogue or Cosmopolitan but anyone interested in fashion follows them. And they just called me?

  I stand up and scream happily. Then have a moment of panic. I only have four hours to get ready.

  A doorman greets me by name and sends me up to the eighteenth floor, where I’m welcomed by Janet’s assistant.

  “We spoke briefly on the phone,” she reminds me. She doesn’t look much older than me.

  “So, you’re her assistant. How did you get so lucky?”

  “I was an intern straight out of college and have worked my way up. I’m hoping eventually to have my own column. I should tell you, I’m a big fan of yours. I’ve been following your blog for a few years. I love how you mix vintage and mass market brands with designer pieces.”