Sure Thing(2)

“Rose,” I confirm. “And no, I don’t have any issues with your country.” I smile and linger on his face for a moment. I’m actually a bit of an Anglophile, truth be told. When Will and Kate got married I woke up early to watch the wedding live and I’ve binge-watched all six seasons of Downton Abbey. Twice. And while I’ve never had afternoon tea I’m positive it’d be just my thing. “Thank you for the drink,” I add, picking my glass up.

“You’re welcome. What exactly is it that you’re drinking?” he asks, eyeing my glass again as he takes a sip from his own. I’d guess he’s drinking bourbon, the amber liquid swaying in his glass over a single ice cube. It looks expensive, if I could judge the cost of his drink based on seeing an inch of it swirling in a glass. It must be the British accent that makes him seem posh inside of a nondescript Sheraton by the airport.

“A champagne cocktail,” I reply with a blush. It’s a stupid drink, but I like it.

“Ahh,” he replies, and even that half a word sounds better in his accent. “Is that a popular drink in this country?”

It’s not.

But wait, he doesn’t know that, does he?

“Very.” I nod. Wow. Who knew I was such a great liar? This week might be easier than I thought. “So what brings you to Washington?” I ask, changing the subject. I run my fingertip around the rim of my glass and wonder if I can really do this. It’s a great opportunity though, isn’t it? He’s perfect, appears interested and I’ll never see him again. If I’m going to get back on the horse I couldn’t ask for a better scenario. Or a better horse. Like a totally-out-of-my-league thoroughbred kind of horse I’d most definitely like to ride.

“Business,” he replies. “You?”

“Same,” I reply quickly and wave the question off with my hand. “Dull,” I add with a smile and a roll of my eyes.

“It was dull, yes,” he says in agreement, his gaze direct before dropping his eyes to my lips.

I feel a flush moving down my neck and I swallow.

“So you’re in town for a fortnight or something?”

“Have you any idea what a fortnight is, Rose?” He laughs and takes a sip from his glass as he watches me.

“Um, four nights?” I guess. I don’t actually have a clue what a fortnight is but I like the way it sounds and I’ve never had the opportunity to use it in conversation.

“A fortnight is two weeks, and no, I won’t be in America quite that long.”

Perfect.

I smile and drop my eyes to look for a ring. I may be willing to use him to get my groove back, but I’m not willing to enable a cheater.

“And what about you, Rose? Where is home for you when you’re not staying at this hotel?”

Sore subject. “Here and there.” My sister’s couch, but I don’t say that. I’m way too old to be in between apartments. And jobs. So I definitely don’t tell him any of that. Instead I smile before taking a large gulp of my drink. This week is all about bluffing anyway.

“Here and there?” he questions with a raised brow and tilt of his head. Great. He probably thinks I’m not stable enough for a one-night stand. I need to redirect this conversation.

“Where did you say you lived?” I ask. “London?” I add as a guess because, yes, my geography skills are so stellar that London is the only city in England that I can come up with quickly.

“London, yes,” he agrees while watching me. “In Mayfair. Hertford Street,” he adds. I’m fairly certain he’s being specific to make a point about me being so vague. Too bad.

“Sounds nice.”

“Does it?” He smiles at me like I’m amusing him. I take another sip of my drink and eye the cherry at the bottom of my glass. The last one got away from me when the waitress replaced my drink with the one Jennings sent.

“I like your shirt,” I offer. Subject change, take two. “Is it bespoke?”

“Shall I ask if you know what ‘bespoke’ means or is it just another British term you’ve been anxious to use?” He shakes his head this time when he laughs.

“It means fancy?” I ask, because he’s correct. I don’t know what that word means either.

“It means custom-made. And no”—he pauses as he glances down at his shirt—”this shirt is not bespoke.” The pause makes me wonder if his other shirts are custom. He does seem a little fancy, but who has custom dress shirts made? No one I know, that’s for sure.

I’m distracted when a gaggle of what appears to be a traveling soccer team of pre-teens moves through the lobby towards the elevators. Excited calls about who is rooming with who and snippets about meeting at the hotel pool echo through the lobby as they pass.