Floored

by Karla Sorensen

  Floored

  A Ward Sisters Novel

  Karla Sorensen

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Karla Sorensen

  About the Author

  © 2020- Karla Sorensen

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Designer-Najla Qamber Design www.najlaqamberdesigns.com

  Interior Design- Indie Girl Promotions

  Editor- Jenny Sims, Editing4Indies

  Proofreading- Janice Owen, JO’s Book Addiction Proofreading

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Chapter One

  Lia

  The first time I saw Buckingham Palace, I had a surprising thought.

  This is bullshit.

  Not the palace. The palace was great. It was beautiful, all stately and whatnot with gleaming gold fleur-de-lis on each black iron fence post that protected the royals from us mere mortals.

  No, the thing that was bullshit was me.

  For two weeks, I'd been in the place I'd dreamed of for as long as I could remember. Great Britain, with its monarchs and history and architecture and ugh, just everything. And as I sat on the steps across from Buckingham Palace, surrounded by people snapping selfies and chattering on with their fellow travelers, I was lonely. I missed home.

  How freaking annoying was I?

  I should have been ecstatic. I should have been on cloud nine. Ten, even!

  After snapping a picture of the building behind me, I sent it off to my twin sister, Claire. She wanted to see everything. And if this had been a normal trip, a week or two to sightsee, she probably would've ditched her snowboarding-god boyfriend to come see the Brits with me.

  But instead, I was here by myself because my sightseeing was a package deal with time spent studying at Oxford for the Michaelmas term, which ran from the end of September to December. I'd arrived a few weeks early to settle in and see all things before my researching began in earnest. It was what I'd dreamed of as I started my Masters in English Literature, this type of immersion in British culture and education with a rock star professor whose work on the Brontë sisters was akin to a religious text to me.

  Yet I was the sad sack wandering around London, staring glumly at the beautiful sites.

  As I tucked my cell phone into my front pocket, it started buzzing.

  Claire.

  "Hi! What are you doing?" I winced after it came out because even to my own ears, I sounded cringe-level excited to be talking to someone.

  My sister laughed. "Calling you because you're at Buckingham Palace, you bitch."

  "I was." I stepped to the side so a group could pass me as I meandered through Green Park. "I'm walking through the park just by it now."

  She sighed audibly. "And here I sit, working on my monthly budget. Which sister is cooler?"

  My chest ached at the sound of her voice. "How's life? "

  Claire laughed. "We talked two days ago."

  An eternity in twin-land, especially when—prior to my trip over the pond and her moving in with her boyfriend Bauer—we lived together.

  Taking a seat in the grass, I tipped my face up to the sun. "I know, but I miss knowing everything that's going on. No one calls me with random updates anymore because of the time difference."

  "Well," she drawled, "it's still early, but so far, I've made my bed, cleaned out the litter box, and now I'm sitting down to work on the budget. Yesterday, I went grocery shopping and got on FaceTime with Logan. He couldn't figure out something on his computer, and he refused to ask Paige for help because she told him he wouldn't be able to figure it out on his own."

  I smiled at the mention of our older brother and his wife, the people who raised us. "See? I'd know this shit if I was at home."

  She was quiet, and I knew that kind of quiet from her. She was thinking. Analyzing. And I knew I'd admitted too much. Again, total bullshit.

  This—the mopey, wish I was home, missing the mundane normality—wasn't me. It was the opposite of me. And if Claire thought I was undergoing a personality transplant just as I was starting the biggest educational opportunity I'd ever had, she'd worry herself sick.

  So, I did a mental reset and flipped the switch.

  "And I'll know it again when I get home," I said brightly. "I told you about the gowns we need to wear to eat at the dining hall, right?"

  There was a smile in her voice when she answered. "Yes. You told me about the gowns."

  "Three-course meals at a frickin’ college dining hall. This is the kind of posh shit that only the British would think up." I tilted my head. "Or the French."

  "Are you bored, Lia?" she asked.

  I pinched my eyes shut. Twins were the worst sometimes. "No?"

  "Are you not sure?"

  Flopping back on the grass, I stared up at the towering trees. "What makes you think I'm bored?"

  "Well, you haven't started your class yet, and you're sightseeing alone, and you're having FOMO for the life you lived for the first twenty-two years of our life. That usually means you're bored."

  "I can't be bored," I cried. "I'm in London! I've got this adorable flat in Oxford, and the whole town is adorable, and the campus is amazing, even if they have really strict rules about not sitting on the grass, and how on earth could I be living a life where I can come spend the day in London because why wouldn't I and somehow still be bored and missing the normal life I left behind."

