Keeping Her, Page 2

  “We’re talking about two different kinds of happiness.”

  He shook his head, and lowered his lips to my ear. “There’s only one kind. Whether I’m inside you or lying beside you or touching your hair or listening to you laugh, it all means the same thing. If I’m with you, I’m happy.”

  God, he was good. At everything.

  He hit a sensitive spot inside me, and the word good tumbled from my mouth by accident.

  He chuckled darkly. “Are you grading me? I thought I was the teacher here.”

  I pulled his mouth to mine to shut him up, and then wrapped my legs around his waist.

  “I’m not grading you. Your ego is big enough already.”

  He laughed and continued distracting me through the morning and a good portion of the afternoon.

  It worked for a little while, okay maybe a long while. But when we boarded the flight late that night, no amount of flirting or touching or whispers in my ear could get my mind off the plethora of potential disasters that awaited me in London.

  I knew almost nothing about his family. Except that his mother terrified me. She scared me by proxy, just based on the look on Garrick’s face while he talked to her on the phone and the sound of her voice leaking from the speaker. When I saw her name on the caller ID, it was like seeing the Dark Mark hovering above my apartment.

  What if she took one look at me and confirmed what I already knew to be true? Garrick was too good for me.

  Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t awash in self-­pity about it because . . . hello, I got the guy. No complaints here. But that didn’t mean I was too stupid to know that he could have someone prettier or taller or with less frizzy hair.

  But he was with me. As long as I didn’t screw it up, of course.

  And God knows I was good at screwing things up.

  So I sat in my seat on the plane as everyone else around me slept, including Garrick, and I drove myself crazy with worry.

  If the weight of my stress were real, there was no way this plane could have stayed in the air. We’d start plummeting and spinning and then some brave soul would throw me out the side door for the good of everyone and scream, “Lighten up!” as I fell to my death.

  That was another thing that could go wrong. I could fall to my death on the stairs at Garrick’s house. Wait . . . did they have stairs? I should have made him detail it all for me. Maybe I should wake him up and ask him now about the stairs. And for a description of the entire house. And backgrounds on his parents and everyone he had ever met. Maybe he could just keep talking, so that I could stop listening to my own thoughts.

  I started to reach for him, but then brought that same hand back to thump against my forehead.

  Seriously, Bliss. Chill out.

  That was my mantra for the rest of the trip. I repeated it in my head (and possibly out loud) as I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the airplane window, and tried to get some sleep.

  The mantra worked about as much as my attempts to sleep. Fitfully I moved between the window, the seatback tray, and Garrick’s shoulder, trying to find a place to lean my head that didn’t feel horrendously uncomfortable. I didn’t get how I could sleep on Garrick’s shoulder anytime at home, and now when it was my best option for slumber, it was like trying to rest my head on a pillow of glass shards covered in ants dusted with anthrax.

  I’d switched back to the seatback tray, folding myself over onto it, when Garrick sat up and unbuckled his seat belt.

  I woke him up.

  Girlfriend Fail.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  He reached between me and my current resting place, found the metal fastener of my seat belt, and clicked it open.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  He didn’t even talk, just gestured with his hand for me to stand.

  I fumbled to put up the tray and stand in the low space. My head craned to the side to fit under the overhead bins, and he pulled up the armrest and slid over into my spot. With his hands on my hips, he deposited me in his old seat, and then he turned toward me and leaned his back against the window. He opened his arms to me with a sleepy half smile, and I fell gratefully into his arms. With my head perched atop his chest, I sighed in relief.

  “Better?” he asked, his voice raspy with sleep.

  “Perfect.”

  His lips brushed my temple, and then sleep was almost as irresistible as he was.

  I WOKE A few hours later to find light peeking through the plane windows. Two women were whispering quietly a few rows behind us in a familiar lilting accent. And it hit me. We were almost in London.

  I was going to be in London.

  God, all those months of seeing Kelsey’s pictures and hearing about her travels, and I had been raging with jealousy. And now it was my turn.

  I wanted to mind the gap at the tube station and eat fish and chips and try to make the Queen’s guards laugh. I wanted to see Big Ben and the Globe and the London Bridge and Dame Judi Dench. Or Maggie Smith. Or Alan Rickman. Or Sir Ian McKellen. Or anybody famous and British, really.

  Holy crap. This was really happening.

  And I wasn’t just a tourist. I was visiting with someone who’d grown up in the city. With my fiancé.

  Take that, world.

  “You look happier.”

  I pulled my head away from the window to find Garrick awake and staring at me. I gave a small squeal and launched myself at him. I locked our mouths together, and for a moment he sat still and shocked beneath me. Then his eyes closed, his hand cupped the back of my neck, and he kissed me so thoroughly that I almost forgot about London. Almost.

  I broke away, grinning, and he said, “Not that I will ever complain about moments like that, but what’s gotten into you? You waited a little late if your goal was to join the mile-­high club.”

  I swatted his shoulder playfully, and then placed another quick kiss on his mouth because I couldn’t resist. I said, “You’re English.”

