This man is a distraction. And while I’m enjoying the distraction, I can’t risk one. If I get Daisy fired this week she’s not getting paid for this tour. If she’s not getting paid then I’m not getting paid—and that’s a problem. My savings have dwindled to almost nothing and I can’t live on my sister’s couch forever. Or go to jail. Do people go to jail for impersonating another person if they had that person’s consent? I’m in way over my head. And I will never get a new job with an arrest record.
“So what am I to call you during the daytime?” Jennings asks, interrupting my thoughts. “Am I to call you ‘love’ or is that reserved for when we’re alone?”
Oh, yeah. Forgot about that problem.
“You can call me Daisy,” I say as breezily as possible. “The ‘love’ thing is just a sexual fetish.”
“I thought it was an Anglophile fetish,” he reminds me. He’s really turning out to be a pain in the ass. Which reminds me about last night. He might have a bit of an ass fetish with his roving fingertip. I had no idea a finger there could make me orgasm like I did. No idea. None. Nada. I sorta want him to do it again.
“That’s what I meant, guv’nor,” I say in a stupid British accent. Holy hell, someone stop me. “It’s my sexual Anglophile fetish,” I add in my normal voice with a nod. I sound insane. I cannot believe this guy wants to have sex with me. Well, maybe he won’t after this. That’d solve at least one of my problems right now, wouldn’t it? I really like having sex with him though.
Why is nothing in my life simple?
The friends I graduated with are married and on their first kid—if not their second. I’m playing twin switcheroo with my sister, hooking up with a stranger and finagling ways for him not to call me by my sister’s name while we’re having sex. Because he thinks I’m her. Sort of. I suppose technically he thinks I’m me and he’s just confused about my name. Right? No, that’s not right either. He thinks I’m a tour guide, which I most definitely am not.
I’ve got issues.
“I like barbecue potato chips,” I blurt out. Daisy hates them, which has been great for keeping her out of my snack stash while I live on her sofa, because who wants to share their unemployment potato chips? So I’ve just shared something about myself with him. Something about Violet and not Daisy. Then I physically slap myself on the forehead, because potato chips? Really? It’s as if I’m trying to guarantee he never sees me naked again.
“Are you all right?” Jennings looks at me, confusion creasing his brow. He’s got really nice eyelashes, I note. Super thick and dark.
“Yeah.” I nod and look out the window. “I’m just tired.”
“I should imagine so,” he replies and I don’t need to turn to look at him to know there’s a satisfied smirk on his face because I can hear it in his voice. I turn anyway because I’m a glutton for looking at his face. He’s attractive, and comfortable in his skin. Perfect jaw, full lips. I like to examine the few tiny lines I can find—they add character that intrigues me. Then his pocket rings so I look at his crotch instead. He tucks left, as it turns out. And now I’m thinking about sex again.
He pulls the phone from his pocket and glances at the screen before hitting the ignore call button.
“How far are we from our first stop?” he asks as he taps out a text. I wonder if it was a woman. I bet she doesn’t even eat potato chips. Probably nothing but grilled chicken and kale. Do they have kale in London? Then I wonder why I’m wondering. Of course they have kale—it’s not like London is in another universe. They probably eat it with their fish and chips or something.
“How would I know?” I mutter.
“Because you’re the tour guide, Daisy. That’s how you’d know,” he says slowly, looking me over. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine!” I wipe my palms against the fabric of my skirt and try to remember what the notes said. “We should be there in less than twenty minutes,” I announce. I think that’s right. One stop was twenty minutes and the other was two hours, who can remember which order they were in? A real tour guide, likely.
Maybe she’s one of those women who eat whatever they want and don’t get fat. Whatever. I can eat whatever I want like… twice a year and not gain a thing. “Will twenty minutes be suitable for you?” I ask as he taps away on his phone.
“Suitable?” he repeats as he keeps typing without looking at me. “I should think it’ll be fine.”