“An Instagram?”
“Yes.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and snaps a quick picture of his fancy steak and fancier drink. I notice he makes sure to include his designer wallet in the shot. “I get a lot of likes on food pictures. I’ve got eleven million followers, but I’m hoping to bump it up to twenty. Sponsors really love it when you have a big following like that.”
“Oh,” I say. “Right. Makes sense.”
“So,” he says, pocketing his phone again. “What good times are you talking about? I’d remember if we met.”
“We haven’t,” I say.
“I know.” He sets his knife down and crosses his right hand over his left, offering it to me. “I’m Rhys.”
“I know,” I say, trying not to smile. “I’m Laura.”
I take his hand, noticing the fat gold Rolex on his wrist. I grip his hand firmly, trying not to squirm when I realize how clammy my palms are. He grips me firmly, too. I appreciate that. I think it’s a little patronizing when guys handle you like you’re made of glass.
His skin is warm, his enormous hand swallowing my own. His touch is confident, sure.
I want you to touch me like that all over.
“Laura,” he repeats. “Tell me more about these good times. I’m intrigued.”
“You shouldn’t be. It’s really not that great of a story, Rhys.” Reese—it’s pronounced like the candy. Saying his name out loud, in public, feels weird.
One side of his handsome mouth kicks up as he chews his steak. “Somehow I doubt that, Laura.”
“Let’s see how much liquid courage that’ll give me,” I say, nodding at my fresh green cocktail, “and then maybe I’ll tell you.”
He cocks a blond brow at my glass. “What is that? A sour apple martini?”
“Worse,” I say. “It’s a Midori sour.”
“That is worse,” he says, laughing.
The sound of his laugh—genuine, deep, pleased—makes me smile so hard I feel it in my eyeballs.
It makes me relax.
“Midori sours may not be cool,” I say. “But they are delicious.”
“As delicious as you?” he says, his smile morphing into a devilish little smirk.
“Wow.” I sip my cocktail. “Wow, Rhys, that was pretty terrible.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” He laughs again. “Sorry. I’m complete rubbish at pick-up lines. Like, embarrassingly awful at them. I should probably put in some practice before I send another girl running from the building like it’s on fire.”
“You’ve sent girls running?”
“Well, no.” He meets my eyes. “But it’s only a matter of time. You were tempted to run, weren’t you?”
I bite my lip. “If the bartender didn’t have my credit card, I would’ve been out the door ten minutes ago.”
“I wouldn’t blame you.”
“How about this?” I say, straightening in my chair. “Practice your pick-up lines with me. I promise not to judge.”
“No you don’t.”
“You’re right, I don’t, I’m totally going to judge you and tell all my friends how terrible you are at getting laid. But I paid for your dinner, so I think that’s fair.”
“Agreed.” Rhys sets down his knife and fork on his plate. He turns to me, resting one elbow on the bar and the other on the back of his chair. His blue eyes dance. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
“And you promise not to laugh?”
“Promise.”
“All right.” He clears his throat. His face is a mask of mock-seriousness. “Hey girl, do you know karate? Because your body is kickin’.”
I suck in my cheeks to keep from laughing. Not at the line, but at him, because Rhys is trying not to laugh, too.
“Hey girl. Do you work at Starbucks? Because I like you a-latte.” He leans in. “Get it? A-latte?”
“I do,” I manage. “Keep going. The ‘hey girl’ part is amazing.”
“I know. It never works.” He takes a sip of his vodka. “Hey girl. Apart from being sexy, what do you do for a living?”
“Total winner right there.”
“Isn’t it though?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Hey girl. I love every bone in your body, especially mine.”
I bend over, clutching my waist.
“Hey girl. Is your mom a baker? Because you’ve got some nice buns.”
That’s it. I can’t take it. I burst out laughing, and Rhys does, too. He hands me a napkin to wipe the tears from my eyes.
“Thanks,” I wheeze. “That was awesome.”
“Awesomely awful, you mean,” he says.