  He smiled and blinked a few times. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “And we’re about to be in England.”

  He nodded slowly, and I knew I sounded crazy, but I didn’t care.

  “Yes. We’ve only been planning this visit for a month.”

  “I know . . . I just . . . it didn’t hit me until now that we’re in London. Or about to be, anyway. I’ve been worrying so much about your mother that I hadn’t really thought about it. I’m going to London! Eeep!”

  He chuckled, small and quiet, and brushed his fingers across my lips to quiet me. Right. ­People were sleeping. Then, like he couldn’t contain it, he laughed louder, completely disregarding his own warning to be quiet.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  Slowly smothering his laughter, he used the hand hooked around my neck to pull my forehead against his. Our lips brushed just barely when he said, “You make me happy.” I smiled my approval, and he added, “Marry me?”

  My heart flip-­flopped, like my unsuccessful pancakes from this morning were supposed to.

  “You’ve already asked me that, and I already said yes.”

  “I know. It’s unfair that I only get to ask you that once, though.”

  Melting. So much melting.

  I reached up and brushed my fingertips along his jaw. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, so the hair there was rough and masculine and unbelievably sexy. He closed his eyes and leaned into my hand the way that Hamlet did when anyone but me was playing with her. Stupid cat.

  I said, “Yes. The answer will always be yes.”

  He took my hand from his jaw and brushed his lips across my knuckles. My insides went as gooey as the nearly congealed breakfast the flight attendants had passed out. He kissed the ring on my third finger, and who knew the engagement ring was an erogenous zone?

  “I’m going to hold yo
u to that. I know how much you love accents, and I’m going to have much more competition in that arena here.”

  I laughed. “I hadn’t even thought of that! Just think, a whole country full of British men! I could—­”

  He tugged me forward and silenced me in my favorite way.

  “That’s not funny,” he said. “It’s bad enough that I’m about to have to share you with my family.”

  Ugh. I was going to ignore that whole family thing. I’d been enough of a Debbie Downer already to last the rest of the trip.

  “Remember that time we met and you said you weren’t the jealous type? Remember the time that was a big fat lie?”

  Ah well. Jealousy looked really good on him.

  “It wasn’t a lie. I just hadn’t ever met anyone worth getting jealous over until you.”

  I slid my arms around his waist. “Are all British men such smooth talkers?”

  “No. Just me.”

  “And James Bond.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  “Fine. I guess since James is fictional, I’ll have to keep you.”

  “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”

  “I’m not trying.”

  A flight attendant tapped me on the shoulder and asked us to please prepare for landing. I guessed what she really meant was to stop molesting my boyfriend in public.

  God, airlines. Stingy with the peanuts and the fun.

  I wasn’t sorry, but I blushed anyway because that’s the only thing my traitorous body was good for. I faced forward, but noticed a woman sitting across the aisle staring at us. She had her elbow on the armrest and her cheek propped up on her hand, gawking at us like we were her in-­flight entertainment. My small blush spread like a wildfire across my whole face and down my neck.

  Maybe we had been making a bit of a scene.

  Garrick didn’t seem to mind the attention, his chest bouncing with silent laughter. I flicked his arm, and tried to ignore the woman, who was still staring.

  Garrick said again, “Marry me.”

  Oh, now he was just showing off.

  I heard the woman aww next to us, and I swear to God I expected her to pull out a bag of popcorn or something.

  I flicked his arm again, and he just laughed. I leaned my head back against the seat as the plane began to slow and dip, and I tried to get my blush under control.

  Garrick stayed smug beside me as we landed and taxied to the gate. I was glad we were near the front of the plane, so that we could grab our things and get away from our audience. I pulled my purse from under the seat in front of me, and moved to flee.

  “Wait,” the woman said. “Aren’t you going to answer him?”

  Garrick chuckled and added, “Yes, aren’t you going to answer me?”

  My chin dropped, and I floundered like, well, a flounder.

  He was really going to make me do this with that woman watching. And now that she’d said something, a few others were paying attention, too. I pressed my lips together, and glared at him. As an actor, I should be better at handling attention, but it was different when I was playing a part. I got to turn off my brain and think like someone else.

  Reluctantly, I said, “Yes.”

  “What was that, love? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

  Cue eye roll. “I said yes.”

  Garrick turned to the ­people surrounding us and practically yelled, “She said yes!”

  Gradually, the cabin broke out into applause, and I threw him a look that was one part I’m-­going-­to-­murder-­you and three parts get-­me-­out-­of-­here-­now-­kthxbye.

  Garrick soaked up the applause with a charming smile while I looked on, probably barely more attractive than a radish. I turned to flee and tripped over something. I couldn’t actually see anything, but I swear there was something.

  I power-­walked off the plane and resisted the urge to run down the walkway and into the terminal. Garrick caught up to me just as I passed through the door, and looped an arm around my neck.

  “You know I love it when you blush.”

  “And you know I hate it.”

  “It reminds me of your face the second time we met, that morning in my classroom. The most inappropriate time and place to ever be turned on, but you’ve got a take-­no-­prisoners kind of blush. My body didn’t give me much of a choice.”

