Jock Royal

by Ney, Sara

  The bare feet.

  The ink covering his smooth collarbone.

  One scar.

  Two.

  “Hey.” He throws the door open wide enough so I can step inside, into an actual foyer.

  Foyer?

  It’s not a large one by any means, but it is unusual for any off-campus housing. There’s even a small table off to the side with a bowl for keys, mirror hanging above it.

  “Was just getting out of the shower, excuse the mess. Kitchen is through there, give me a sec and I’ll be right back.”

  Give me a sec—he’d sound like your average, typical American college boy if not for the posh accent.

  Definitely doesn’t sound like Eliza Doolittle with her cockney, more like Prince William.

  Refined.

  Classy.

  Instinctively I find the kitchen—it’s in the usual spot—through a formal dining room that’s loaded down with sporting gear that’s been tossed onto the dining table.

  At the back of the house, I glimpse a view of his truck parked in the driveway next to the window.

  I’m perplexed.

  Why does he live here? Most college students rent shitholes—houses that should be condemned. Houses the landlords let fall to disrepair because…it’s college kids and they (the landlord) don’t give a rip.

  One time, my friends Kath and Brooke had a bat in their house—do you think the landlord cared to come have it removed?

  No.

  They had to whack it themselves with a tennis racket with the help of a few brave fraternity boys.

  This rental hasn’t seen an airborne rodent a day in its life.

  I set the grocery bag in my arms down on the kitchen island, surveying my surroundings.

  Dark woodwork.

  Black stone counters.

  Hardwood floors.

  It’s not huge, but it’s super nice and only adds to the many layers that seem to be the onion of Ashley Dryden-Jones.

  I unpack the grocery bag: three boxes of mac n cheese.

  One half gallon of milk.

  One pack of salted butter.

  Hot dogs, because why not sweeten the full American experience?

  I’ve also thrown in a small carton of chocolate milk and brought something else I doubt he’s had: orange push-up sorbet pops.

  A childhood classic, at least in my house growing up.

  The combo is a bit gross, I’ll admit, but he can eat them later, my treat.

  Rooting around for a pot, I find one and fill it with water, light the burner on the stove. Start the water to boil, waiting for Ash to appear, fully clothed this time (except if I’m being honest, half-naked Ashley is one hell of a sight to look at).

  My back is to the door when he enters the kitchen, and I pause, wooden spoon in my hand as I turn.

  He shaved.

  Not entirely—he still has hair on his face—but he’s definitely cleaned up the scruff on his neck and cheeks, his facial hair tidier than it was when he pulled open the door.

  He’s removed the pants and thrown on board shorts.

  Feet still bare.

  Hair still damp, combed to the side.

  Cute.

  Very cute.

  He grins at me, coming closer. “Make yourself at home,” he teases.

  Ha ha.

  “Sorry, but I wanted to get crackin’.”

  “Crackin’,” he repeats. “Is that a Southern word?”

  “No? It’s just a word.”

  I blush.

  He takes a seat at a counter stool. “Would you like a…some assistance?”

  Assistance.

  A regular guy would say Would you like some help?

  So proper it makes me wonder more about his upbringing—where he’s from besides Surrey, England.

  I don’t ask.

  Instead, I go back to the pot of water. “I’m good—this is hardly labor intensive.”

  And not at all healthy, I might add. The last thing either of us should be consuming if we’re watching our intake for sports, although he probably has to eat thousands of calories, burning them off during his matches.

  “What are these?”

  I turn to see him manhandling the pack of hot dogs.

  “Hot dogs.”

  “Ah.” He turns the package this way and that.

  “Are you being serious? Everyone knows what a hot dog is.”

  Besides, it’s written on the package. Or wait, maybe it says Ballpark Franks…

  “I’ve never done” is his only answer.

  “I didn’t think so—that’s why I brought them.” So smart of me. Too, too kind.

