Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“Touché.” I raise my glass in acknowledgement of her point. “Yes, I was drinking alone, but only while I waited for the entertainment to arrive. And I must say, you’ve exceeded expectations. Do you do birthday parties? Or do you specialize exclusively in terrorizing nativity plays?”
“I’m not sure, yet,” she mutters, hitching her purse back on her shoulder as she tugs at her skirt. “Seeing as I’ve just torpedoed my shot at hiring the best florist in London, I might need to explore other career options.” She sniffs, her gaze still fixed on her rumpled clothing as she adds, “Why? Are you about to have a birthday? Fiftieth just around the corner?”
“Sixtieth, actually,” I say, loving her spirit. “I’m quite aged and decrepit, a fact I’m sure would be more apparent if it weren’t so dark in here.”
She looks up, arching a wry brow. “Right. Decrepit. That’s the first word that came to mind when I saw you smirking in the corner.”
Was that a hint of flirtation? A grudging acknowledgement that I’m not bad to look at?
Perhaps, but she truly doesn’t seem to have recognized me.
That isn’t all that strange, of course. She’s American, and aside from the current monarch and his or her offspring, the average American has little knowledge of who’s in the British peerage, let alone what we look like.
Especially a secondborn son like me.
Relishing the chance to flirt with a beautiful woman who has no clue I’ll be rubbing elbows with the highest of high society tomorrow afternoon, I decide it’s time to extend an olive branch. “You’re right, I was smirking, and that was poorly done of me. You’ve had a rough go of it this evening without being smirked at on top of it. Please accept my most humble apologies.”
She blinks at me, obviously suspect.
“I’m truly sorry, Red,” I maintain, motioning to the empty chair across from mine. “Please, take a seat. Let me buy you a drink.”
For a moment, I think she’s going to accept, but then her chin goes up again.
“No, thank you,” she says, her voice chillier than it was before. “I’m not interested in drinking with a man who thinks it’s funny to kick a girl while she’s down.”
My lips turn down hard at the edges. “Oh, come on. It was all in good fun. And I have apologized. Most sincerely, I might add. I’m frightfully sorry.”
She shakes her head, her eyes narrowing. “Nope, don’t even try it. I’ve been a victim of British manners before. You’re all—‘Oh, terribly sorry, old chap, frightfully bad form, pip pip, cheerio!’—but you don’t really mean it.” Her attempt at an English accent is horrifically bad. “What you really mean is that you want to be exonerated without making yourself vulnerable or fully acknowledging your wrongdoing. And that way is the coward’s way. Therefore, I will be buying my own pint and drinking it by myself.”
Just like that, I’m even more thoroughly charmed.
When was the last time someone rejected my apology?
Possibly…never.
It’s exhilarating.
She spins on her broken heel, nearly goes down again, and catches herself on a chair before announcing, “Or maybe I’ll just get a taxi and leave. Right now. Before I can break anything else.” To Reggie, behind the bar, she adds in a softer voice, “I’m really sorry about the mess. Do you have a broom and a dustpan? I’m happy to sweep up before I go.”
Reggie, who’s unloading the washer behind the bar, offers her a kind smile. “Don’t worry about it, love. Knowing Belinda, she’s already got someone scheduled to come in tomorrow morning. But you might want that pint, after all. I doubt you’ll find a taxi. Not until the storm passes. It’s getting ugly out there.”
Red pulls in a breath, shoulders sagging as she exhales, silently admitting defeat.
Through the windows, we can all see he’s right. The snow that was pretty an hour ago is coming down in sheets, already piling up against the door. We’re all here for the duration.
Which is just fine with me.
We wrapped up our last big project before the holiday this morning, and I gave the entire office three weeks off. Aside from our holiday party next Monday night, my responsibilities at the office are on hold until the new year, and I don’t have to be at the luncheon tomorrow until noon.
I’m free to burn the midnight oil with Red, who I’m now determined to win over. Edward is the prize-winning polo player in the family, but we’re both wickedly competitive.
I never back down from a challenge or a dare, and Red’s quickly becoming both.
“You’re right,” she says, nodding toward Reggie. “I’ll take a pint of whatever’s best for a case of wounded pride then, please.”
Reggie nods. “Pint of Guinness. Coming right up.”
As she limps to the bar with as much grace as one can manage with a broken heel, I consider my options.