Big Love Abroad, Page 3

  I dug in my purse and withdrew the small notebook that had the address written on it, flipped to the correct page, and showed it to Ian. I knew it by heart, but wasn't confident in my ability to say it correctly. The letter-and-number combination after the street name was confusing, for one thing, and I wasn't at all sure if I was supposed to actually say the "SW1" part or whatever it was. So I showed it to Ian, who nodded and then rattled off what sounded like a specific intersection. The driver nodded without speaking and headed out.

  Ian turned back to me. "So. Feeling jet lagged at all yet?"

  I shrugged. "Not really. Not yet, at least. I read somewhere that if you're going to be spending more than a week in a different time zone, then you can avoid jet lag by gradually adjusting your sleep schedule to that of where you're going to be. So over the last week I've been forcing myself to get onto London time. I even changed my alarm clock to London time and everything. So, if I did it right, I should be fairly well adjusted already."

  Ian made a surprised face. "That's pretty brilliant, actually. I wouldn't have ever thought of that. I usually just suffer until I've adjusted."

  I laughed. "It sounds easier than it was. Trying to get to sleep five hours earlier than my usual bedtime was a bitch and a half. I'd lay awake for hours before I finally fell asleep. Hopefully it'll be worth it now that I'm here."

  "Got me beat," Ian said. "It's just past one in the afternoon Detroit time, yet it's six in the evening here. My body is going to be confused as hell by tomorrow morning."

  We spent the rest of the drive into London making more idle conversation. Then the outlying suburbs turned into the high-rises and apartment blocks of downtown London, and my attention was drawn away to the sights around me. Strangely, the most fascinating thing to me was the rooftops. As silly as it was, every time I looked up and saw the chimneys and flat roofs, all I could think of was the "Step in Time" number from Mary Poppins. The rooftops really did look very much like they did in that scene and, for some reason I couldn't quite fathom, that excited me to no end. And then I saw my very first red double decker bus, and the iconic red phone booths.

  The cabbie pulled onto a narrow, one-way side street and parked in front of a row house. "Here it is, then. Forty-five pounds fifteen."

  I boggled. The cab ride would have been expensive even in the States, but forty-five pounds? That would be...almost ninety U.S. dollars. By the time I realized this, Ian had already inserted a card into the reader and was helping the driver unload my suitcases.

  "Ian, you didn't need to pay for that." I grabbed the duffel bag as I spoke and slung it over my shoulder, and then dug out of my purse the set of keys the landlord had shipped to me.

  "Why not?" Ian asked.

  "Because that was an expensive cab ride."

  "So?"

  I frowned, leading the way up the steps and through the front door, dragging one of the suitcases behind me. "So, we were sharing the cab."

  "And that was my half. You can pay for the ride to my dad's place if you want. And then we'll split the fare from there to the pub." Ian lugged two of my heaviest suitcases up the stairs until we finally reached the door to the upper flat.

  That was grossly unfair, but I wasn't the type of girl to get in the way of a man doing something generous or chivalrous.

  "You're staying with your dad?" I asked, unlocking the door and letting us in.

  I turned as I set my bags down to see Ian grimacing. "Yeah, for a bit. Just till I sort myself out. The opportunity to move back here was sudden, a job opening I just couldn't pass up, and I was in the mood to move anyway what with everything that happened--" he waved a hand in a vague gesture that I took to mean the heartbreak story. "Anyway, I just didn't really have time to sniff out a flat of my own before my contract started, so I'm bunking with Dad for a few weeks. Not optimal, but better than letting a hotel room for two months."

  "You don't seem real excited to be living with your dad," I pointed out.

  Ian gave me an incredulous look. "Well...no. Would you be?"

  I may have snorted in laughter. "Probably not. But it's not like you'll be living in his basement or anything like that. Right?"

  Ian shook his head. "Not a basement, no. But a spare room he uses to store his old cricket equipment, yes."

  "Cricket equipment?"

  "Cricket. It's a sport kind of like baseball."

  I wrinkled my nose at him. "I know what it is, Ian. I just didn't realize--"

  "That we still play it over here?"

  I reddened, nodding. "Yeah. Misconception, I guess."