I blink the last of the tears away. Rhys’s blurry face snaps into sudden, devastating focus. It’s like I’m seeing him—the real him—for the first time all over again. He’s so freaking hot it makes my stomach flip.
I look away. “Amazing or not, your pick-up lines made me laugh harder than I have in a long time.”
“Then it was worth the embarrassment,” he replies. “You’ve got a beautiful laugh and even better smile. You should show them off more often.”
I drain the rest of my drink. I can’t meet his eyes.
I mean, seriously. If you look past the glitz and polish of Rhys the soccer star, there’s a pretty charming dude to be found.
We talk, we laugh some more. I tell him that I’m studying here for a semester. He tells me about his favorite places in Madrid I should try out. Restaurants, cafés, shops.
When I finally check my phone, I’m surprised to find it’s almost eleven.
“Yikes,” I say, pushing back from the bar after I ask for the bill. My stool wobbles. “It’s way past my bedtime. I should get going. I have a lot I need to get done before classes start this week, so...”
Rhys stands. He takes my elbow in his hand and gently helps me to my feet. Ribbons of warmth unfurl inside me from this place where skin meets skin. His fingertips linger on my bare arm.
I look up at him. Whatever was in his eyes before—the interest, the amusement—it’s back, stronger now, and he makes no effort to hide it.
“I’ll walk you up to your room,” he says.
My pulse leaps. My hand shakes as I sign the bill.
“Why are you staying here? At a hotel, I mean.” I nod at his suitcase. “You have a place in Madrid, right?”
Rhys pulls up the handle on his suitcase with a snap. “I do. But my flat is being renovated at the moment, so I come here when I need a break from the noise and the mess. Plus I’ve done a few commercials for this hotel chain. They comped me a suite.”
“Ah,” I say, starting to walk away from the bar. “Must be nice.”
“Wait! Don’t forget your napkin. Looks like you put a bit of work into it.”
Shit. In my hot-soccer-player-stupor, I’d forgotten about my bucket list. I whirl around and grab the napkin, stuffing it into my purse before he can get a closer look. I don’t know why, but I don’t want Rhys to see it.
“Jotting down some thoughts?” he asks, cocking a brow again.
A tiny voice inside my head says tell him. Tell him how you’re determined to live a little this semester. Tell him the list is all about becoming the happy, healthy girl you want to be.
But I don’t. Rhys may be a charmer, but he’s also a guy. A really rich, really good looking guy who obviously cares a lot about appearances. The flashy Rolex and porterhouse steak and Instagram photo are all proof of that. I’d feel silly, telling him I’m trying to care less about superficial stuff like that; telling him I’m looking for happy and healthy and self-induced orgasms instead. I can imagine him rolling his beautiful blue eyes as he pumps the brakes on our fun, flirty conversation.
I also feel like I’d be passing judgment on Rhys’s fabulous footballer lifestyle. I don’t know him; I don’t know what his story is, where he comes from. I’m sure he has his reasons for living the way he does, just like I have my reasons for putting together a wine-and-cheese heavy bucket list.
Reasons I don’t f
eel like sharing with Rhys Maddox at the moment.
“It’s nothing,” I say, zipping up my bag. “Just a little project I’m working on. C’mon, let’s head up.”
Rhys smirks again, a devilish, knowing little thing that sends a shiver down my spine. “Let’s.”
Chapter 4
Laura
The smell of Rhys’s cologne, woodsy, spicy, swoony, has me weaving on my feet as I step inside the elevator.
“What floor?” I ask, thumbing the button—sixth floor—for my room.
“Twelve, I think? Whichever is the top.”
I glide my thumb to twelve. There’s a brass plate below it, engraved in small, tidy script.
“You said you had a suite,” I say. “Not the penthouse suite.”
Rhy’s mouth twitches. “I like my privacy.”
“Of course you do, fancy pants.”
The elevator doors close.
“Thanks again for the drink,” Rhys says. “And for dinner. Lovely of you to treat me, especially after the disaster I was today during the match. If a Madrileño saw me at that bar, he’d probably wring my neck. I’d deserve it, too.”
