Big Love Abroad, Page 2

  I shook my head. "Nope."

  He tilted his head to one side. "No one? I find that hard to believe."

  I took a much-too-large gulp of wine. "You do? Why?"

  "You're a beautiful woman, Nina." He said it as if that was all the reasoning he needed.

  I shrugged. "Thank you. I've just been focused on school, I guess." That was part of the truth, just not all of it.

  Growing up, my parents were very conservative and very protective, so I didn't really date seriously in high school. A few dates here and there, prom and homecoming, winter formals, things like that. It wasn't until I moved to Ann Arbor for college that I ventured into dating with any seriousness. And when I did, I quickly discovered that I lacked confidence in myself. Among my circle of friends, I was confident and outgoing and fairly popular. But that didn't translate into the kind of confidence that attracted men. I was plus-sized, for one thing. And, again, when surrounded by my friends, that didn't matter. I was who I was, take me or leave me. If you didn't like me, I didn't care. You could go fuck yourself right off.

  But then the fact that I was a nineteen-year-old virgin began to become a source of angst for me, something I wanted to rectify. And that was when my lack of confidence reared its head. I didn't let it stop me, though. Once I decide on something I never give up, not for anyone, not for anything, until I accomplish my goal. So when I set my sights on losing my virginity, I made it happen.

  And it wasn't bad. Not at all. My first time was actually a very pleasant experience, as far as such things go. Greg Markham was a soccer player and a fellow English nerd. His dorm room on a Saturday night. He was gentle, careful, and made sure I came at least once before the night was through.

  By the end of four years, I'd dated four other guys, and slept with three of them. Not a huge number, but enough for me to know what I liked and what I didn't. I was confident in who I was, and I was not shy about my body or my sexuality. But, at the same time, I was aware that my body shape wasn't what the average guy wanted. I was five-four--barely--and my weight fluctuated between one-forty and one-fifty, my curves centered on my hips, ass, and tits. If a guy liked his girls ultra-curvy, I was his type; I was all curves. I wasn't overweight or out of shape, though. I did yoga regularly and watched my calorie intake, although I didn't diet as a rule. I'd learned the hard way that Nina on a diet equals a cranky, hungry bitch, so I ate what I liked but didn't overindulge. I stayed active, and I consciously refused to worry about my weight.

  Now, leaving behind everything I'd known to begin a new life in England, my old insecurities were making themselves known. Mainly because this absurdly attractive British man was paying attention to me and I couldn't stop wondering why.

  When it came to men, I didn't have a type. I liked all sorts of guys. Short or tall, blonde hair or black hair, muscular or wiry; as long as he was intelligent and interesting and well-groomed, I was all in.

  Greg had been the tall and thin type, wiry and athletic, and a little bit of a dork. He was cute, though. He liked sci-fi novels, Greek and Roman history, and had a tendency to ramble.

  The next guy I dated, Brian, was the opposite. He was on the shorter side of average, stocky and muscular, and a bit of a muscle-building freak. He was a good conversationalist for all that. He was a movie buff, so we spent most of our time in his dorm room, watching Netflix on his laptop in his bed. It was nice. There wasn't a lot of variety to Brian, though. He liked sex one way, and that was it. He was good at that one way, but that was all he knew and all he liked. His approach to sex was a pretty good metaphor for his life and personality in general. He worked out, went to class, watched movies, and that was it. Everything else either fit in around those activities, or they didn't exist to him.

  After Brian, I was single for almost a year, and then I very briefly dated a talented sculptor and art major named Lane. Gorgeous, with long, flowing, thick, unkempt black hair, strong hands, and vivid blue eyes, Lane was fun and fascinating to be around, but he was simply impossible to figure out, and even more impossible to date. He was just, by nature, self-centered. Not selfish, just unaware of life beyond his art. He was always thinking about his current project, or the next one, and if you distracted him--meaning tried to get his attention--he got pissy. So I ended up cutting Lane loose before we'd even gotten to first base. It was almost as if he wasn't interested in sex. Not in the he-might-be-gay way, but in the too-absorbed-in-his-own-world-to-notice-me way. Which was a blow to my ego and also annoying, because Lane was hot.

