Table of Contents
Title Page
Books by Monica Murphy
About Thinking About You
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Nothing Without You
About the Author
Copyright Notice
Forever Yours Series
You Promised Me Forever
Thinking About You
Nothing Without You
Damaged Hearts Series
Her Defiant Heart
His Wasted Heart
Damaged Hearts
Friends Series
One Night
Just Friends
More Than Friends
Forever: A Friends Novel
The Rules Series
Fair Game
In The Dark
Slow Play
Safe Bet
Reverie Series
His Reverie (Book #1)
Her Destiny (Book #2)
One Week Girlfriend Quartet
One Week Girlfriend (Book #1)
Second Chance Boyfriend (Book #2)
Three Broken Promises (Book #3)
Drew+Fable Forever (Book #3.5)
Four Years Later (Book #4)
Five Days Until You (Book #4.5)
Billionaire Bachelors Club
Crave (Book #1)
Torn (Book #2)
Savor (Book #3)
Intoxicated (Book #3.5)
The Fowler Sisters
Owning Violet
Stealing Rose
Taming Lily
The Never Series
Never Tear Us Apart
Never Let You Go
Connect with Monica
Website
Newsletter
Facebook
Twitter
Email
One minute I’m minding my own business at a party and the next I meet this woman who blows my mind. She’s beautiful. Smart. Funny. A little shy. I’m immediately drawn to her. We make an instant connection.
The problem?
Lady Susanna Sumner lives in London.
I live in California
I play professional football.
She works part-time at an art gallery and lives off her family’s money.
Her family is nobility. I come from a single mom who always scraped to get by.
Susanna and I should have nothing in common. But when we’re together, it’s…
Electric.
What are we supposed to do? Can we really make this work? I can’t give up my career. And I can’t ask her to move to California for me. All I know is, I want her in my life.
Desperately.
I’m surrounded by hundreds of uppity British people. Just listening to their heavily accented voices is making me feel stupid. Like some of them I can’t even understand. And then there’s the fact that most of them are looking at me like I’m some sort of alien from another planet. I can’t help it if I’m twice their size. Besides, they all look skinny. Downright frail.
“I feel like a dumbass,” I mutter, shaking my head.
My close friend Jordan Tuttle laughs. “Why do you say that?”
It’s Saturday night and we’re in London, at a welcoming party for our team held at a fancy restaurant. We play for the San Francisco 49ers and we’re in an exhibition game tomorrow at Wembley Stadium, which is some dream-come-true type shit right there. A social group—I don’t remember the name, but it’s led by a dude who I think is a duke or whatever—decided to throw us a party in celebration of tomorrow’s game. I came for the free food and booze.
But the food isn’t that great—a bunch of crappy appetizers that don’t look particularly appetizing and taste like nothing. The only booze available is white wine, and I’m more of a beer drinker or a shot taker.
“I don’t fit in here,” I say to Tuttle, our quarterback, though he’s not really paying attention to me. No, he’s watching his girl Amanda, who flew to London to be with him this weekend, and who is currently standing on the other side of the room. They were a couple in high school during our senior year—we all went to the same school, so I know Amanda pretty well. Now they’re trying to get back together and I’m all for it.
I’m even a little jealous of it.
“None of us fit in here,” Tuttle says, never taking his gaze off Amanda. “We’re all Americans.”
“Yeah, but you got this high society shit down,” I tell him. He sends me a questioning look, and I continue, “It’s true. Your rich family is all high and mighty.”
I may have money now, but I will never have Tuttle’s wealth.
He actually snorts. “We’re not high and mighty. Don’t forget my dad is a complete asshole.”
“Who makes a lot of money, and that makes him high and mighty,” I remind him.
“Just because someone is worth a lot of money doesn’t mean they have class.” Tuttle finally glances over at me. “And you make a lot of money, so doesn’t that make you high and mighty by your definition?”
Sometimes I hate that Tuttle is too smart for my own good. The guy is constantly showing me up. Not that it’s difficult—he’s definitely smarter than me. He always has been, and I’ve accepted that fact.
“Fine, whatever.” I wave a hand and take a step closer to him, lowering my voice. “It’s different here. These people, you just look at them and you can tell they’re all a bunch of snobs.”
“You really think so?” Jordan’s voice is full of doubt.
“Oh, I know so. I mean, listen to them.” I raise my voice, giving it a shrill edge, trying to imitate one of the women I overheard earlier. “Oh my, just look at those American football players! They’re so disgustingly large and—quite beastly.’” I roll my eyes. “I heard a lady actually say that a few minutes ago.”
“Beastly?” Tuttle raises an eyebrow. “I kind of like it.”
“You shouldn’t.” I am broad. And I can be menacing, especially out on the field. I know this. But beastly? “It’s a total insult.”
