No need to rush.
Daisy’s got plans. Timelines. Goals. I’m a planner too—in business if not my personal life. It occurs to me now that I’ll be forty in four years and this moment is the first time I’ve given it a second thought. Why has this girl who was supposed to be a one-off suddenly got me questioning my goals? I’d like to blame the memory of her on her knees with my cock in her mouth for my temporary insanity, but the truth is she’s hypnotized me since the moment she gave me that shy smile at the hotel bar and then glanced away three seconds later. She’s captured my attention more than I care to admit.
“I own a home,” I tell her, and dammit if I don’t sound a little sullen even to my own ears.
“You do?” She looks surprised. Likely because she thinks I’m some sort of jobless tosser living on contributions from my nan. I do own a home—a huge pile in one of the most expensive districts in London, bought for investment and location purposes as opposed to any actual need for it. I use one of the six bedrooms and bathrooms. I’ve never even sat in the formal dining room, choosing instead to eat at a stool at the kitchen island. The entire place could use a renovation but I’ve been loath to proceed. Loath because the space was more than I needed and I didn’t want to bother customizing it for myself. I didn’t see the need when I didn’t have a family to fill it—a family there’d be plenty of time to have. Later.
“Yeah.” I wave it off. “It’s a fixer-upper.” A fixer-upper with a current value of twelve million pounds. I paid under ten for it less than three years ago, but that’s London for you. “Historic properties, you know how it is,” I add so I don’t sound like I’m living in a heap. I sound like a right wanker instead.
“Oh! I love old buildings!” Her entire face lights up at the mention. “I majored in urban planning but my focus was on honoring historic preservation while incorporating modern design. I’d have died to do an internship in Europe but I couldn’t afford a semester overseas.” She sighs before continuing. “Whenever I see an old building in disrepair I imagine what it must have looked like when it was built. And then I immediately envision its potential in today’s age.” She’s talking with her hands and she pauses with one hand in front of her as if she’s picturing a particularly enticing old pile of bricks. “What it would look like restored and how we’d use the space today. You’re so lucky to live in a country with such a rich architectural history,” she gushes. “When I see pictures of old European castles my mind races with ways to incorporate an HVAC system and how I’d retrofit bathrooms into the design. How I’d integrate a kitchen suitable for today with materials honoring the past.” She sighs again when she’s finished talking, a little smile on her lips as she daydreams about turning a dungeon into a wine cellar or some nonsense.
“So you’re a designer? When you’re not running tours?” I say because no, I’ve got no vision for piles of old rubble. When I see an old building, all I see are drafts and a bevy of maintenance costs. Issues with building regulations and delays on planning permission.
She snaps her mouth shut and flushes and it occurs to me that I might be coming across like a dick. Which wouldn’t normally bother me, but I find that it does when it comes to Daisy. Her opinion matters to me more than it should. I can’t figure her out—she glows when she talks design, and looks nothing short of uncomfortable when leading this tour. So why is she wasting her time on this job? Has she been unable to find employment in her chosen field? She must be several years out of university. It doesn’t add up. She doesn’t add up, yet with every word out of her mouth all I want to know is more. Anything more. Everything more.
She bites her lip and closes her eyes briefly before opening them again only to glance away. “I had a job in design, but the company was sold and my job was eliminated. It was mostly CAD work anyway, drafting the designs and schematics for the project managers. I didn’t get to do much creatively.”
“So you’re working as a tour guide until something else comes up?” I ask. But that can’t be right. She said she’s worked at Sutton Travel for years. How was she doing this while also working at the design company that went under? The guide positions are by contract, meaning they work when they want to and based on tour schedules. But it still doesn’t make sense.
“Um, I’m not sure,” she murmurs but she’s examining her fingernails instead of looking at me. “I mean sort of. Maybe.”