Geoffrey took a deep breath to settle the nerves that were bouncing up and down in anticipation of a possible chase. He leaned back in his seat and was about to close his eyes but hazarded a glance at the woman’s computer instead. A name on her screen caught his eye.
His name.
Or, rather, his family’s name.
He nearly gasped, but when she forwarded to the next slide and he saw the picture on it, a smile slid across his face instead.
She didn’t need to tell him her name. He already knew it. And he’d be seeing her again once they got to London, whether she liked it or not.
Chapter Two
Alice wasn’t sure where the barfing pregnant woman had been reseated, but she was sure she didn’t have time to talk to the scruffy Englishman who took her place. Maybe if she hadn’t needed to perfect her presentation, she would have enjoyed making conversation with him; it was a ten-hour flight, after all. And he seemed sort of interesting, unlike most of the guys who tried to pick her up. He knew about art, and he wasn’t terrible looking—although she could have done without the beard. It was just shaggy enough to remind her of her dad, except her dad’s beard wasn’t a cultivated shaggy. Dad’s shagginess had been earned through years of hard work and hard drinking.
So maybe it was Jack’s—or had he said his name was Jeff?—beard that had made it so easy for her to put in her AirPods and block him out.
Most likely, however, it was her desire to get hired as the curator of the Grey family’s collection of medieval art that drove her to ignore him. She’d been working at the Fairfax Gallery for over a year curating exhibits of new artists, but what she really wanted to do was curate medieval works of art for museums. She’d only taken the gallery job because it was in LA, which had put her in close proximity to her mom and brother at a time when they both had needed her.
But now the Grey family needed a curator for exactly the kind of exhibit she wanted to be part of. They wanted to make their collection of largely medieval art available for public viewing for the first time since they’d started collecting the pieces hundreds of years before. Rumors had surrounded the collection for centuries, including tales of illuminated manuscript pages that could be the work of Hildegard of Bingen. The Greys had never allowed anyone to closely examine the pieces for anything other than insurance purposes. And those examinations included nondisclosure agreements for the assessors. The family guarded their art treasures as closely as any medieval dragon would have.
No one, not even Alice’s colleagues, knew just how obsessed she’d been with the idea of seeing the Grey collection. During her years as a grad student working on two degrees, Alice had spent her spare time dreaming of analyzing the collection. And now, by some miracle, she had the chance. Not only that, but her experience at the gallery made her the perfect person for the job—in her humble opinion. The family wanted to exhibit their pieces alongside contemporary works of art, which is what she’d been working with for over a year. So even though she didn’t love the idea of combining medieval and contemporary, she had the expertise in the first and experience with the second. And with her family needing less help than they’d needed a year ago, the stars seemed to be in alignment for her to get this job.
Alice pulled up the Spotify playlist she’d labeled Grey’s Art. It was all English artists—Adele, Coldplay, the Beatles (obviously)—with the exception of Lady Gaga’s “Highway Unicorn.” The last song was a sort of good-luck charm she’d thrown in with the hope that one of the pieces would have a unicorn in it. The unicorn had been an important, if little-used, symbol of Christ and chastity and was believed to only appear to virgins. Not many pieces depicting the mystical beast had survived past the middle ages, but the Greys were more likely than most collectors to have one.
Once her playlist started, Alice turned her attention back to her PowerPoint. She stared at the introductory slide while chewing on the inside of her already raw bottom lip. She’d looked at it at least a million times, but there was nothing wrong with being thorough. Thorough is what had made her an expert in medieval art.
Alice moved on to the next slide and was struck by a better way to word the first sentence. She deleted what she had and went to type in the new words when Jack/Jeff’s knee bumped her tray table so hard that her computer nearly slid into her lap.
“Pardon me,” he said as he pulled his legs back, trying to position them without kneeing the seat in front of him. “I can’t seem to get comfortable.”
“No worries.” Alice repositioned her laptop, trying not to be annoyed. The words she’d had in her head were gone. She sighed and shot an inconspicuous glare at her neighbor. Her annoyance quickly disappeared, however, when she saw that the sleeping man in the aisle seat had stretched his legs into her seat mate’s space.
“Not sure what I can do about that,” Jack/Jeff said to her and wagged his head toward his neighbor.
Alice pulled her headphones from her ears to her neck. “Why don’t you ask him to move over?” That was the most obvious thing he could do. She had to do that frequently—to men in particular—who thought her petite size entitled them to some of the space she wasn’t occupying.
He glanced at the man as though considering Alice’s idea, but then shook his head. “I don’t want to wake him.”
Alice stared unbelieving at him, then blinked. “I guess it’s going to be a pretty cramped flight for you then.” If being polite was more important to him than being comfortable she couldn’t help him. But she moved a little closer to the window anyway.
The thought crossed her mind that she could trade him places, but then she took another look at the man as he turned and curled the other direction so that now his rear-end was spilling into Jack/Jeff’s personal space.
No, thank you.
But as she glanced at her neighbor trying to make himself as small as possible in order not to encroach on his space, she couldn’t help but take pity on Jack/Jeff. (Or was it George?)