  “They look bloody disgusting.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “I didn’t say you look bloody disgusting—relax. I said the wieners do.”

  I face him, holding the spoon out. “Please don’t say wiener.”

  “Why?” He laughs, gap tooth playing a friendly game of peekaboo.

  “You know why.”

  “No, actually, I don’t.”

  “Wiener, peen…” I can’t say penis, turning crimson when he watches me expectantly, waiting for me to finish my sentence.

  Too bad I’m not gonna.

  Water boiling, I crack open all three boxes of mac, remove the flavor pouches, and pour in all the elbow macaroni noodles.

  “Really, Georgie? Three boxes?”

  I cock a brow. “Trust me, I can eat an entire box myself—the two of us can eat three.”

  “Plus these wieners.” He’s still holding them. “What are you going to do with these?”

  “Cut them up and put them in once the pasta is done cookin’.”

  “Yum—I can almost feel my body rejecting the mechanically processed meats. What a lucky lad I am.”

  That makes me laugh. “Your body is definitely going to feel something after eating it.”

  “And you eat this shite?”

  “Grew up on it.” I stir with a smile. “It was a staple in the Parker household—my mom used to work full-time when I was younger.” I pause to look at him. “What about your parents? Did your mom work?”

  He seems to hesitate, choosing his words. “No, Mum didn’t work. Doesn’t.”

  “So was she a stay-at-home mom?”

  He blinks. “Sure, we’ll call it that.”

  That’s an odd reply.

  “What about your dad?”

  He nods. “Investments.”

  His answer is curt.

  “So your mom must have made meals every night then, since she was around.”

  Ashley watches me a few more seconds. “Not really.”

  I lay the spoon down and lean against the counter. “What does that mean—not really? You just said she was a stay-at-home mom.”

  “No, you said that.”

  But he didn’t deny it. “You know I have a million questions for you now, don’t you?”

  Ashley tips his head back to laugh. “You can ask—doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

  Smartass.

  I hold my hand out so he can hand me the package of hot dogs, opening drawer after drawer of his fully stocked kitchen to find a knife or scissors.

  Slice the plastic open, laying it on the cutting board I found leaning against the backsplash.

  Take out five hot dogs and begin cutting them into bite-size pieces. Nostalgia has my mouth watering, the excitement for this childhood fare growing.

  “Have you considered culinary school,” comes his droll commentary as I cut.

  Ha ha. Big guy is a comedian.

  “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.” I notice the push-ups still on the island, probably half melted. “Shoot.” I point. “Can you put those in the freezer, please?”

  “Let me guess, the theme of this grand affair is orange?”

  I roll my eyes again, not appreciating his sarcasm regarding my effort to do something fun.

  Ignoring him, I measure out the butter and milk, find a colander for straining the n
oodles.

  Pour him a glass of chocolate milk.

  Slide it across the counter like a bartender. “Save that for dinner,” I warn. “Also, it’s great for hangovers.” I wink.

  “Noted.”

  I think he’s amused by me, but it’s hard to tell. Ashley Dryden-Jones has a poker face like no other—dare I say it’s better than mine?—and he’s not afraid to use it.

  “This place surprises me,” I say, grabbing two bowls out of a cabinet.

  “Why?”

  “Because. It’s…so much nicer than what I’m used to.” Although it’s not so far off campus to be part of the residential area—an area you won’t find any students living in.

  “Oh.” He’s quiet for a few. “Mum found it. Er, I think she had a realtor—they only let me live in the dorms for a semester…said…I’d…”

  His sentence trails off.

  “Said you’d…what?”

  Ashley takes a breath. “Said I’d lived in enough dorms and should live in an actual house if I wasn’t going to uni at home. I think Mum felt guilty.”

  “Guilty?”

  “I haven’t lived at home since I was ten.”

  My eyes almost bug out of my skull.

  “What?! Why?”

  “Boarding school.” His massive shoulders shrug. “It’s no big deal, Parker—that’s the way it’s done.”