  "It's a fair one. Cricket is a weird sport, I suppose. I never really got into it, much to Dad's unhappiness. He was a champion back in his youth. That's how he met Mum, I think, on a cricket pitch. Mum was dating some Aussie cricketer who turned out to be a bit of a tosser, and Dad saw her at a few matches. When Mum sent the Aussie packing, Dad stepped in." He paused and took a look around the flat. "Nice place. Good neighborhood, too. So. You need time to change or whatever?"

  I shrugged. "I probably should. I'm kinda scrubby right now."

  "There's a Pret down the street. How about I grab us some coffees while you change?"

  "Sounds good," I said.

  But then neither of us moved.

  Why, in the name of all that was sensible, did I have the urge to throw myself at him right then? The urge was there, and I was only barely holding myself back. It didn't make any sense. I barely knew him. He was sexier than any guy I'd ever met in person, and he was in my flat, staring at me as if...as if he was considering something he knew he shouldn't be. Like kissing me.

  But I must be imagining that look on his face, right? I had to be. Not that it was impossible, but it was unlikely. I knew what I looked like right then. My hair was a rat's nest, frizzed, tangled, and tied back in an unattractive ponytail. No makeup. Comfiest, oldest, thinnest, softest yoga pants, baggy, faded, ugly-ass U of M T-shirt. Plus, he was the type of guy that could score the skinniest, hottest chick in any room, anywhere he went. I knew there wasn't anything wrong with me, but I just found it a little hard to believe I was his type. I wanted to believe what I saw in his eyes, though, what I'd sensed in his sometimes not-so-innocent flirtation. I wanted to, but I knew, for the sake of my heart and my sanity, that I'd best tread carefully and not read too much into whatever may happen.

  "I think we've gotten sidetracked by this riveting conversation," I joked, pointing at myself. "Me, change." I pointed at him. "You, coffee."

  Ian grinned and backed away. "Right. Right. Coffee."

  Moments later he was gone and I was pawing through my suitcases trying to find my toiletries and an acceptable change of clothes. After basically riffling through all four bags, I finally found what I needed and set about getting ready. I brushed my teeth, brushed my hair, put on some subtle makeup and then, curling iron in hand, looked for the electrical outlet. I found an outlet in the usual spot near the bathroom sink, but it was for a totally different kind of plug than I'd ever seen before. Clearly, my curling iron wouldn't work. How had I missed the fact that the power outlets were completely different over here? And, more importantly, how the hell was I supposed to be able to use my curling iron?

  I sighed and assessed my hair in the mirror, trying to figure out if I could do something with it sans curling iron. I ended up using a rather intricate series of bobby pins to keep the front and sides out of my face, leaving the rest long. It wasn't the best look for me, but it would have to do.

  A change of clothes was easier to manage, except they were wrinkled from being folded up for so long and, of course, I had no iron. I didn't have one with me, and even if I did, it wouldn't work because of the plug situation.

  Argh.

  I ended up wearing a pair of jeans, since they were the least wrinkled thing in my wardrobe at the moment, pairing it with a red silk button-down shirt. Again, not my best look, but doable.

  Doable.

  Was I doable? To Ian? Doable in general?


  I shook myself, told myself to stop worrying about it. If something happened with Ian, then yippee. It'd be a super fun bonus time for Nina, especially seeing as how Ian was a delicious specimen of manhood. But, if not, I wouldn't be any the worse off than I had been before I boarded that flight. I hadn't come to England to hook up with hot guys. I'd come to get my Master's from one of the most prestigious educational institutions in the world, and to experience the country and culture I'd spent so much of my life reading about.

  Hooking up with hot guys would be a side bonus.

  I kept up this line of thought as I slid my feet into my favorite flats, a pair of leopard-print Toms with green soles. I was here to study. To experience. Not to find a man, whether for dalliance or something more.

  What was I thinking, even considering the possibility of "something more" with a man I'd met on an airplane?

  Seriously, Nina, get a grip.

  The front door buzzer sounded just as I was making sure I had my clutch purse and wallet. Instead of buzzing him in, I went out to meet him, dragging his two heavy bags with me, once again telling myself to resist setting up expectations. Something may happen, nothing may happen. Either way would be fine. Totally fine.