  After Lane I was single for a while longer before meeting Mitch Ingram. Hoooo-boy. Mitch...was different. Sexy, charming, fun, amazing in bed, but totally unpredictable and completely unreliable. He was average in height and build, didn't work out but was still in shape, not into sports but not a dork. He had the face of an angel. Just...beautiful. Perfect features. Perfect hair, perfect cheekbones, lips made for kissing...hands that knew how to touch. He was quirky, the kind of guy who would doodle on his Converse All-Stars or on the leg of his jeans. He always carried around a guitar but seldom played it, yet when he did play, he was actually really good. You knew he would be someone someday, the kind of person who was just waiting to be discovered. He'd end up in Hollywood or in a rock band or something, but he just wasn't there yet.

  In the meantime, he did what he wanted, when he wanted, and never explained himself. He'd arrange to meet me at 8 p.m. at the local coffee house, and then he just wouldn't show, or he'd be an hour late, yet he'd find some way to charm me out of my anger. Or we'd have this amazing time together, and sometimes after sex he'd stay and talk and hang out and act like being with me was the only place he wanted to be, then the next time, he'd just get dressed and leave afterward. No rhyme or reason, no explanation, just...I've gotta go, babe. See ya later.

  Eventually, I knew I needed someone more focused, someone capable of at least committing to being on time to our dates, someone who didn't just vanish after making love to me. And even though we never got serious, breaking up with Mitch had been surprisingly painful for me. I'd really liked him. When he was there--present and focused--he was incomparable. Fascinating and fun and so, so hot, and he was a really good lover.

  When we were together, things were amazing, and I never wanted to be with anyone else. But then he'd be late, or wouldn't show up, or he'd just ditch me in the middle of something, or wander off without explanation, and if I tried to talk to him about it, he got edgy and defensive and avoided my questions. He refused to fight, refused to argue, or even to explain himself. He'd get fed up with the line of conversation, and he'd just leave. No goodbye, no "we'll talk later." And the next time I saw him, he'd act like nothing had happened. So, yeah, breaking up with him had been hard for me. Yet, it hadn't seemed to faze him in the slightest, which only hurt me that much more.

  That had been over a year ago. I'd been on a couple of single dates, had been on a second date once, but nothing had ever panned out into anything interesting. And the longer I went without a date, without sex, without anyone showing any interest in me, the easier I found it to fall back into wondering if the problem, all along, had been me.

  And now here was Ian, paying attention, acting interested, telling me I was beautiful. And, I'll have you know, he voluntarily, of his own will, and without any coercion on my part whatsoever, took my hand when the captain announced that we'd be landing shortly.

  I shrugged. "So. Got someone picking you up?"

  He shook his head. "No. I've arranged to meet some old mates of mine for drinks when I get in." He glanced at me. "So what about you? Anyone picking you up?"

  I laughed. "Nope. I've exchanged a few emails with some of my professors at Oxford, but they're not meeting me here or anything. I just know one person in London." I picked at the fabric of my yoga pants, stretching it up and letting it snap back into place. "You."

  "Well, it's settled, then."

  I tilted my head. "What is?"

  "You're coming for drinks with us. You and I
will share a cab, and after drinks I'll make sure you find your hotel."

  "Um. That's nice of you, but it's okay. I wouldn't want to horn in on your reunion with your friends. And, besides, I've rented a flat for the month until classes start. I've got the address, and I've got its location marked on a map, so I know where it is."

  Ian laughed, as if I'd said something silly. "You're coming, Nina. My mates will all have their girls with them, so this way I won't be the odd man out."

  "But I'm not your girl," I protested, stupidly. "I mean...um. I mean, I barely know you."

  Ian's grin was...hot. And hungry. "All of that can be fixed, can't it?" It was phrased as a question, but his intonation made it a statement.

  "It can?" My voice squeaked on the second syllable. I was uncomfortable with the sudden intensity in his blue eyes, and found myself squirming. "I mean, yeah. I suppose it can."

  "So it's settled."