“Hmm, I’m not so sure about that. I happen to quite like beastly men,” says a sweet, soft voice from behind me.
Oh. Shit.
Panic freezes me, my gaze meeting Tuttle’s. His eyebrows are so far up they’re practically in his hairline, and his lips are curved into a smirk. The look on his face says busted.
The feeling in my gut says busted too.
Clearing my throat, I slowly turn, pasting on a smile that immediately fades once I lock eyes on the petite woman standing in front of me. Our gazes meet, her eyes bright and full of mischief, and I’m immediately assailed with a multitude of things, all of them coming at me at a rapid-fire pace. Here’s what I can remember.
She’s blonde.
Blue-eyed.
And she’s smiling at me.
Oh, and her teet
h are fucking perfect.
“H-hi.” The word stumbles out of me, confirming that yep, I am a total dumbass, just like I thought. I clear my throat once more and try again. “Hello.”
Her smile grows. “Hello.”
Tuttle elbows me in the back, shoving me toward her, and I practically fall over. “I have a question.”
“Yes?” She sounds amused, and her eyes are twinkling. Her dark blonde hair is sleek and falls past her shoulders, and she’s wearing a blue dress that brings out the color of her eyes. Her cheeks are pink and her eyebrows are delicate and her lips are lush.
Fuck. I need to talk to her, not stare at her like an imbecile.
“How much of what I just said did you hear?” I wince, bracing myself for her answer.
She laughs. “Most of it. Fine, all of it.”
Well, shit. “I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings,” I tell her.
She rests a slender hand on her chest, her lips parting dramatically. “Hurt my feelings? Never. Like I already mentioned, I do have a fondness for beastly men.”
“Beastly.” I keep saying the word, and it is the stupidest word alive, trust me.
She nods, her smile growing, her cheeks a faint pink. “You are rather—large. My father noticed you the moment we stepped into the room. Mentioned that he’d love to speak with you, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” I immediately say. Hopefully she’ll stick around and talk to me too. I could stare at her all night.
“Perfect. I’ll go and get him.” She takes off before I can ask her name, ask who her father is, ask her anything, and I can hear Tuttle tsking behind me.
I turn and glare at him. “Thanks for practically pushing me into her.”
“I don’t think she minded,” Tuttle drawls. “She was flirting with you.”
“She was not.” I refuse to get my hopes up. Can’t remember the last time I flirted with a woman. And I’m talking plain, old-fashioned flirting, none of this swipe right or left app talk, or when a groupie throws herself at me and begs me to fuck her.
That’s an entirely different kind of flirtation going on right there. And that’s what I typically deal with.
“She was.” Tuttle takes a sip from his drink, his gaze zeroed in just behind me. “Here they come,” he warns.
I turn to find the pretty woman is headed in my direction, dragging along with her an elderly gentleman who’s clad in a navy-blue suit, including a vest. I see a gold chain hanging from it and I’m assuming he’s carrying a…pocket watch?
I’m also assuming that’s her father.
Nerves suddenly swarm me. I’m not big on meeting parents. Fathers. Mothers. Family members in general. Of course, I don’t even know her, so I’m totally overreacting…
“Father, this is one of the American football players. From San Francisco?” She turns to him with a questioning look, like she’s hoping he’ll remember what they talked about earlier or something, and the recognition on her father’s face is obvious.
“Of course, of course. It’s such a pleasure to meet you.” He grabs my hand and gives it a firm shake, surprising me considering he appears so old. “And your name is…”
“Cannon Whittaker,” I tell him as we continue to shake hands.
“Cannon. What a name. Very—powerful. Mmmhmm.” He finally releases my hand and takes a step back, his gaze sweeping over me from head to toe. “You’re a giant fellow, aren’t you?”
They are both watching me so closely they’re making me bashful. I quickly glance over my shoulder, hoping to see sympathy on Tuttle’s face, but he’s nowhere to be found.
The bastard ditched me.
“I suppose so,” I say as I turn to face them once more, my gaze locked on the elderly gentleman. “And you are?”
“Oh! How very rude of me,” the woman says, her cheeks flushing a deep pink. “Mr. Whittaker, this is my father, the Earl of Harwood.”
He’s a freaking earl? I have no idea how to respond to this. And if her dad is an earl, what does that make her?
Talk about high and mighty. This girl is too much for me.
Too freaking much.
The giant American football player appears at a loss for words—and social etiquette. Not that I expect him to know how to respond to the introduction of an earl. Thankfully, Father is a casual sort who can’t be bothered with too much protocol.
Though he does enjoy a little bit of propriety, what he’s due considering his position, if we’re being completely honest.
“Nice to meet you,” the footballer finally says, thrusting his giant hand toward my father once again. “Uh…”
“Lord Harwood,” I whisper loudly, punctuated with a cheeky grin, as I’m trying to put him at ease.
