That’s me. I’m an experience-ruiner.
Maybe he was lying too? Maybe he doesn’t have a job either and lives on his nan’s couch? He said he had his own place but hell, I said I was a tour guide. Maybe he’s wanted by the law or has a terminal disease and didn’t want to put me through the pain of losing him slowly.
Okay, fine. That’s unlikely.
He wouldn’t have made it through customs if he was a wanted felon and no one with a terminal disease has that kind of stamina.
Was it just an escape for him this week? From the real world? That’s what he was supposed to be for me, when it started. One night where I pretended to be someone I’m not. Someone more like my sister. Outgoing and spontaneous and, well, easy.
Perhaps I was merely a convenient booty call, like Daisy was for George, and I’m an idiot for thinking it was something it’s not.
Except… whatever it was we had became real for me, real fast. I thought it did for him too. I know it did. So he’s either one hell of an actor or a coward.
Gah! That’s probably it. He’s a commitment-phobe. A thirty-six-year-old man with a job and his own place who looks like he does would not be alone if there wasn’t something wrong with him.
I bet he’s not even thirty-six. I bet he’s almost thirty-seven. Ha.
Wow. I’m not good at throwing shade. Also, I’m not sure it counts as shade if I’m not saying it out loud. I suck.
As an added slap in the face to all of this, I have a job interview.
Next week.
In London.
We were in the middle of the walking tour in Philadelphia when the call came. I slipped outside to take it while the group toured Independence Hall, standing outside with the phone pressed to my ear and a huge grin on my face. It’s a dream job for me. A dream bigger than I’d have ever dared dream if Jennings hadn’t suggested it. Pushed me, even.
It’s with Sutton International—the parent company of the tour company Daisy works for—in their London offices. I applied for it earlier in the week when Jennings suggested moving up in the company. Of course I applied as an external applicant since I don’t actually work for the company. But he’d gotten me thinking with the suggestion and I figured why not? There was no reason I couldn’t apply as myself, as Violet. So I did. And I got the call.
When I answered and realized the call was from Sutton International asking for Violet I almost thought I was caught. As if they would call me on my cell phone to ask if I was impersonating Daisy. Silly.
The position is with their design and development department. I’d be working with the team that refurbishes and redesigns the hotels they acquire—for the European market. Historic properties in some cases. Visions of charm and period details danced in my head. I almost clicked my heels together as I spoke with the human resources representative.
I spent the rest of the day feeling like I had the best secret in the world. One I couldn’t wait to share with Jennings, but there were too many people around. After dinner, I thought. I’d tell him after dinner. He’d be excited. I’d be in London—next week! I could see him again—next week! And if I get the job, I’d be able to see him all the time!
But I never got the chance to tell him any of that.
It’s funny how feelings can go from solid to cracked in the matter of an instant. I was in. All in. Totally in on the idea of picking up and moving to London. For Jennings, but for me too. It’s something I’ve always dreamed about, living overseas.
The interview is scheduled for Monday. If I even bother to go, that is. I should go. They’re paying for my flight and two nights in a hotel. It’d be my first trip to London. Not much time to do more than interview, try fish and chips and purchase a souvenir magnet at the airport. But the idea of it is sort of tainted now. Not quite how I’d imagined it. Would going be wasting their time? I’m not a time-waster. And I’m not a hundred percent certain I could take the job if it was offered.
Also, I have another option. I have an interview on Friday with a local company. It’s a good fit for me. A great commute. Well, since I don’t have a home at the moment I suppose the commute is irrelevant. But the job is about a half hour from Daisy’s place. The pay is great—about ten percent more than I was making before, plus a bonus structure. I could be back on my feet pretty quickly with this job—and back in my own place.
Two weeks ago I’d have been jumping for joy about the possibility of this job. It’s a good fit. Everything I was looking for. A good move, career-wise. A safe choice.
