She is, however, lovely. Even compared to the skinny models, Abby is flat-out gorgeous.
It’s just that she doesn’t realize it.
And there’s not much in the world sexier than a beautiful woman who doesn’t know she’s beautiful.
So as we’re talking over drinks and dinner, I’m toying with the idea of taking her back to my bed. Probably not tonight, because she’s obviously not the kind of girl who would just drop her clothes the first time she meets someone.
Maybe in a day or two, after we’ve spent a little more time together. But I’m thinking this needs to happen. I look at those deep blue eyes, sparkling with a dirty innocence, if that makes sense. Or maybe it’s an innocent dirtiness. I can tell she’s adventurous in the bed. It’s that intelligence, that desire to explore everything. I know it when I see it, and I don’t ever remember seeing it in the eyes of a woman this… normal.
That’s the thing I’m trying to put my finger on. Abby is just a normal girl with a beautiful face, a body with the perfect amount of curves in exactly the right places, and, if I’m right, a very dirty mind.
Time will tell.
All the tabloids say I’m such a womanizer, which is bollocks. The women who jump in my bed because they think they can get something from me—money, fame, a kickstart on their career as a social media influencer, whatever—are the ones I play with once then dump. But I can tell that type from a distance.
Abby’s not one of them. Not in the slightest.
By the time we’ve had two drinks, she’s laid out the agenda for the week. There are interviews tomorrow with the Guardian, the Sunday Times, and the BBC. Wednesday morning, I’m doing live on-air segments with two London morning telly shows, and a photo shoot at Wembley for Vanity Fair in the afternoon. Thursday and Friday, more interviewing: Sports Illustrated, La Gazzetta dello Sport, Time Magazine, the New York Times, and People Magazine.
Looks like I’ll be crazy busy this week. Good thing Allen canceled the few things I had going on. Now I get to hang out with this lovely bird for a few days. I can think of worse ways to kill time whilst waiting to be knighted.
“What’s it like being you?” Abby asks out of the blue.
“What do you mean by that?”
“To be that good at something? To be the best in the world? One of the best in history? I find it fascinating because I’ll never be great at anything. Don’t get me wrong, I’m fine with that. I made my peace long ago with the fact that I’m ordinary. But sitting here talking to you makes me want to know what it’s like to be so bloody good at one thing that it positively affects the lives of millions.”
Fucking hell, I’ve never heard anybody put it quite like that before. “Tell the truth, love, I’ve been playing football since I was two years old, kicking it around my mum’s kitchen. My entire childhood was nothing but football, day in, day out. Practice every little move with my dad, who was pretty good in his day. You don’t really notice that you’re getting better incrementally. Then one day, the coach of the under-18 team comes and takes you off the under-16s because you’re too good. Within six months, you’ve been promoted all the way to the under-21s although you’re still fifteen years old.”
“But when did you know you would be a star? Did it happen when you joined the English national side?”
“No, long before that. Probably when I was fifteen playing on the under-21s and able to do the same things against guys five to eight years older than me. I realized I had developed a particular skillset, and a mindset to go with it, that would make me unstoppable at any level. After that, it was just a matter of continuing to work hard and growing into my body.”
Abby gives me a peculiar smile, slightly lifting one eyebrow. “I have to say, you’ve done a spectacular job of that, growing into your body.”
I can see in her eyes that she immediately thinks she went too far, which she did, of course.
“I’m glad you approve,” I say with a grin.
“And by the way, don’t call me ‘love.’ I’m not one of your girls.”
Now I have to laugh. “No. No, you are most definitely not. How about dessert?”
“No, I’m stuffed. I should probably get home.”
She signals the waiter, and I try to beat her to the cheque but we end up grabbing it at the same time.
“Abby, I wouldn’t think of letting you p—”
She pulls the cheque away and says, “Her Majesty is taking care of you this week, Rory. Call it payback for all the glory you’ve brought to England in the last few years.”
“But that’s what the KBE is for,” I point out.
“Your country is going to repay you in surprising ways this week.”
I don’t know if she’s saying what I think she’s saying, or if she’s a little snockered from those two strong drinks, or both. Or maybe I’m misreading everything because I find her so fucking attractive.
Outside the restaurant, we wait for the valet to bring the Lambo around.
“Need a ride home?” I ask.
She looks at my car with trepidation. “I’m not ready to climb back in that thing just yet. I’ll take a cab. Thanks, though.”
“Your loss, love,” I say with a devious smile.
She gives me a frown as I climb into my car. Just before I drive off, she turns to look for a cab and I get a nice glimpse of her butt, which I hadn’t really noticed until this moment.
Not bad. Not bad at all.
Allen rings me up bright and early, waking me to tell me that the news has been made official. The Gazette came out this morning with the announcement of my knighthood, and it’s been the talk of the telly, radio, and the web all morning.
“That’s the good news,” he says, “but I’m afraid there is some bad as well. It come as no surprise, but the UK is divided on the issue of Rory Winston being knighted.”