  Claire laughed under her breath. My cheeks burned a little hot at my outburst, and I looked around to make sure no one heard me. I couldn't even handle the idea that some lovely Brit who might become my best friend for the next couple of months would hear me and think I was just another crazy American.

  "Lia"—she sighed—"promise me something."

  "What?"

  "Don't be so consumed with what you're missing that you stop paying attention to what's in front of you. Okay? Go eat a scone. Or that beans and toast and bacon thing you told me about."

  I smiled. "That's for breakfast."

  "Fine, then go get a beer in a pub and enjoy your time. Flirt with a cute British boy. Then go back to your flat in Oxford and get a good night’s sleep. Don't you meet with Professor Atwood tomorrow?"

  My fingers plucked at a blade of grass. "Yeah. I'm so freaking lucky she's letting me do this." I watched
some clouds drift across the sky, a dark enough gray that I frowned. "You're right. I'll go get some food."

  "Be careful on the train home, okay? Make sure to head back before it's dark."

  I smiled. Claire was so Claire, she couldn't even help herself. "Okay, Mom."

  "Love you."

  "Love you back."

  She hung up first, and for a few minutes, I laid on the grass and stared up at the slowly darkening sky. When the breeze held enough of a chill, I stood and pulled my wadded-up jacket out of my crossbody purse.

  I wandered for a while. Taking pictures. Looking up at buildings. Reading placards. I hopped on and off the Tube, allowing for spur-of-the-moment decisions in what I might discover. It helped take that edge off, the one I desperately didn't want to feel again.

  As I did, I tried to take Claire's advice to heart. Be in the moment and not think about what I was missing. I did pretty well until the first fat raindrop hit me on my forehead.

  The rain came out of nowhere, and like a rookie, I'd left my little umbrella back at my flat.

  Even though I pulled the hood of my jacket up, it didn't do much to protect me from the sudden downpour, so when I looked up and caught sight of a dark wooden sign for a pub off a side street, I smiled, thinking of what Claire said. I quickly jogged around a group of tourists on a sightseeing walk, hooked a right onto the quiet street, and ducked through the heavy wooden door.

  It was quiet inside, decorated with dark wood, glass-covered sconces, and burgundy booths that had seen better days. It was still hours before the post-work rush would have a place like this packed to the brim with men wearing tailored suits in want of a pint.

  God bless London, because really, British men knew how to wear suits. It did not take long to recognize how far superior they were to American men in that regard.

  I slipped off my jacket and ran a hand through my hair. After a day of sightseeing, it was beyond tangled. The only other people in the pub were huddled in one of the corner booths, and for a split second, I wondered if the beer was poisonous or something, because honestly ... it was really, really empty, considering what time of day it was.

  An old man wiping down the dingy wood bar nodded to me as I slid up to a stool. "What can I get for ya?"

  I glanced behind him at what was on tap. "I'll have a Stella, please."

  He nodded, deftly pulling a glass under the correct tap. "Be wanting anything to eat, dear?"

  I smiled. Would the accents and the casual endearments ever get old? "Just the beer for now."

  He set it in front of me. "Cheers."

  After my first sip, I glanced around the pub again, wishing that even one other person would've been sitting at the bar with me.

  Alone.

  My first two weeks here had been a whirlwind, yes, but I'd still spent a lot of my time alone. Which was ... weird for me. The busyness and exhaustion of adjusting to the time zone change had kept that loneliness from swamping me.

  But sitting alone at the bar, I felt that same visceral pain in my heart, missing ... well, everything. The rest of my family. My best friend, Finn. Since I'd already talked to Claire, I started to pull my phone out to see who else I could talk to when I heard his voice behind me.

  "Don't tell me my brother's actually taken the night off, Carl."

  The bartender nodded, giving a quick smile to whoever that deep, glorious, accented voice belonged to. "I'd reckon he never expected you to stop in."

  Mr. Accent made an oof sound, full of amusement, and I smiled into my Stella.

  "Need anything to drink?"

  "I shouldn't," he answered dryly, "but after this week, I think I'll take one."

  "Got a new IPA, if you want to give it a taste."

  "Sounds bloody perfect," he murmured. "Though anything with alcohol does right about now."

  What was it about the accent?

  After taking the pint glass from Carl, the nice bartender, Mr. Accent made a noise that was quite delectable.

  "Lewis coming back?"

  "Not tonight."

  Mr. Accent sighed heavily. "Is he home? Suppose I could pop 'round there while I'm in town."

  Carl shook his head. "Out to the farm. Had to help your parents with something."

  "No wonder I didn't know," he answered.

  The sip of my Stella was slow, and I swear, I wasn't trying to eavesdrop. I couldn’t help the fact they were right in front of me.