  I did a weird, awkward nodding shrug thing. "Yeah, it's settled. Thanks?" Why did that come out as a question? His eyes flicked back and forth, searching me, looking into me, seeing my strange, sudden nerves. I needed to get away from his intensity, just for a second. "Did you say we were landing soon?"

  He nodded. "Yeah. Twenty minutes, I'd say."

  "I need to go to the bathroom before we land, then." I stood up, in what I thought would be a pretty clear signal for Ian to let me out.

  "Good plan." He didn't move, though.

  I blinked at him in confusion. "So...I need to get by."

  He just smiled up at me. "There's room."

  There wasn't. Not even almost. I sighed. "Okay then."

  I slid between his knees and the seat-back in front of him until I was, for all intents and purposes, straddling him. His hands curled around the armrests at his sides, his eyes roaming up my body and fixing on mine, a slight curl to his lip, amusement and something else I wanted to think was desire glinting in his eyes. The whole process would have been much less intense and awkward if I'd just pulled my other leg through and been on my way, but I froze, pinned in place by his gaze, by the suggestion of our positions, him beneath me, looking up at me.

  For some reason, my other leg wouldn't pass through the space between his legs and the seat in front of him, and in the effort to get it free, I had to hop and pull mine over his, leaving me off balance, embarrassed, and stumbling. And, of course, Ian grabbed my wrist and steadied me.

  After regaining my balance, I glanced down at him, at his fingers circling my wrists, at his laughing eyes and grinning lips. He'd enjoyed that.

  I jerked my hand away. "Very funny, Ian."

  He was about to say something, and then a flight attendant came on the PA, asking everyone to take their seats and buckle up in preparation for arrival. "You'd better go, if you're going," Ian said as I stood up in the aisle.

  The airplane bathroom was tiny, awkwardly shaped, and clearly not meant for actual full-sized human beings. I made do, though, then returned to take my seat, standing in the aisle beside Ian and glaring down at him.

  "Are you going to actually let me in, this time?" I asked.

  Ian grinned, a devilish, amused smirk. "I suppose I can." He unbuckled and stood up.

  I chose to face him as I slid past. And, of course, at that moment the jet lurched, sending me falling into Ian who, in turn, fell backward into his seat. I fell forward with him, sprawled all over him.

  Our faces were inches apart, his hands on my waist, mine on his broad, thick, hard thighs. I could only stare into his eyes. "Hi," I breathed.

  "Hi."

  A long moment passed, neither of us moving or looking away, something hot and chemical crackling between us.

  "Please take your seat, ma'am," a flight attendant said, disapproval in her voice.

  I clambered awkwardly to my feet and swiveled to plant my ass in my seat. At that moment, the jet began banking. The flight attendant stumbled slightly as she took her jump seat and buckled up. The bank was sharp, enough to send my fear spiking and my pulse racing.

  "Oh god, oh god..." I mumbled, squeezing my eyes shut.

  "Nina." Ian's voice was calm. "It's fine. We'll be on the ground in just a minute."

  I nodded, not opening my eyes. And then I felt his hands stealing across my thighs and I jerked, my eyes flicking open and locking onto Ian. "Wha--ahem. What are you doing?"

  Click.

  Oh. He was buckling my seatbelt. "There. Buckled now. Look at me, all right?" I was staring out the window, watching the ground approach all too quickly and obviously panicking. I forced myself to look at Ian, and he smiled at me, took my hand and threaded our fingers together as if we'd been holding hands forever. "You might want to breathe, Nina."

  I had been holding my breath, but I hadn't realized it until his words made me feel the burn in my lungs. I drew in a deep breath and let it out shakily. My stomach lurched as the jet sank toward the ground, and I was hyperventilating all over again, squeezing Ian's hand so hard I had to be hurting him, yet he didn't protest or let go. I couldn't help but glance out the window once more, watching as the ground hurtled upward, speeding past, and then I felt the bump of the wheels touching down. I squeaked, a breathless noise of raw terror as the airplane bounced into the air briefly, only to touch down again with another gut-lurching bump. I breathed a sigh of relief as the jet remained on the ground, but my relief was short-lived, the sense of insane speed made all the more terrifying as we hurtled down the runway at what felt like a thousand miles per hour.