But now? Now I want more. I want an adventure. I want to push myself, take a chance. Spread my wings further than a thirty-mile radius of where I was born. But can I? Without love as an added incentive?
Do I have the guts to move overseas by myself? It’s insane. A totally insane idea. It’s a Daisy kind of idea, I think with a smile. I pick up my phone to call her, but as I’m thumbing through my contacts to dial, the phone rings. It’s her.
“I was just about to call you,” I say by way of hello.
“Twin win!” she replies. “Beat you to it.”
“You did. By about three seconds.”
“Are you home yet?”
“Yup. Sitting on your couch and drinking your soda.”
“Good. Rest of the tour go okay? You survived? You don’t hate me for making you go?”
“I survived. It was possibly even good for me.”
“Was that hard for you to admit?”
“A little bit. What about you? What’s going on with your frenemy?”
“Why, what did you hear?”
“What would I have heard?” I make a face even though she’s not there to see it. “Was Mom supposed to update me on your sex life?”
“Haha. No, I guess not. What about your British lover? Did you elope? I won’t be mad if you did. Just throwing that out there. Random FYI.”
“Err, no. We definitely did not elope.” I try to sound breezy when I say it, but I fail. Miserably.
“That sounds foreboding. What happened?”
I take a deep breath and bring her up to speed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Jennings
“Is your asshole cousin still here?”
I look up from the laptop before me at the sound of Canon’s voice. “Still here,” I call out, though he’s speaking to Rhys. “Still your boss as well,” I add.
“Is he done sulking?” Canon asks Rhys, ignoring me, though I know damn well he heard me. “I can’t watch the game with that kind of energy.” He’s so full of shit. He rounds the corner of Rhys’ hall carrying a couple of pizza boxes and grins, pretending surprise at seeing me. “Oh, my bad. You are here.”
“Fuck off.”
“You look well.” The pizza boxes hit the coffee table with a thud before he grabs himself a beer from the fridge. I can’t possibly look well, so I’m certain that comment is an attempt at being clever. “Did I miss kickoff?” he asks as he tosses the beer cap in the direction of Rhys’s kitchen counter, where it bounces until it hits the tiled backsplash and comes to a stop.
This setup they’ve got is like some goddamned American-style frat house. But with room service, valet parking, and a five-minute commute to work. I’d seriously doubt their ability to run this hotel if I didn’t know better. If I hadn’t seen them at work with my own eyes.
Still.
My eyes narrow as Canon drops onto the sofa and flips the lid on one of the boxes. It’s hard to believe these idiots are capable of anything when I see them like this, much less that they’re integral executive staff. Hence the onsite living accommodations-turned-frat party.
“Did you ask the bar to send up another bottle of bourbon?” Rhys says. See what I mean? They’ve got access to a bar with delivery. A bar with an unlimited tab, the fact that the bourbon is for me notwithstanding.
I should break it to Aunt Poppy that Rhys is never moving back to Connecticut, because as far as I can tell these assholes are going to live in this hotel until their dicks fall off. I’m positive I passed a stripper in the hallway yesterday entering someone’s suite. Or possibly a hooker, but I’m choosing to believe she was the former.
I asked Rhys and Canon if I should be worried about the going-ons here, which they assured me was unnecessary. And now I’m the arsehole.
Fucking Americans.
I pour myself a drink as the two of them sprawl on the sofa and turn the volume up on the game.
I tune them out and go back to reading Daisy’s employment file on my laptop. Again. It just doesn’t add up. I’ve already read her performance reviews. I can’t find any obvious inconsistencies. Her degree from Arizona State is legitimate. So she lied about going to Penn. The guide positions are contract, but she’s consistently worked for the last four years. So she lied about working in design. I can’t see how it’s possible she’d have had the time to do both.
But why?
Why tell me she was recently hired as a guide? That lie doesn’t make any sense. None of them do, but this one sticks out as especially unnecessary. Unless it was to set up the lie about losing the job. About dating her boss and getting let go. A person would have to be borderline psychotic to lie that deeply.
