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Great minds think alike, and I’m not the only one with that goal. Beau and David are already lounging around, whiskeys in hand. Who can blame us? There is no better way to spend a snowy English afternoon than in front of a roaring fire sipping a thirty-year-old whiskey.
David hands me a tumbler mere moments after I enter the room, and I drop onto the plush cream couch beside Beau, who smirks over at me, raising his glass.“How was the riding lesson?”
I shrug, taking a sip of my drink as I ponder my answer. It was… enlightening and frustrating. I shift in my seat, willing my dick to calm down. He needs to forget Angie’s strawberry and lavender scent, and so do I.
Across from us, David drops into one of the wing-backed chairs, grinning and waggling his eyebrows. Right. They want the gossip about Angie they assume I got during our ride.
Suddenly, I don’t want to talk to them about Angie. I don’t want to share the things she divulged to me with two of my closest friends. I’ve never kept anything from them before, but now I stare into the flames and pick non-existent lint from my jeans, avoiding the topic.
Weirdly, I don’t want them even talking about our leisurely ride because, suddenly; it feels like they’re stealing something precious from me.
I frown, taking another sip of whiskey. I’ve never kept anything from the other four in my life. Hell, they fucking knew about me losing my virginity within hours of the damn event.
But for some reason, I don’t want them to know how small, sad, anddefeatedAngie sounded when she talked about her fucking cunt of an ex. I’ve never been in a fight in mylife. But if that nameless prick were here, you know I’d be throwing my very first punch. I don’t know what it is about the woman, but protective feelings are stirring inside me, and I can’t explain them.
“It was cold,” I offer lamely, my eyes moving to the window where flurries of white snow are swirling. David snorts, half in disbelief and half in exasperation.
“I’m sure it was. What did you talk about?”
“Paris,” I reply quickly. Yeah, we mentioned Paris. For like two seconds. Still counts as not a lie. I shift again. This time the discomfort has nothing to do with Angie’s delicious scent and everything to do with how evasive I’m feeling.
“Paris.” Beau sounds doubtful. I’m not sure what else to say, so I settle for a shrug. It’s not enough, and he narrows his eyes are me. “What about Paris?”
“She wants to go back there someday. Her last trip wasn’t very pleasant.”
David snorts again, sitting back in his chair with his legs stretched out in front of him. “It seems like the woman can’t have herself a nice vacation.”
He opens his mouth to say something else, probably some smartass comment about Angie. I don’t want to hear it. The woman has done nothing wrong. All she did was help Robyn leave in the middle of the night – which is probably what has David’s panties in a twist. I head him off. It’s a dick move, but he deserves it, and it gets the conversation off Angie.
“Did Robyn get back to the States okay?”
Beau snickers, burying his face in his whiskey glass as David throws me a decidedly sour look.
“No fucking clue.” He tips his head back and glares at the heavy, exposed dark wood beams across the ceiling. “Maybe you should ask your preciousAngiethat.”
I bite the inside of my cheek but don’t say a word. As nice as the thought is, she’s not my anything. More’s the pity. A vacation fling wouldn’t go astray. Trust me to pick a completely unsuitable woman. Speaking of unsuitable women….
“Where are Ryan and Max?” I glance around, and Beau snorts again.
“It’s snowing in the English countryside. They’ve got fires going in every room. You know they’re upstairs screwing their brains out.”
Fuck. I guess drinking whiskey in front of a roaring fire is thesecondbest thing to do on a snowy afternoon. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, crossing my legs to hide that I’m hard again.
I wonder if Angie has finished her shower yet. She probably has. She’s probably upstairs, standing naked in front of a fire in her room, deciding what to wear for the afternoon. Fuck. My. Life.
Tipping my head back, I let my eyes flutter closed as I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from groaning as I revel inthatpicture settling in my mind. It’s going to be a long afternoon. And night. Fuck Uncle Bill for putting her in the room next to mine. Prick. Draining my whiskey, I shove out of my chair. It’s almost 6 AM in San Diego. The office will be opening soon, I’m going to get stuck into more emails. I have a few reports to read before a board meeting that they have kindly scheduled for 10 AM so I can be present before dinner. Hell, maybe Uncle Bill will want to sit in.
Chapter Seven
Timothy
The rock music drifts through the speakers as I weave through the pub, avoiding the random sprigs of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. The Prince’s Arms is a favorite of ours when we stay with Uncle Bill in Kent. It’s a cozy pub on the outskirts of the closest village, and they have excellent beer on tap, a great kitchen, and there are always sports on the TV. The signs of Christmas are everywhere, from the overly decorated tree beside the roaring fire across the room from the bar, to the twinkle light strewn garland gracing the length of the bar.
It doesn’t take me long to locate the rest of them. They have commandeered a booth table in the corner and are noisily enjoying themselves. I am spotted as I approach, with David raising a hand to call out to me.
“Timmy, we took a vote, and you lost.” Max smirks at me, draining his beer.
Okay. That’s a fairly common occurrence. Usually, to punish me for being late because I’m working or, as in this instance, Uncle Bill waylaid me, and time got away from us.