“Lord Harwood,” he repeats, shaking Dad’s hand. For the second time.
“You’re a strong sort,” Dad says with a wince as he withdraws his hand. “I bet you’re a terror on the field.”
“Just doing my job,” Mr. Whittaker says. “Sir. My lord.”
I almost laugh, but I keep myself in check. His over-polite ways are cute. He’s cute.
Attractive.
Sexy.
Not my type at all.
They talk for a few minutes about football, which I find dreadfully boring. I’m not a fan of American football. The players are all so big, bulked up by the gear they wear, and it’s such a violent sport.
Honestly? I’m not into sports at all. The only reason I accompanied my father to this event is because Mother’s ill and didn’t feel like going out this evening. She called upon me and guilted me into going, using words like, “duty,” and “family.”
Mom’s got the guilt thing down pat.
“Oh look! There’s Alford. I need to go speak with him,” Dad says, his focus on an old friend across the room, and he’s gone within seconds.
Leaving me alone with the hulking American.
“He can move pretty fast when he wants,” he says, amusement lacing his deep voice, his lips curled into the faintest smile.
I contemplate him, my gaze raking over him quick like, before he catches me ogling him. He’s incredibly tall, I’d guess well over six foot, and he’s impossibly broad. Those shoulders look like they could barrel through a brick wall and he’d come away untouched.
I’m not even going to contemplate his face. Suffice it to say, he’s handsome.
Terribly handsome.
“Yes, I suppose he can,” I say, hating how nervous I sound. How nervous I feel. I’m suddenly jittery, like I just downed three cups of coffee, and my hands tend to flutter around when I get this way.
And why am I behaving like this anyway? It’s not like we’re alone. We’re surrounded by at least one hundred people, maybe more, and the noise level is almost deafening.
Yet it feels like we’re alone. Just the two of us facing each other, unsure of what to say next.
“You never did tell me your name,” he says, breaking the ice.
“Oh, sorry.” I smile and hold out my hand. “Lady Susanna Sumner.”
“Lady Susanna Sumner,” he repeats slowly. I like the way he says my name, how it sounds. He takes my hand and gives it the briefest shake, followed by a too-long squeeze. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
I slowly withdraw my hand from his, feeling as if I’m in a trance. My fingers and palm tingle from where they made contact with his, and the heat in his blue eyes is unmistakable, even for an unseasoned, mostly relationship-less woman like me.
He’s interested.
In me.
What a strange—and pleasant—turn of events.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too,” I say, my voice weak.
It’s his turn to smile, and oh, what a dazzler it is. It transforms his entire face, lighting it up, making him look young and sweet, and I wonder if that’s just a ruse. Someone as large as he is who’s a professional athlete can’t be considered sweet. “What do people call you?”
I blink at him. “Pardon
me?”
“What do your—friends call you? Or your acquaintances? What with the title and all.” Cannon—such an unusual name—waves a hand toward me.
He sounds genuinely curious. In England, amongst the social circles I move in, Lady This-and-That isn’t rare. We are a dime a dozen. My title doesn’t mean a thing to those who know me, or know of me.
But an American who probably has no idea how nobility works? He might be impressed.
Cannon Whittaker? He definitely looks impressed.
“Formally, I’m referred to as my lady, or even Lady Susanna,” I tell him.
“No shit?” His cheeks turn ruddy and I’m tempted to laugh again. “Uh, sorry about that.”
I wave a jittery hand. “No need to apologize.”
“I shouldn’t curse in front of you.”
“Not like I haven’t heard it before.” My older brother’s colorful language comes to mind.
“Do they call you Lady Sumner?” he asks.
It takes me a second to process his quick change of subject. “No, I’m afraid not.” I shake my head.
“Why?” He tilts his head to the side, like a curious puppy.
“That’s…” I don’t really have a good reason as to why. “Not how it’s done.”
“According to who?” He sounds surprised.
“The peerage.”
“What’s the peerage?” Now he sounds really confused.
I smile, putting on a bright face. He does not want me to get into a conversation about the peerage. Talk about dull. “It really doesn’t matter. Just a bunch of boring rules.”
He steps closer, his gaze intense, his voice shifting lower. “What do you want me to call you?”
His nearness sends the jitters flying away, replacing them with a slow, yearning tremble. “I suppose you can call me…Susanna?” I offer, my voice weak.
His smile is slow. Intimate. Seeing it sets my skin on fire. “Then that’s what I’ll call you.” He pauses for effect, I’m sure. “Susanna.”
Oh.
Dear.
I’m in trouble.
I want to fan myself, but I keep my hands firmly at my sides. Plastering on a smile, I meet his gaze once more. “Are you ready for your game tomorrow?”
Thinking About You Page 1