  And then we were slowing and taxiing off the main runway and I was breathing, letting go of Ian's hand and leaning forward to rub my face with both hands, then brushing my wayward hair out of my face.

  "There," Ian said. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

  I pulled my long hair free of the elastic ponytail holder, smoothed it back against my scalp and retied it. "No, that really was that bad," I laughed. "It was horrible and terrifying and I don't ever want to do it again."

  "I hope you like England, then," Ian said, flexing the hand I'd been clutching.

  "Sorry," I muttered, embarrassed. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

  He shook his head. "No, I'm fine. You do have a hell of grip, though."

  "It's amazing how strong sheer terror can make you."

  "Well, it's over now. We made it to the ground safely."

  Ian kept me engaged in conversation as we taxied to the jetway, deplaned, and made our way to the luggage carousel. Ian was an amazing conversationalist, able to make even idle chitchat about our favorite B-list movies or terribly awesome '80s music seem riveting and fun. I spotted my three huge suitcases and one duffel bag approaching and moved toward the carousel.

  "Which are yours?" Ian asked from beside me, leaning forward to watch the oncoming baggage.

  "The Vera Bradley set," I answered.

  Ian laughed. "Right. Again, which are yours?"

  I pointed. "Those, the really bright flower-print pink ones." I touched his shoulder. "But be careful, they're all really--"

  "Got it." Ian grabbed the first of my bags with one hand and set it easily on the ground.

  "Heavy," I finished, nonplussed.

  That bag had been just barely under the weight limit for first class luggage, very nearly seventy pounds. And he'd just lifted it with one hand like it had been a hand towel. Just as easily, he set each of the rest of my bags on the ground, then turned to take his own bags, two big black monsters that I doubted I could have lifted at all. Of course, Ian managed them with laughable ease, and I have absolutely no qualms admitting I openly ogled his rippling biceps and stretching abs while he hefted his suitcases.

  The man was delightful to look at, and I didn't bother hiding my admiration even when he glanced at me, catching me staring.

  "What?" he asked. "Have I got something on my face?" He wiped at his forehead and examined his palm.

  I laughed. "Yeah, you've got something right here--" I gestured at the side of my face and tried to sound like Chris Farley,
"Not here or here so much, but right here."

  Ian's lips twitched in a suppressed grin. "Nope. Shipshape. Waitress? Can I get that shrimp cocktail?"

  I snorted as I tried various methods of stacking my luggage, but no matter how I arranged them, there was no way I was going to be able to move all four bags at once on my own. My dad had helped me up to the check-in desk, and had expressed worry about how I'd manage all my luggage on this end. I'd dismissed his worries then, but now it seems they were well-founded. Ugh. I hated it when he was right.

  Ian watched me, then shook his head, setting his two bags upright next to mine. "Wait here."

  He returned in a matter of minutes with a luggage cart and stacked our six bags on it, then set off across the terminal toward the exit marked "Taxi Rank." I followed him--he had my bags, and my interest.

  When it was our turn for the next taxi Ian spoke up before I had a chance. It was obvious we were taking one cab. As I stood by watching the cab driver pile our bags into the retro-looking black car, I felt a bolt of nerves shoot through me. Talking to and flirting with Ian while sitting next to him on the plane was one thing. It was harmless and fun. But now, this...this was real. I was about to get into a cab with a man I'd met just a few hours ago.

  "Nina? You coming?" Ian stood by the door.

  I could still ask him to get me a separate cab. I mean, sure, all my stuff was in this one, and the line of people waiting for cabs was super long, but...

  No. I was overthinking it. It was just a shared cab. It didn't have to mean anything else.

  I got into the cab and sat down. The inside of the cab was astoundingly spacious, with two comfortable seats facing forward and two fold-up seats attached to the partition between us and the driver who was, to my way of thinking, on the wrong side of the car. It was my first indication that I was really, truly in London. Where cars drove on the left and drivers sat on the right. Excitement thrilled through me.

  "Where's your flat, Nina?" Ian asked.