“Oh God. You know I’ve had a few of those,” she says, sounding completely horrified.
“An American footballer,” I add.
“Oh.” Now she sounds intrigued. “Is he one of those blokes who’s over here for the exhibition game?”
“He is.”
“What’s his name?”
“Cannon Whittaker.”
“What a name. Cannon. I’m looking him up on my iPad,” Evie says.
“No, don’t look him up!”
But it’s too late. She finds him in seconds. I can tell by the way she goes quiet.
“I hate you. He’s fucking beautiful!” Evie yells.
I pull the phone away from my ear with a wince. “He’s attractive, yes.”
“He’s one big giant hunk of muscle,” Evie says. “He’s massive.”
“In every way you can think,” I add.
“Oh, you smug bitch,” Evie says with a laugh. “I can hear it in your voice. Clearly he gave you plenty of orgasms.”
“So many,” I say with a sigh, remembering the various ways he made them happen.
“I hate you so much.”
“No, you love me so much. Like I love you. Now I have to go, but I’ll call you tomorrow. Maybe we can get together for brunch. Lunch. Dinner. Drinks. Something. Bye!”
I end the call before she can say anything else and grab a gray jumper, pulling it over my head and walking over to the mirror that hangs above my dresser. I have a serious thing for gray, clearly.
I smooth my hair down with my hand, frowning. I need to straighten it. If I don’t, it gets too curly for my liking, especially when it’s so damp outside, and I end up looking like a poodle.
After straightening my hair into submission, I find a hole in my jumper and I shuck it off, frustration making me groan aloud. My jeans—all three pairs of them—are either in the washing basket or don’t fit me right. I can’t go in leggings and a sweatshirt—I’ll look like a bum off the street. And I can’t wear a dress…
My gaze snags on yet another blue dress hanging in my wardrobe. With a sigh, I go to it, take the dress off the hanger, and slip it on. I turn this way and that, checking my reflection, and realize that it will do.
Perhaps he’ll think I’m too stuffy, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. I stand in my itty-bitty loo and apply mascara on my lashes, then slick on a pink shimmery lipgloss, all the while fighting my mental worry. Last night with me wearing a dress and oh so formal with the Lady Susanna bit, he might’ve found me intriguing at first, but in his element, at a game, he’ll see me for what I really am. A leftover debutante who works at an art gallery as a way to keep myself occupied while waiting to find a proper British gentleman to marry—one preferably with a title.
That is my parents’ wish. That was my wish too, approximately two years ago, when I was twenty-one and feeling desperate to get a ring on my finger. So many of my friends were already engaged, and I wanted that. At the very least, I wanted to be involved in a long-term relationship.
Whatever I could manage, I’d take it.
The relationship thing didn’t happen, though. Two years later, and I’m still listless. Drifting in a sea of single people, yet not fully putting myself out there. Part of the reason? I’m over it. If it’s supposed to happen, I’ll meet the man of my dreams and it will all fall into place from there.
That’s what’s scary. Meeting Cannon last night felt downright serendipitous. As if we were meant to be. The amazing connection, the sex, all of it seemed so…
Right.
Too right.
And that’s frightening, when I consider the fact that the man doesn’t even live here. He’s not British. He’s an American. A famous American celebrity football player who’s probably only in it for the sex and that’s it.
Don’t go, the little voice inside my head whispers as I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Stay home and clean up. Do your washing. Forget the brash American with the foul mouth.