  He was only saying that to make me blush more. You would think that I’d be a bit more comfortable talking about sex, now that I’d had it and all. You would also think that at my age I would be able to successfully insert the straw into a Capri Sun juice pouch. I was 0–2 there.

  So I let him enjoy my embarrassment. And I enjoyed the way his side was pressed against mine. Fair trade.

  3

  Garrick

  I WAS STILL a bit bleary-­eyed as we waited through the long line for immigration, then picked up our bags, and passed through customs. Bliss vaulted between exuberance and silence, more of the latter, as we got closer to our final destination.

  Outside the airport, I tucked Bliss under my arm, needing to feel her, to feel some sort of control as her panic began to bleed into me. I was halfheartedly trying to flag down a taxi to take us to my parents’ place in Kensington when I heard someone shout, “Taylor! Garrick Taylor! Look over here, you prat!”

  Bliss had already stopped and was staring at two idiots down the pavement, yelling and waving their arms. The first idiot had dark skin and a buzzed head that had been covered in dreads the last time I’d seen him. That would be Rowland. And paired with the second idiot, Graham, who looked enough like me to pass for my brother (a scam we’d used more than once when we were kids), they meant trouble.

  I passed a hand through my hair and smiled. “Bloody hell.”

  What in the world were they doing here?

  “Friends of yours?” Bliss asked.

  “Very old friends.”

  Bliss and I turned around our luggage and barely made it a few meters before Rowland was tackling me.

  “Ricky!” he yelled, messing with my hair.

  I heard Bliss say, “Ricky?” over my shoulder before I shoved Rowland off. Glaring, I said, “That nickname wasn’t okay in secondary, and it isn’t okay now.”

  Graham said, “Oh, come on, brother. At least let him have a little fun. You’ve not visited in ages. Though I can see why.”

  I didn’t have to look to know he was staring at Bliss. Not only did Graham and I look alike—­tall, blond hair, blue eyes—­but we had the same taste in women. I had mostly been joking with her earlier about finding another guy, but now it wasn’t so funny. I shook my head at him and pulled her closer to me.

  “Bliss, these two gits are my old mates, Rowland and Graham. We came up together. And this is my fiancée, Bliss.”

  God, it felt good saying that.

  “Her name is Bliss? Or is that your nickname for her because she’s really good in—­”

  “Rowland,” I warned.

  He shrugged and shot Bliss a cheeky smile. She was grinning at both of them, her cheeks a brilliant red. And as good as it was to see them, I was not even remotely keen on sharing her.

  I asked, “What are you lot doing here?”

  Rowland said, “We phoned your dad and told him to tell your mum that your flight had been delayed by a few hours.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  Graham grinned in Bliss’s direction and said, “Because we wanted to meet your girl . . . before your mum tore her to pieces.”

  I saw the blood drain from her face, and she went from red to white in seconds. Well, there went the last of her calm.

  “Garrick!” Her hand connected with my arm, and then again with my chest.

  Throwing a glare at Graham, I caught her hands and pulled her close.

  “He’s joking, love. It’s all goin
g to be fine.”

  Please let it be fine.

  “Or after a few pints with us, it will be, anyway,” Rowland cut in.

  “It’s the middle of the day,” I said.

  Rowland shrugged. “We’ll make sure there’s some food had somewhere in there.”

  Bliss had her arms crossed over her chest, glaring at me. She looked so bloody hot when she was angry that I almost didn’t mind.

  I said, “Thank you both for coming. And for managing to piss my future bride off in record time. But it was a long flight. I should probably just get Bliss home.”

  When I reached, her hand flitted out of my range and then came back to poke me in the chest. “Oh no you don’t, Mr. Taylor.” I heard Rowland laugh behind me. She continued, “You are not depriving me of the chance to gather some much needed liquid courage or to question your friends.”

  Graham whistled. “I like this one.”

  That much was uncomfortably clear.

  I met her eyes, and she wasn’t backing down. I pressed my lips together into a thin line, but her eyebrows just rose in answer.

  “Fine. Okay.” I turned to my old friends and added, “One drink. With food. One hour. That’s it.” They held up innocent hands in surrender, and started leading us down the pavement.

  Over his shoulder, Graham said, “Damn, Taylor. Did teaching suck all the fun out of you?”

  “Something got sucked while he was teaching.”

  I shoved Rowland from behind, and he launched forward several feet, cackling.

  “What?” Bliss asked. “What did he say?”

  “Nothing. Just being a prick.”

  Rowland kept his distance as he led us to the same old Peugeot he’d been driving the last time I’d lived in London nearly eight years ago. It was funny how little some things and some ­people changed.

  I’d changed . . . that much was for sure. In turns, I’d been just as elitist and judgmental as my parents or I’d rebelled and battled that with tremendous levels of stupidity and trouble. It was only in the last two years that I’d started to feel like I’d finally found a reasonable middle ground. I could only pray to find something similar today with my parents. I could only pray that this whole trip wouldn’t blow up in my face.