  Parker.

  He called me by my last name.

  Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

  Nine

  Ashley

  Georgie bristles when I use her last name; I’m teasing, but she doesn’t know that, her cheeks turning that now familiar shade of pink.

  I embarrass her a lot.

  Not on purpose. She’s just so easily frustrated.

  “Boarding school is common, but Mum thought after graduation I’d take a gap year and live at home. I think she was expecting to, I don’t know—do the things mums do, like cook for me and fuss, not that she’s ever cooked for me.”

  “Why didn’t you take a gap year?”

  “Taking a gap year just prolongs the inevitable, don’t you think? I knew what I wanted to study. I didn’t need a year to soul-search or travel.”

  Waste of time, though the majority of my mates did it, all of them now a year or two behind me in earning their degrees.

  I want to work, not sit on my arse.

  I can’t play bloody rugby the rest of my life, either.

  “That makes sense.” Georgie sighs. “Do you like living alone?” is her next question. The little minx just cannot help herself.

  So nosey.

  “I don’t mind it.” But it is lonely. I’m not entirely used to it. After years of dormitory living with hundreds of other blokes then straight to university housing, being in a single family home alone certainly is…

  Quiet.

  Wouldn’t mind a roommate, though preferably not one of the jackarses I’m mates with.

  Sloppy. Dirty.

  Wally Feinstein tried hitting me up to rent out the second bedroom, but I’ve been to Wally’s current flat and it’s a sty.

  As in: pigsty.

  Yeah, no—hard pass.

  If I had a roommate, it would be someone neat and tidy who’d pick up after themselves, who might even be willing to, I don’t know—feed me now and again.

  “Why are you so silent all of a sudden?” Georgie asks, staring at me anew.

  I blink back at her. “Nothing.”

  She laughs. “I didn’t ask what’s wrong, I asked why you were so silent.”

  Her laugh is pleasant, just like I find her.

  Perhaps…

  No.

  She’s not living here, you bloody sod. Put it out of your mind.

  But she’s shacked up in the blasted dorms—she’d jump at the chance to get out.

  Oh, you’re a martyr now, eh? Since when?

  I clamp my lips shut.

  “You’re a strange one, Ashley Jones.”

  Just Jones.

  She clearly knows nothing about British blue bloods if she’s going to go about stripping me of surnames.

  I watch intently as Georgie fusses about the kitchen, pulling utensils from drawers and napkins from the holders, adding milk and butter and bags of orange powder to dinner.

  That cannot be good for us.

  She dumps in the wieners and mixes it all together, one gooey pot of technicolor pasta and fake meat.

  Mum would be fit to be tied and wouldn’t be caught dead preparing this. Or having Cook prepare it, I should say.

  Mum’s not much of a chef—doubt she even knows how to boil water—but I can proudly say I mastered that art in the dorms at Stowe, the prep school where I spent the latter half of my life.

  A bowl is set before me, steaming and…

  Suspect.

  “Here’s a fork and a spoon—not sure which you’ll prefer. I like a fork myself.” She’s babbling. “Bon appétit!”

  Georgie stares.

  Clearly she’s waiting for me to take the first bite.

  Reluctantly, I load up my fork.

  “Get a hot dog in there,” she advises.

  I stab one with the tines. “Bossy.”

  Georgie shrugs. So?

  Cringing—because surely this is about to kill me—I put the fork to my lips and put the morsels in my mouth, closing to chew.

  It hits my tongue.

  Hmm.

  Cheese.

  Salty hot dog.

  Noodles.

  I stab myself another bite, needing a second go for a proper assessment.

  Inhale.

  Chew.

  Huh—not terrible.

  Georgie is waiting for me to say something. Anything.

  Hasn’t yet taken a bite from her own helping.

  “Well?”

  It’s as if she’s a Michelin-starred chef waiting for a critic to weigh in on her talents.