“That’s nothing new. The public has always been split on me: half love me, half hate me. Can’t say I care much either way.”
“Well I think it’s important that from now through the investiture ceremony, you keep a low profile. Let’s not give them any fuel for the fire. How did the meeting go yesterday? That McKibben bloke said they were assigning someone to handle your press appearances all week.”
“Yeah, they did, in fact. It went well. They’ve lined up things every day: interviews, photo shoots, videos, etc.”
“Lovely. I’m here if you need anything. And once again, Rory, I’m beyond fucking proud of you, mate. This is spectacular.”
I hang up and notice that my mobile has dozens of texts and voicemails. A quick scan shows there’s nothing from Dad or Mum yet. I do notice one from Alf, though.
You weren’t lying, you tosser!
The smile I get from my brother’s nonsense makes up for the silence from my parents. Well, almost.
As I set about sending thank-you replies to the important messages, I can’t stop thinking of this Abby woman. I tell myself there’s really nothing special about her, then some deeper part of me pops up and says: Are you off your trolley? Literally everything about this woman is special.
The odd thing is, I’m pretty sure I already knew that, even though I just met Abby.
At that moment, a text pops up on my screen from her.
Good morning. Don’t forget: my office @ 10. The Guardian, so don’t be late.
I text back so she knows I’m on it.
i’ll be there.
As I’m getting ready to go, my mum calls. She lavishes praise on the accomplishment and tells me how proud she is of me. Then she throws in, “We all are.”
“Dad, too? Is he around?”
“Rory, you know your father. He loves your football heroics but struggles with the rest of it. He’ll come around.”
“Sure he will, Mum. Alf knocks up his wife again and is a hero. I get a bleeding knighthood and Dad has to think it over a bit.”
“That’s not fair, son. Your father and I love you both equally.”
&nb
sp; “I’ve got to go, Mom. I’m doing an interview with the Guardian in a bit and have to get ready.”
This is supposed to be one of the high points of a British citizen’s life. Why is it so messy in my case?
Abby
Rory strolls into the Main Committee’s office at half past ten, having kept me entertaining two people from the Guardian plus Malcolm Owensby, while fielding phone calls from Mr. McKibben every five minutes wanting to know if he’s arrived yet.
I glare at Rory, but he ignores me and turns on the charisma as he apologizes, telling everyone he hopes they understand what an insanely busy morning he’s had. That may be true, but I don’t like to look foolish, so we’re going to have a chat about this later.
The interview goes quite well, then we have a spot of lunch in a little nearby pizzeria. For the first time, I see people taking pictures of him without asking first. Rory notices, but doesn’t seem to mind.
Still a bit miffed because he was late this morning. I start out trying to be very business-like with him, but by the end we’re both laughing our arses off about how the news about his award has taken off in the British media and the ensuing madness of it all.
“Some bloke on the radio was saying that Boy George was more deserving than me. Boy George.” His expression shows the incredulity.
I look at him and somberly say, “Well, Karma Chameleon was a damn fine piece of music.”
His brow furrows, but then he bursts into laughter when he realizes I’m just taking the piss.
As we step through the door of the restaurant after lunch, Rory momentarily puts his arm around my waist, his hand landing on my hip. I can’t say that it feels anything other than wonderful, but I wish he hadn’t done that because now I know I’m going to have problems focusing again.
Despite the distraction, the rest of the afternoon goes well. Two more interviews, and Rory’s on time for both because I’m glued to his side. He’s also charismatic and engaging, and it’s wonderful to watch him.
After the final interview, he again invites me to dinner and I eagerly accept. Indian food this time, expensive and delicious. We have even more fun than last night, eating and drinking whilst talking about our different experiences growing up in London, and generally learning more about each other. I have a pleasant little buzz by the time we’re done. We wait inside the restaurant while the valet pulls Rory’s Lamborghini around, then walk out together.
A camera flash goes off in my face. Then a second flash, and a third.
I see several men pointing large cameras at us and yelling Rory’s name.
Rory
I’m mildly surprised because the patrons at these expensive restaurants are generally good about not taking photos of me. Then I realize they aren’t patrons.
“Bloody hell,” Rory says. “Don’t you twits have something better to do?”
I quickly open the passenger door and tell Abby, “Hurry, get in.”
“I really should take a cab,” she protests. “I don’t want you to go out of your way.”
“Get in Abby. They’ll keep after you when I’m gone.”
She looks at the rabid little pack of paparazzi, then climbs in and we hurriedly drive off.
“Sorry about that. Once one of them learns where I am, they all seem to show up.”
“What horrible people.”
I give her a smile. “You’re safe now. I’m taking you home.”
“To my home, right?”
“Of course, you silly woman. I’m not depraved enough to take advantage of someone assigned to me by the Prime Minister’s flunkies themselves.”
Abby bursts out laughing again, which lights up my heart to a degree that surprises me.
“I suppose I’ll need to know where you live,” I say.