Maybe he was lying too? Maybe he doesn’t have a job either and lives on his nan’s couch? He said he had his own place but hell, I said I was a tour guide. Maybe he’s wanted by the law or has a terminal disease and didn’t want to put me through the pain of losing him slowly.
Okay, fine. That’s unlikely.
He wouldn’t have made it through customs if he was a wanted felon and no one with a terminal disease has that kind of stamina.
Was it just an escape for him this week? From the real world? That’s what he was supposed to be for me, when it started. One night where I pretended to be someone I’m not. Someone more like my sister. Outgoing and spontaneous and, well, easy.
Perhaps I was merely a convenient booty call, like Daisy was for George, and I’m an idiot for thinking it was something it’s not.
Except… whatever it was we had became real for me, real fast. I thought it did for him too. I know it did. So he’s either one hell of an actor or a coward.
Gah! That’s probably it. He’s a commitment-phobe. A thirty-six-year-old man with a job and his own place who looks like he does would not be alone if there wasn’t something wrong with him.
I bet he’s not even thirty-six. I bet he’s almost thirty-seven. Ha.
Wow. I’m not good at throwing shade. Also, I’m not sure it counts as shade if I’m not saying it out loud. I suck.
As an added slap in the face to all of this, I have a job interview.
Next week.
In London.
We were in the middle of the walking tour in Philadelphia when the call came. I slipped outside to take it while the group toured Independence Hall, standing outside with the phone pressed to my ear and a huge grin on my face. It’s a dream job for me. A dream bigger than I’d have ever dared dream if Jennings hadn’t suggested it. Pushed me, even.
It’s with Sutton International—the parent company of the tour company Daisy works for—in their London offices. I applied for it earlier in the week when Jennings suggested moving up in the company. Of course I applied as an external applicant since I don’t actually work for the company. But he’d gotten me thinking with the suggestion and I figured why not? There was no reason I couldn’t apply as myself, as Violet. So I did. And I got the call.
When I answered and realized the call was from Sutton International asking for Violet I almost thought I was caught. As if they would call me on my cell phone to ask if I was impersonating Daisy. Silly.
The position is with their design and development department. I’d be working with the team that refurbishes and redesigns the hotels they acquire—for the European market. Historic properties in some cases. Visions of charm and period details danced in my head. I almost clicked my heels together as I spoke with the human resources representative.
I spent the rest of the day feeling like I had the best secret in the world. One I couldn’t wait to share with Jennings, but there were too many people around. After dinner, I thought. I’d tell him after dinner. He’d be excited. I’d be in London—next week! I could see him again—next week! And if I get the job, I’d be able to see him all the time!
But I never got the chance to tell him any of that.
It’s funny how feelings can go from solid to cracked in the matter of an instant. I was in. All in. Totally in on the idea of picking up and moving to London. For Jennings, but for me too. It’s something I’ve always dreamed about, living overseas.
The interview is scheduled for Monday. If I even bother to go, that is. I should go. They’re paying for my flight and two nights in a hotel. It’d be my first trip to London. Not much time to do more than interview, try fish and chips and purchase a souvenir magnet at the airport. But the idea of it is sort of tainted now. Not quite how I’d imagined it. Would going be wasting their time? I’m not a time-waster. And I’m not a hundred percent certain I could take the job if it was offered.
Also, I have another option. I have an interview on Friday with a local company. It’s a good fit for me. A great commute. Well, since I don’t have a home at the moment I suppose the commute is irrelevant. But the job is about a half hour from Daisy’s place. The pay is great—about ten percent more than I was making before, plus a bonus structure. I could be back on my feet pretty quickly with this job—and back in my own place.
Two weeks ago I’d have been jumping for joy about the possibility of this job. It’s a good fit. Everything I was looking for. A good move, career-wise. A safe choice.
But now? Now I want more. I want an adventure. I want to push myself, take a chance. Spread my wings further than a thirty-mile radius of where I was born. But can I? Without love as an added incentive?
