My reflection grimaces back at me from the mirror. Sorry, Lyle.
Alexander, I silently correct. It’s a good name, and it totally suits him because it’s a name that’s both strong and classic. Just like he is.
Well, that study in manly perfection is mine tonight. And I know he’s thinking the same thing. The way he watched me as I danced made something sticky and sweet flow through me. Every time I glanced his way, his eyes met mine, dark and intense. And when Nikki had grabbed my hips, a very private joke seemed to lurk in the twist of his lips.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire, his expression seemed to say.
And in a way, he’s right. Because how could I have foreseen that making Alexander gay would’ve put him on Lewis’s radar?
“Gaydar?” I say aloud, then shake my head.“It doesn’t mean a thing. Man, woman, straight, gay, no one is cutting in on me.”
I’m not above tripping a bitch. Literally or figuratively. But first, a little common-sense security. Grabbing my phone, I open my Messenger ap and select the sneaky photograph I’d taken of Alexander on the way to the bathroom. Cropping out Nikki’s hand, I stare at it a little, then press send.
You can do what you like when you’re on vacation.
Be anyone you like.
Take a break from your own life.
Or so I tell myself as I return to my search for my lipstick. Pulling it out, I examine my expression again.
He’s perfect. I don’t mean without flaws because everyone has them. I just mean he’s perfect for me. Here. Now. Tonight. Not to mention, the setup is pretty sweet. I’m just a tourist. Here for the night. Leaving tomorrow. On a jet plane. Never to be seen in London again. At least, that’s what I’ve told him. I might as well be leaving because in a city of more than eight million people, it’s not likely I’ll ever bump into him.
Impatient, I grab my phone again.
Did you get the photo? I type out.
I already saw your Instagram post, my sister, Kennedy, immediately replies. She means my post from earlier today. It was a piece of London street art posted with a cool filter and some pithy text. By the way, it’s nice to know you got there. Finally.
Got here? You dropped me off at the airport. Where else would I be?
Kidnapped? The victim of a plane crash? This might not even be you, for all I know. Because regular people check in with their loved ones when they get where they’re going to.
Ho-oh boy. This is what I like to call big sister syndrome.
I’m here. I’m sorry I forgot to report in . . . but if there’d been a plane crash, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be telling you about it now. Back to our regular programming. Pleeease check your MSNGR!!
I turn in the direction of the bathroom door as it creaks opens, the thump of the bass reverberating off the tile. A redhead (aka not Nikki) slips into a stall without making eye contact. Girls in bathrooms are like that. Either they want to be your new BFF or they pretend you’re Casper the ghost.
Feast your eyes on the piece of hot Britishness I’m currently enjoying. No need to mention my idiocy or Nikki the sex fiend, as my mind (clearly a Prince fan) has dubbed her.
Hold your horses. Nothing has come through yet, comes Kennedy’s reply.
Believe me, it’s worth the wait, I text back, but then my phone begins to ring.
“You got it?” I ask, not giving Kennedy time to speak.
“Not yet.”
“Is the rug rat playing on Minecraft again?” It tends to slow down their connection. “Ground that child. The internet is no place for minors.”
“If it wasn’t for your nephew, I wouldn’t know what a modem is, never mind how to switch it on.”
This is true. Kennedy is the dumbest smart person I know when it comes to technology. Odd that her kid (and my very favourite small person in the world) is a total techno wiz.
“He also says to remind you he has a name.”
“I know he does, but I can’t call him Wilder,” I complain. “Because that means he’s growing up!”
“Can’t call him rug rat forever.”
“But just for a little longer, okay? At least until the hottie downloads, m’kay?”
The redhead exits the cubical and ignores me as she washes her hands. Casper it is.
“Pretty is as pretty does, Hols. Didn’t Nana teach you anything?”
The way I look at it is man is pretty. Ergo, he does pretty things. Hopefully to me!
“Nana taught me lots of things,” I retort, purposely ignoring what she means because our nana first and foremost cautioned us often not to turn out like our mother. “Like how to make a gin rickey for her by the time I was eight. So, I guess she also taught me to appreciate cocktails as well as the concept of taxation.”