Alice leaned across the Englishman and gently tapped his neighbor’s shoulder. “Excuse me.”
The man snorted and shrugged off her hand.
“It’s quite all right,” her neighbor said, but Alice set her jaw and tried again, this time shaking the man until he grunted and sat up.
“Can you give this gentleman a little more room, please?” she said in her firmest voice.
The man glared at her then glanced at her neighbor.
“It is a bit crowded.” The Englishman stared down the man until he’d shifted all of his weight back into his own seat.
“Thank you,” he said to Alice once he’d stretched out his legs.
Alice nodded and put her AirPods back in, set up her laptop and turned on her music again. Before too long she was back into her work, oblivious once more to everyone and everything around her.
An hour later her phone alarm went off, alerting her that she needed to take her sleeping pill if she wanted to get six hours of sleep. She glanced at Jack/Jeff. He was still awake and reading a book. She tipped her head to see the title: The Count of Monte Cristo. His eyes drifted in her direction, and Alice quickly sat back in her seat.
Familiar with obscure art and he was a reader? An almost uncontrollable urge to ask him what he thought about the book rushed over her. It had been a long time since Alice had met a man who shared her interests, and she loved reading almost as much as she loved art.
She checked her watch.
Nope. If she was going to get the sleep she needed, she couldn’t take a chance that he’d want to talk for more than ten minutes. Instead of making conversation, Alice took her pill, replaced her glasses with her sleep mask, and waited for the wave of unconsciousness to wash over her. The only time she allowed herself to take anything to help her sleep was when she had to take a long flight. She hated being jet-lagged and exhausted after crossing time zones, and she needed to be fresh for her interview that was scheduled within eight hours of landing.
Alice had been asleep for
what seemed like only a matter of minutes when something shook her awake. As she woke, she realized her music wasn’t playing, and her sleep mask was askew, letting the bright lights of the cabin flood her eyes. As she blinked fully awake, she realized that the “something” shaking her was Jack/Jeff and the hard thing under her cheek was his shoulder. And she was horrified to discover that the wet feeling on her cheek was her spittle.
Alice bolted upright, pushed the mask to the top of her head, and tore off her headphones. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the wet circle on her seatmate’s shoulder.
“I’m so sorry!” Her face was already splotched red with embarrassment, she could feel it. “I’ve never done that before, I swear.” She yanked the sleep mask off her head and used it to blot at the spot she’d left on his shoulder.
“It’s quite all right.” His voice held the hint of a laugh in it. “You were sleeping so soundly,” he added. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
She stopped patting his shoulder and dropped the mask in her lap. The spot was still there, and the only thing she’d succeeded in doing was making him smile.
“Thank you.” Her eyes dropped to her watch, and she realized that, somehow, she’d slept more than the six hours she’d allotted herself, which meant she didn’t have time to review her presentation again.
“We’ll be landing in a few minutes,” Jack/Jeff said, motioning toward the illuminated seat belt sign. “I was beginning to fear you might sleep through our disembarking. I’d hate for you to end up back in LA.”
“Thank you,” she repeated while smoothing her hair. “I might have.”
He grinned, and Alice allowed herself to enjoy it. His bottom teeth overlapped slightly in the front, and she liked it. She liked imperfection in people, even if it was only cosmetic. It reminded her that she didn’t have to be perfect. Sometimes she forgot.
“Have you been to London before?” he asked a few minutes later as the plane’s wheels hit the tarmac.
They both lurched forward as the pilot braked, and she grabbed his arm. She hated this part. Ninety-nine percent—or something like that—of all plane crashes happened on take-off or landing.
“Never,” she answered and let go of his arm as the plane slowed. “I’ve always wanted to.”
“How long will you be here?”
The plane slowed, and Alice could breathe again. “I’m not sure. It depends on a few things.” She kept her answer vague on purpose, in case he was thinking about asking her out. To discourage him even more, she took her phone off airplane mode and waited for the texts she knew she’d have to appear. She had enough going on in her life right now. The last thing she needed was a man to distract her from her whole purpose for being in London: to curate the collection of her dreams.
As she read her texts, however, she was reminded of how difficult it would be for her to be a continent and an ocean away from her mom and brother if she did get the job.
“Would you like any tips about what to see or do?”
She was so absorbed in the text from her mother that she almost missed his question. “Oh, yeah, that would be great,” Alice answered, tearing her eyes from her screen to meet his only long enough to add, “I’m sorry. I’ve really got to answer this.”
“Of course,” he mumbled. “Go right ahead.”
A flicker of guilt for her rudeness traveled through her but was quickly forgotten as she re-read her mother’s text.
Billy’s medicine more $$.
Oh no! How much more? Alice texted back. Calling her mom would take less time than texting but would be more emotionally taxing, and Alice needed to stay focused on prepping for her interview. She didn’t let her mind wander to what the future would look like if she actually got the job and had to leave her family behind in Bakersfield.
$100. What should I do?
Get the medicine. I’ll put the money in your account. Alice sighed. Her brother’s unexpected medical bills had taken a toll on her bank account. Luckily, she had been able to count the trip to London as a work trip since she’d be looking for art to exhibit at the Fairfax, the LA gallery where she currently worked. If she hadn’t been so grossly underpaid for the hours she put in, Alice would have felt more guilty about squeezing in a job interview on her employer’s dime.