  On the sidewalk, Ian handed me a coffee and blatantly looked me over. "You sure cleaned up fast," he remarked, taking his suitcases.

  I grinned and shrugged. "I didn't have much choice. I didn't realize the power outlets were different over here, so I couldn't curl my hair, and most of my nice clothes were wrinkled. That left...." I gestured at myself, sounding more resigned than I'd actually intended, "this."

  Ian's gaze was sharp as he caught my all-too-obvious self-deprecation. "If you looked any more beautiful than you do right now, Nina, I'd have to wonder where you got your travel secrets. No one should look as good as you do after having just traveled as far as you have."

  I blushed. "Says the man who looks like he just stepped off a magazine cover."

  Ian shook his head, grinning. "Yeah, 'Scruff' magazine, maybe."

  I eyed the two days' worth of stubble. "You're hardly scruffy. Ruggedly unshaven, maybe." I shouldn't have said that. I cleared my throat. "Um. Or whatever." I took a too-big sip of too-hot coffee, and then promptly choked, my mouth and throat seared numb.

  I shouldn't have given away how ridiculously attracted to him I was. I cleared my throat and glanced with fake interest at the oncoming traffic. Or, what I instinctively thought was the right direction. Turns out I was watching the traffic heading away, though so I just ended up embarrassing myself further. But I'm stubborn, so I pretended like it was all part of the plan.

  "So," I said. "Where are we going?"

  Ian stifled a snickering laugh, and then shrugged his duffel bag higher on his shoulder, stepped out toward the street, and hailed a passing cab. The driver continued on down the road, oblivious to us despite his lit-up yellow sign. Ian cursed. "I know he saw me, the bastard. Hang on, here's another." He waved again, and this time the black vehicle swerved to the curb. "We'll drop my things at my dad's and then meet my mates at the pub."

  Once Ian had given the driver the address, he settled back into his seat and took his first sip of coffee. He was in the backward-facing seat, his back to the driver, his face toward me and the rear of the car. He stretched his legs out, his feet crossed and resting against my ankle. That small, innocent contact had my heart racing. I was torn between wanting to move my feet away from his or moving them closer. I had to force myself to remain still.

  "Are you sure I'm not going to be an imposition?" I asked.

  Ian sighed. "I thought we'd settled this already."

  "You settled it. I never agreed."

  Ian frowned. "Yes, you did. You said, 'yeah, it's settled.'"

  Damn. He had me there. "I did, didn't I?"

  He nodded. "You did."

  I wasn't sure what was happening to me. I was usually much more in control of situations than this. I never let things just happen to me. I never let men just...sweep me into doing what they wanted. They only wanted one thing...and I wasn't into casual.

  Usually.

  But...what if this could be different? What if...what if I just let this happen, and let it be casual? What could it hurt? Just go with it. Ian liked me. He wanted me. I could see that clearly, if I was being honest with myself. I didn't know how far it could go, but I had no doubts that I could get Ian into bed with me. Usually, when I got that sniff, that hint of interest, I'd stick around just long enough to find out whether he was interested in me for me, or if he just thought I would be an easy lay, assuming my figure meant a lack of confidence, and thus that I'd take whatever I could get. If I sensed any of that, I would be gone. I was worth more than that. I wanted a guy to be interested in me. In who I was. I wanted a guy to like me and to be attracted to me, not just despite my body-shape, but for it.

  I winced internally. I was going in mental circles, and I knew it. Ian had thrown me for a loop. I was going over the same mental and emotional ground over and over again, and I knew why. I wanted Ian, and I wasn't sure what he wanted with me, beyond sex. The question was, really, could I knowingly and intentionally go forward with this evening, keep it casual, and stay emotionally detached? Was that what I wanted?

  I didn't know.

  What I did know was that I was overthinking it. Like way overthinking it.

  "You're suddenly very much lost in thought, Nina," Ian said. His voice cut through my thoughts like a hot knife through butter.

  I let out a long breath, peering at him. I tried to hold back what I knew was about to come out of my mouth, but I couldn't. It wasn't my way. I was often straightforward, blunt, sometimes even tactless. This was one of those times.