I sneak a glance in his direction. His head is tilted back, eyes glued to the floor numbers above the door that light up as we ascend. The masculine beauty of his profile makes my chest contract. It’s overwhelming, how handsome he is.
How much I want him. Him, the real Rhys Maddox.
I take a deep breath, let it out. I need to slow my roll. Rhys probably has a couple A-list actresses waiting for him in his Jacuzzi upstairs. There’s no way he wants me like that. No freaking way.
“You’re hard on yourself,” I say.
He turns his head. Meets my eyes. “I am. Especially when I’m not playing well. You’re not a fan of the team, so you may not know this—but my play hasn’t exactly measured up to expectations lately.”
“I actually do know about your injury,” I say, my eyes flicking to his left knee. He blew it out last season, and had to have his ACL reconstructed a while back. “How’s the recovery coming? Besides this supposedly shitty play, of course.”
“Not well,” he says. A muscle tightens along his jaw. “But I did have a good bit of down time a few months ago. You know, time for other things. Friends, family.”
I can’t resist. “Lady friends?” I ask, leaning against the handrail at the back of the elevator car.
His mouth twitches again. He leans back beside me, crossing one ankle over the other. Our shoulders brush. He smells so.damn.good. “You heard my pick-up lines. No lady friends to be had with those, I’m afraid.”
He’s probably lying—I mean, the guy’s gorgeous and charming as hell, he gets laid anytime he wants—but his modesty is super cute nonetheless.
The elevator dings, and the doors glide open.
“Welp,” I say, pushing off the handrail. My face—my body—my entire being is on fire. “This is me. It was nice meeting you, Rhys. Good luck with your knee—and don’t forget to keep practicing those lines. The karate one was my favorite, by the way.”
His gaze moves over the length of my body. It’s a slow, intentional perusal. He wants me to know he’s looking. From the hungry gleam in his eyes, I’d say he’s appreciating, too.
I bite the inside of my cheek. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the way he’s looking at me.
Tucking my hair behind my ear, I start to move toward the doors. His eyes follow me, gleaming with the kind of mischief that filled the romance novels I devoured in my angsty adolescent years.
“Buenas noches,” I say. Good night.
The sound of my footsteps swishing against the carpet seems enormous in the silence that follows me out of the elevator. I can’t breathe. I close my eyes. Keep walking—
“This is where you’re staying?”
My heart trips to a halt. I glance over my shoulder to see Rhys’s head poking out of the elevator. He’s checking out the hallway, brow furrowed in disapproval.
“It’s a bit shabby, don’t you think?” he says.
“Listen, Rhys,” I say, biting back a grin, “we can’t all live the penthouse-and-porterhouse life. My room may not be a suite, but it’s still pretty nice for a girl who’s still in college.”
“It’s not as nice as my room, I can guarantee you that.”
“Is that another attempt at a pick-up line? Because if it is, it’s even worse than your first.”
“One more drink.” He steps halfway into the hall, facing me, and holds the elevator doors open with his back. He crosses his arms, making his biceps bulge against the sleeves of his blazer. The way he moves—steadily, gracefully, with lethal intention—makes the heat between my legs blare louder. “Come up to my room for one more drink. If only so you can see what real luxury looks like.”
I blink. That hungry gleam in his eye deepens. Taunts me.
I’m not an idiot. I know Rhys is asking me up to his room for more than a drink. He wants to have a pajama party. Sans, of course, the pajamas.
I shouldn’t I shouldn’t I shouldn’t. This semester is all about self-love, remember? After having boyfriends for so long, I need a break from guys. I need to mind my own business and masturbate. If I don’t, I risk settling back into old habits. Bad habits, like getting guys off without getting off myself.
“Shouldn’t this be the other way around?” I say. “I should be the one seducing you. I mean, I already bought you dinner and got you liquored up.”
He smirks, a devastating quirk of those deliciously full lips. “Then let me repay the favor. I’m known for my generosity.”
I swallow, hard. The desire spiking through me is so potent it electrifies my skin, my blood, the gathering tightness low in my belly. I feel raw and sexy and desired.