She didn’t know exactly how much the Grey job paid, but the experience would open doors for her that could mean enough money between publishing and curating to quit worrying about the cost of Billy’s meds. She prayed she hadn’t flown across the world to chase a dream.
I’m sorry, honey. Sure love you. Say hi to the queen for me. Show them what you got.
Alice smiled as she read her mom’s text. Her words of encouragement swept away some of Alice’s fear, just like they always did. Brenda Donnelly didn’t really understand what her daughter did—or that she’d be interviewing with Lord and Lady Chatsworth, not Queen Elizabeth—and had no interest in art herself, but she always cheered Alice on.
The plane slowed to a stop and the seat belt sign turned off, but Alice didn’t notice they were at the gate until Jack/Jeff tapped her shoulder. “May I help you with a bag?”
He stood looking down at her with his arms raised to open the luggage compartment. The guilt she’d momentarily felt for being rude to him reignited. When was the last time she’d met a nice guy?
“Yes, thank you. It’s the black one.”
As usual, she’d let her work and her family get in the way of connecting with someone who’d made more attempts in the last ten hours to get to know her than any other man had in . . . she couldn’t remember how long.
Alice stood and scooted out of her seat to take her bag from him. “Thank you.” She should tell him she would like those tips about things to do in London, but before she could, her phone dinged again.
“You’re welcome.” He turned to follow the line out of the plane as she picked up her phone.
Need you to cut your trip short. G’s reviews not good. Need to find someone else for our exhibit.
Alice cursed under her breath. In general, she didn’t like contemporary art, but G’s art fascinated her. She’d gone to the artist’s sculpture exhibit and hated how they’d been curated, but the art itself spoke to her. No one other than the artist’s agent knew who he or she was, and even though s/he was an up-and-coming artist, it had been a challenge to work out a deal to show the work. It was a mistake to pull out of the deal over a few bad reviews, but she wasn’t the head curator, so she didn’t have a say.
I’ll see what I can do. Will be expensive to change tickets.
Doesn’t matter what it costs. DO IT.
Alice sucked in her lip and shook her head. Money didn’t matter to the head curator when it meant Alice had to do extra work, but when it came to purchasing art, then there was never enough for the pieces Alice recommended. The Fairfax Gallery was losing money and patrons, and Alice needed to jump ship before her budding reputation went down with it.
“Everything okay?” Jack/Jeff asked.
She tore her eyes off of her phone to meet his. He really was a gentleman. All the way down to his English accent. For all she knew, he was a member of the aristocracy and was an actual gentleman.
But aristocrats didn’t sit in coach, and, even if they did, they didn’t end up with girls from the outskirts of Bakersfield, California.
“Everything’s great.” She forced a smile. “Thank you for asking.”
Then she went back to her phone and pulled up her bank app. With a couple of taps, she’d transferred a few hundred dollars of her savings into the checking account she’d opened for her mom. Alice hoped that would be enough to get her family through the next few weeks until she got paid again. She was sure her mom hadn’t asked for as much as she really needed.
Alice absolutely had to get this curating job. She couldn’t stay at the Fairfax Gallery much longer if her brother’s medical costs kept going up. The Grey job was her only option, even if it meant dealing with contemporary artis
ts and artwork that she hated.
Chapter Three
Geoffrey parked his Aston Martin in the circular driveway of Binchley Hall and stared at the imposing stairs that led to the nine-foot double doors. He would take possession of the estate upon his mother’s death, though he’d already inherited the title of Lord Grey, thirteenth Earl of Bellingham, when his grandfather had died. When his father died, Geoffrey would inherit the lesser title of third Viscount of Ashburn, though he would continue to go by Lord Grey. No land came with his father’s title. That had been sold off by his paternal grandfather, and the money Geoffrey’s father had inherited from the sale had long since been poured into Binchley Hall or spent on less virtuous pursuits.
Geoffrey loved his mother and didn’t look forward to her death for many reasons, but among them was that he would then be stuck with a large, crumbling estate and no money to restore it to its former glory. The weight of that task kept him from visiting his former home as often as he should, but he couldn’t bear to be crushed by what his future held.
His mother’s face appeared in one of the upper windows, and Geoffrey killed the engine. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the car and made the journey to the top of the steps, dragging his luggage behind him. Thomas met Geoffrey in the large portico of Binchley Hall, ready to take Geoffrey’s bags from him the moment the prodigal son walked through the door.
“Thank you, Thomas,” he said as he handed the two giant suitcases to the valet. “Are Mum and Dad around?”
“I’m right here, dear,” his mother said as she appeared from the drawing room with her arms stretched wide. Her voice echoed off the marble floors, mingling with the sound of Thomas rolling the luggage down the corridor.
“Hello, Mum.” Geoffrey wrapped his arms around his petite mother’s shoulders, lingering long enough to make her squirm. “I’ve missed you.”
Gambling on a Gentleman: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (ABCs of Love) Page 2