  "What's happening here, Ian?" I gestured between us. "I suppose this isn't exactly the way things are normally done, but I don't really care. Or maybe I do, but I can't seem to stop myself from being the way I am."

  Ian smiled. "And what way is that?"

  "Insufferably blunt, usually."

  "Not insufferable to me." He peered at me, idly rubbing a fold of his T-shirt between his finger and thumb. "What is it you want to know, Nina? What are you asking?"

  "What do you want from me? Where this is going?" My heart hammered, my gut churned. Barely in London an hour and I was already risking alienating the one person I knew. Typical Nina.

  Ian glanced past me out the window. "I'm not avoiding your question, but we're here." He leaned forward as the cab came to a stop outside a modest row of houses. "I'm going to put my things inside. I'll just be a moment."

  I nodded and watched as he slid out of the car, grabbed his two bags and went up the stairs to the front entrance. True to his word, he literally set his luggage on the floor just inside the main door, not even going inside. He locked the door behind himself and was back in the taxi within a minute. This time, he sat on the seat beside me, and he sat so close his hipbone nudged mine, his thigh resting against my own. He flung an arm across the back of the seat, not really around me, exactly, but almost. He named a bar, which he informed me was in Covent Garden.

  "So, Nina. Where were we?" He grabbed my hand, placed my palm against his, but instead of threading our fingers he lined them up, finger to finger, the tips of mine coming barely to the crease of his third knuckle. "Ah, yes. You wanted to know where this thing between us is going."

  "Or what this thing between us is." I slid my hand up so my fingertips touched his. "Or even if there is a thing between us."

  "Oh, there's a thing."

  "There is?" I pulled my hand away, pivoted slightly to face him, my knee pushing against his leg.

  He nodded. "I think it's safe to assume there's a thing, yes."

  "What kind of thing?" I asked.

  "Well..." Ian trailed off, his eyes on mine. "That's yet to be determined, I think."

  "No kidding," I said. "What do you think I'm trying to do, here?"

  Ian laughed. "Fair enough. What do you want?"

/>   "I'm totally not sure, to be honest." I lifted an eyebrow at him. "What about you?"

  "I want a lot of things," Ian said. "First, a few drinks with my friends--which includes you--and then I'm going to want dinner, and then...who knows? Maybe you and I will have drinks on our own. Maybe I'll take you back to your flat."

  "Take me back to my flat?" Why did my voice go up at the end like that? I wasn't nervous, or anxious. Not at all.

  Ian's lips quirked in an amused smile. "Yeah, you know...get you back safe and all that. Tuck you in, maybe."

  "Tuck me in." I sighed. "Really?"

  Ian laughed, and his open amusement and humor had me grinning too. "I think you're overthinking, Nina. You want blunt? I'm not sure what I want, or what this is. I just met you. I've enjoyed talking to you. I'm looking forward to seeing Bill and the rest, as I haven't seen them in an age, and I'm looking forward to spending time with you that's not confined to the seats of an airplane. Beyond that? I'm really not sure."

  I looked away, out the window, watching in rapt wonder as we passed around the Marble Arch, shooting Ian a smile as the iconic landmark slid from view. "Good enough for me," I told him.

  And that was true.

  Mostly.

  CHAPTER 3

  The pub was everything I'd pictured a swank London pub to be: low ceilings, aged and faded wood, high stools and a tall table near the window, a large open area in front of the bar, and some low couches along one wall with coffee tables and easy chairs. Ian's friends had already commandeered an entire section of seating along one wall, nearly a dozen people sprawled on the couches and chairs, a few standing with pints in hand, laughing and looking glamorously affable. It looked like a movie set. Everyone was good-looking, with neatly coiffed hair and subtle makeup, men with stubbled beards and their shirt sleeves pushed up to just beneath their elbows. There were six men and six women, all clearly paired off, judging by the way they were all orbiting each other, exchanging idle touches, glances, sitting on laps and teasing and slapping shoulders and looking like they could be an alternate cast for Friends.

  And they were all ridiculously happy to see Ian. As soon as he entered the pub, they stood and cheered, with two guys in particular splitting away from the crowd to approach Ian, arms wide, shouting his name, wrapping him up in a three-way man-hug that should have been awkward and weird but was, instead, totally endearing.