I wonder if Rhys Maddox would be a fucking unreal lay. A trophy lay, one for the books, and not just because he’s the super hot footballer of my dreams. He’d be intense, athletic. Hard in all the right places.
For God’s sake he is smoking hot. He’s an athlete, with an athlete’s hard, delectable body. He’s got an accent, and a British one at that, and he is charming as hell.
He is asking me up to his penthouse suite.
“Are you really so generous?” I say, breathless.
He runs his tongue along the slick inseam of his bottom lip. “Why don’t you come up to my room and find out?”
My heart skips a beat. “Liar,” I say. “God, Rhys, you’re such a liar.”
“I am?”
“You said you weren’t good at pick-up lines.”
He smirks. “I dropped the ‘hey girl’ this time. Is it working?”
I shouldn’t.
But oh, I want to. And isn’t that what that bucket list I just drew up is all about? Doing what I want, eating what I want, being who I want without worrying about what anyone else thinks?
Tonight I want to be the girl who makes her footballer fantasies come true.
Tonight I’m going to do what I want.
And I really want Rhys.
***
By the time we get up to the penthouse, I’m so nervous I’m shaking. Rhys slides his keycard into the door. It beeps, a pleasant little chirp, and then he holds the door open with the flat of his palm and motions me inside.
“Are all British guys so polite?” I ask. My sandals clack on the marble floor as I enter the suite.
“I’m not British,” he replies, following me in. “I’m Welsh.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He unloads his pockets—keys, phone, gum, valet ticket—onto a small table in the hall.
“So, like, excuse my ignorance. But don’t Welsh people have their own language? Or their own accent? Your English sounds really…English, I guess.”
“We do have our own language—people in the north mostly speak it, but I’m from the south. We have our own accent, too. Mine was much thicker when I was young. But I haven’t lived there in a while, so.” Rhys shrugs, digging his ha
nds into the pockets of his jeans. “Ready for that drink?”
“I am.”
He tilts his head toward the suite. “Let’s go, then. Vodka all right?”
“Vodka’s fine.”
“I’ve got the good stuff,” he says.
Of course you do, I think.
“Wow.” The breath leaves my lungs as I step out of the hall into the suite. “Just…wow, Rhys. This is beautiful.”
The suite is enormous—seriously, it’s two stories tall and as wide as a house—with a wall of steel windows that overlooks the city. Mod, cushy furniture in varying hues of grey occupies the airy space. The walls are upholstered and hung with several monumental pieces of art. A marble fireplace gleams in the light of a massive crystal chandelier that bathes the room in low, warm light. There are bowls and vases of fresh flowers everywhere, the perfumed scent of lilies filling my head.
“A bit better than your tiny box, isn’t it?” he says.
I scoff. “Just a bit.”
My heart is working double. I feel like I just walked onto a James Bond set. This would be the room where he seduces a lethally attractive woman while simultaneously fending off a henchman or two.
Spectacular doesn’t begin to describe it. It’s sexy, it’s luxe. It’s perfect for a fancy pants footballer like Rhys.
Outside the windows, the city is lit up, pulsing with energy. I watch a line of traffic snake down a wide avenue. The ornate facades of nearby buildings are illuminated in a rainbow of colors—purple, pink, blue. It hits me that I am in Spain, thousands and thousands of miles from home. It’s exciting, but it’s also a little daunting. I hope I feel less lost here than I did back at Meryton.
I hope I have the courage to actually do the things I put on my bucket list.
Starting with sex. Which is probably the most complicated line item on said list.
I’ve had sex before. Not a ton of it, but I’m not a prude, either. No matter who I was having sex with, I was always so caught up in trying to be the “perfect” lay—enthusiastic but not too enthusiastic, willing but not slutty, giving without asking for anything in return—that I never really enjoyed it. In fact, a lot of times it made me feel like shit about myself. It seems like, as girls, we are always walking that fine line between sinner and saint. I wanted to get off with my boyfriends, but I wanted them to respect me, too. I felt like I could only get one or the other, but I could never get both.
Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3) Page 3