“Oh, right. In Marylebone.” After a few seconds, she adds, “And you?”
“Notting Hill.”
“Of course.”
“What does that mean?”
“You live with all the other cool people; Stella McCartney and Bjork and Robbie Williams and that lot.”
“You think I’m cool?” I ask, grinning.
“Of course you’re cool,” Abby says, playfully hitting me on the arm. “Oh, my, that’s quite a bicep.” She squeezes it, then laughs out loud. “Bloody hell, what was in those drinks?”
“You’re just a lightweight, but I’m thrilled you like the muscles.”
We drive for a minute, then I experience a moment of far too much honesty and say, “Abby, I want you to know how much fun this was tonight. Last night, too. The last thing I expected yesterday morning was to leave the meeting with my own personal liaison who’s both fun and beautiful. This has been a pleasure.”
She turns to me and says quietly, “Don’t play me, Rory. I’m not dumb.”
Bloody hell, what have I done now? “I don’t understand. Did I say something wrong?”
Abby turns to look out the side window. “I’ve seen photos of the women you date. I know my strong points. I’m quite fun when I’m comfortable with someone, and I’m smart as fuck pretty much all the time. But don’t call me beautiful when we both know you date women who look like goddesses.”
Navigating the traffic, I try to think of how to undo this error. I’m so unaccustomed to women giving me any obstacles at all to overcome that this seems foreign.
“I don’t know what to tell you. I just said what I felt in the moment. I apologize if my honesty offended you.”
Abby gives me a stare that is simultaneously piercing and vulnerable, but she says nothing. Neither do I, for that matter.
We arrive at her address quickly. She directs me to the building where she lives.
“Meet you at my office tomorrow at 10 a.m.?” she asks as I pull to a stop.
“Right.” I’m still not sure what happened and don’t know whether I’m hurt or cheesed off. Quite possibly both. “See you then.”
She looks into my eyes for a moment too long, then says, “Goodnight, Rory.”
Despite this being her second time in my car, she struggles trying to open the door, comically so. She unaccustomed to one that opens upwards and forwards before. After fumbling with it for a few seconds, she turns back to me.
“I don’t kno—”
“Abby, I meant what I said. And I think it’s important that you believe me. I honestly find you quite beautiful, and believe me, I have nothing to gain by telling you that.”
“You would if you were trying to get into my knickers.”
“I’m not certain you’re even wearing any fucking knickers.”
I lean over and place my lips to hers, kissing her softly for just a second, fighting the impulse to use my tongue or extend the kiss to something that’s about sex.
“Sometimes a guy can just think a woman is fabulous and not have an evil agenda behind it.”
I get out of the car and go around, opening her door and offering her my hand. She takes it and steps out, facing me for a moment before she turns and vanishes into the night, entering her building without looking back.
I stand there, wondering what the hell just happened.
Women can be SO. FUCKING. WEIRD.
Abby
What the bloody hell was that all about?
I practically run from the lift to my flat, then to my bed, where I fall face-down into my pillow. I know it’s silly, but I do my best thinking in this position.
And right now, I really need to think.
Abby, what the fuck are you doing? First you flirt with someone who’s way out of your league, a man you’re supposed to be keeping out of trouble this week, as opposed to luring him into it. Then you go absolutely barmy when the same guy pays you a damn compliment. One of the sweetest compliments you’ve heard in ages, to be honest. Are you daft?
I really need to re-focus on my job beginning tomorrow morning.
But what exactly is that job? I was told I’d be babysitting a man-child who was likely to go off the rails at the drop of
a hat. But last night Rory was an absolute gentleman. He gave me his full attention all night long and never once did I catch him cast so much as a glance in the direction of any of the women in that restaurant.
Meanwhile, I start flirting with him, then get all barmy when he says he thinks I’m pretty.
Who’s babysitting whom here?
Maybe the tabloids have been painting an inaccurate picture of Rory Winston. He doesn’t seem to be boorish at all. In fact, I find him polite and charming. You always hear about those rags totally inventing things in order to sell copies, but then you end up totally buying into the stories you agree with. It’s so unfair.
I try to think about the job I have to do, but instead think about the fact that Rory Winston kissed me.
Sure, it was a sweet little peck, and I’m far from the first woman he’s kissed, but still…
Rory Winston kissed me.
I’m up at the crack of dawn, knowing what a big day I have in front of me. I still have conflicting feelings about what occurred last night but am determined to put them out of my mind and forge ahead. I can’t be distracted with so much on my plate.
I wait until six thirty to send Rory a reminder text.
Wake up! Telly shows tapings this morning @ 8am. I beg of you, don’t be late this time.
Within seconds, he replies.
wide awake. promise i’ll be on time
I send him a second text.
Also, Vanity Fair photo shoot @ Wembley @ 2. Don’t worry about attire, they’re bringing everything.
I’m ready to go on about my business when my mobile dings again.
so I just show up naked then?
My Wedding Knight (A Wedding Season Series) Page 3