  I slowly nod. “Not bad.”

  Her brows rise hopefully. “Really? You don’t hate it?”

  “Trust me, I’d tell you if I hated it.”

  “True.” Happily she begins digging into her own mac n cheese.

  “You said you ate this a lot?”

  “As a kid, yeah.”

  “Huh.” This would have been perfect dorm food at Stowe when I was a lad. Easy. Few ingredients.

  Pot. Water.

  Butter.

  Milk.

  So simple.

  I accidentally make a pleased “Mmm” sound, which really gets Georgie excited.

  “Yay!” she practically squeals. “I’m so happy you like it.”

  “Easy there, tiger,” I tell her with a mouthful, which is uncouth, even for me. “I said I like it—I didn’t say I want to marry it.”

  It’s been a while since I’ve needed to use the manners drilled into me by Mum and the deportment classes at school.

  Wretched etiquette—the last bloody thing a teenage boy wants to learn about and sit through, not that we sat through the lessons quietly.

  Many a demerit was earned in those boring courses.

  Georgie takes a drink of chocolate milk and I do the same, raising the glass to my lips.

  I’ve not had this either.

  I chug.

  It’s still cold and tastes delicious. “Mm.”

  Chug the entire glass down, licking my lips.

  Georgie beams. “I was afraid I was going to poison you. I’m so glad you like it—even the hot dogs.”

  “The wieners?”

  “Stop.” She laughs good-naturedly. I wonder if she’s ever in a bad mood; she always seems jovial. Upbeat.

  Except that first night we met—that night she definitely looked as if she was going to piss herself.

  Scarfing down the remainder of what’s in the bowl—plus the remainder of what’s in the pot—I rise to clear my spot, taking everything to rinse in the sink.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Georgie says, worry in her voice.

&
nbsp; But she’s not a maid and didn’t come here to clean up my mess.

  “You cook, I clean.”

  She smiles, biting down on her lower lip.

  * * *

  That night, long after she’s gone, I lie in bed thinking about the roommate thing—then thinking about her.

  Georgie.

  Roommate.

  Roommate, Georgie.

  If she were to move in, nothing could happen. She would be off limits.

  So what? You’re moving and so is she—she doesn’t want a relationship. Not one with you.

  Does she? I wouldn’t have a clue.

  When we were done with dinner, we sat out on the patio next to the small bonfire pit I made with blocks from the Home Depot, laughing about our parents and friends and teammates.

  Mostly our teammates.

  Hers sound like twats.

  Being with a girl is so completely different than hanging out with lads.

  It was calm.

  Nice.

  When she talked about how she barely knows anyone but has befriended Nalla and Priya from our business class. How bored and lonely she is in the dorms…

  I grab the mobile off the nightstand before I can change my mind.

  Me: I’ve been thinking.

  Georgia: Oh boy—that sounds serious.

  Me: I am serious.

  Georgia: That was a figure of speech. You’re so literal.

  Georgia: What’s on your mind, Jones?

  Me: I’ve been thinking—what if you lived with me?

  Georgia: Lol

  Me: What’s so funny?

  Georgia: You. That was so random and came out of nowhere—are you drunk??

  Me: I’m lying here thinking about it, and it makes perfect sense.

  Georgia: Uh—what? You don’t even like me. Why would you want me to live with you?

  Me: Who said I don’t like you? You fed me, twice. All is forgiven.

  Georgia: You’re way too easy then…

  Me: Most blokes are.

  Georgia: Are you actually being serious right now? I can’t just move out of the dorms, you know. I pay to be here.

  Me: You voluntarily pay to sleep, bathe, and eat in the same room, probably with a bunk bed.

  Georgia: I don’t BATHE in my room.

  Me: Right. You shower in a communal room wearing thongs.

  Georgia: I don’t wear a thong in the shower!

  Me: Shoes. Shower shoes.

  Georgia: Oh—is that what you meant by thong?