  Mr. Accent sat back on his stool, spreading his large hands out over the bar. "Well, it's quiet enough. I'll stay for a bit. Can you turn on the match for me?" he asked Carl.

  Internally, I smiled, feeling a lot less bored and a lot less alone.

  Flirt with a cute British boy. Isn't that what my sister had told me? My very smart sister.

  As Carl flipped on the TV, I kept my eyes on my beer, careful not to turn and gawk. Because he sounded hot—really, really, grade A, level ten hot—and I didn't want to visibly pout if he turned out not to be what I envisioned.

  Leaving a seat open between us, he slid his tall, broad frame onto a stool and folded his large hands together in front of him on the bar. Ink crawled up his forearms, as did ropey muscles and strong veins.

  Excellent signs, all around.

  Have you ever tried to check out a man without him noticing? It takes skill, people.

  His attention never once wavered from the soccer game on the screen—the emerald green grass and brightly colored jerseys of the players passing the ball back and forth before the start of the game.

  Match.

  Whatever.

  I snorted into my beer.

  "Not a fan of football?" he asked me.

  Straight, unfettered energy pulsed under my skin, and it took everything in me not to look too eager for interaction. But honestly, I was. After the icky feelings of the entire day, I probably would have been this excited if Carl, the old bartender, had made small talk.

  Instead of turning fully to see if his face was as hot as his voice and hands and forearms, I kept my eyes forward, just as he seemed to do.

  What had he asked me again? An exclamation from the announcer on the screen, something about offsides, pulled my attention back.

  "Am I a fan of football?" I mused. His finger drummed lightly on the side of his glass. "Yes," I said. "The real one."

  He whistled at the jab. I tried to hide my grin by taking another sip of my beer.

  When he replied, his voice was dry, mild amusement hanging off every deliciously spoken syllable. "Hate to break it to you, love, but that sport you Americans call football is not the real one."

  Oh boy, Mr. Hot Voice and Muscley Forearms didn't want to go down that road. Not like he could know the brother who raised me was a Super Bowl winning football player, now one of the best defensive coaches in the league. If he wanted to talk football, I'd run his ass into the ground without breaking a sweat. So, I turned slowly in his direction, and when I did, I froze.

  The face matched the voice. The hands. The muscles and ink. It matched, surpassed, blew the voice and the hands and muscles out of the water.

  And when a slow smile pulled at the edges of my mouth, he did some turning of his own. It took everything in me not to climb into his lap where he sat on that stool.

  I'd been around some hot men in my day. Kissed a bunch. Slept with a couple who I really, really liked.

  And Mr. Hot Voice with the Hot Face and dark hair and knife-sharp jaw just made every single one of them fade into oblivion.

  His gaze studied my face carefully for something. Whatever he saw caused him to relax. "What?" he asked.

  I pointed at the TV. "I don't think this is an argument you want to have with me."

  He licked his bottom lip, and reflexively, I felt my thighs clench together. His eyes, an indecipherable color in the dim light of the bar, never strayed from mine. "Carl, put another drink for the lady on my tab, if you please."

  I raised an eyebrow. "Who said I wanted another one?"

  Un
der the guise of looking out the street-facing windows, he slid to the stool next to mine, his shoulder brushing my own. "Well now, it's raining out, so I reckon you won't be in a hurry to leave. Besides, I think this is exactly where you need to be right now."

  Lifting my beer to my mouth, I took a sip to hide my growing smile, but his eyes dropped to my lips regardless. As I set the pint glass down, I crossed my legs and set my chin in my hand. "Why do you think that?"

  "There's a look on your face that intrigues me."

  I snorted. "Is there? I can't wait to hear this."

  "You're missing something."

  My face went slack with shock, but I blinked, recovering in the next breath. "Why on earth would you say that?"

  When he lifted his chin in a blatant study of my face, the light of the room caught the hard edge of his jaw. Seriously, a man who looked like him should be illegal.

  "Because any time a beautiful woman is drinking alone in a quiet bar, and she has the terrible misfortune of telling me she hates the beautiful game, then she's clearly missing a screw or two."

  A shocked laugh burst out of my mouth. His answering grin was belly-flipping gorgeous.

  I did a little leaning of my own. "And let me guess, you're just the man to help me find them."

  His thumb tapped the surface of the bar. His lips curved into a devious smile that made my toes curl inside my shoes. "No."

  My eyebrow lifted in question.

  What he said next were words I'd replay a thousand times over the next few months, when I had no idea how true they were. In a rough voice that pulled goosebumps up along my arm, he said, "I'm the man who's about to give you an education, love."