Do I have the guts to move overseas by myself? It’s insane. A totally insane idea. It’s a Daisy kind of idea, I think with a smile. I pick up my phone to call her, but as I’m thumbing through my contacts to dial, the phone rings. It’s her.
“I was just about to call you,” I say by way of hello.
“Twin win!” she replies. “Beat you to it.”
“You did. By about three seconds.”
“Are you home yet?”
“Yup. Sitting on your couch and drinking your soda.”
“Good. Rest of the tour go okay? You survived? You don’t hate me for making you go?”
“I survived. It was possibly even good for me.”
“Was that hard for you to admit?”
“A little bit. What about you? What’s going on with your frenemy?”
“Why, what did you hear?”
“What would I have heard?” I make a face even though she’s not there to see it. “Was Mom supposed to update me on your sex life?”
“Haha. No, I guess not. What about your British lover? Did you elope? I won’t be mad if you did. Just throwing that out there. Random FYI.”
“Err, no. We definitely did not elope.” I try to sound breezy when I say it, but I fail. Miserably.
“That sounds foreboding. What happened?”
I take a deep breath and bring her up to speed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Jennings
“Is your asshole cousin still here?”
I look up from the laptop before me at the sound of Canon’s voice. “Still here,” I call out, though he’s speaking to Rhys. “Still your boss as well,” I add.
“Is he done sulking?” Canon asks Rhys, ignoring me, though I know damn well he heard me. “I can’t watch the game with that kind of energy.” He’s so full of shit. He rounds the corner of Rhys’ hall carrying a couple of pizza boxes and grins, pretending surprise at seeing me. “Oh, my bad. You are here.”
“Fuck off.”
“You look well.” The pizza boxes hit the coffee table with a thud before he grabs himself a beer from the fridge. I can’t possibly look well, so I’m certain that comment is an attempt at being clever. “Did I miss kickoff?” he asks as he tosses the beer cap in the direction of Rhys’s kitchen counter, where it bounces until it hits the tiled backsplash and comes to a stop.
This setup they’ve got is like some goddamned American-style frat house. But with room service, valet parking, and a five-minute commute to work. I’d seriously doubt their ability to run this hotel if I didn’t know better. If I hadn’t seen them at work with my own eyes.
Still.
My eyes narrow as Canon drops onto the sofa and flips the lid on one of the boxes. It’s hard to believe these idiots are capable of anything when I see them like this, much less that they’re integral executive staff. Hence the onsite living accommodations-turned-frat party.
“Did you ask the bar to send up another bottle of bourbon?” Rhys says. See what I mean? They’ve got access to a bar with delivery. A bar with an unlimited tab, the fact that the bourbon is for me notwithstanding.
I should break it to Aunt Poppy that Rhys is never moving back to Connecticut, because as far as I can tell these assholes are going to live in this hotel until their dicks fall off. I’m positive I passed a stripper in the hallway yesterday entering someone’s suite. Or possibly a hooker, but I’m choosing to believe she was the former.
I asked Rhys and Canon if I should be worried about the going-ons here, which they assured me was unnecessary. And now I’m the arsehole.
Fucking Americans.
I pour myself a drink as the two of them sprawl on the sofa and turn the volume up on the game.
I tune them out and go back to reading Daisy’s employment file on my laptop. Again. It just doesn’t add up. I’ve already read her performance reviews. I can’t find any obvious inconsistencies. Her degree from Arizona State is legitimate. So she lied about going to Penn. The guide positions are contract, but she’s consistently worked for the last four years. So she lied about working in design. I can’t see how it’s possible she’d have had the time to do both.
But why?
Why tell me she was recently hired as a guide? That lie doesn’t make any sense. None of them do, but this one sticks out as especially unnecessary. Unless it was to set up the lie about losing the job. About dating her boss and getting let go. A person would have to be borderline psychotic to lie that deeply.
