by Emily Bow
To Play or Not to Play
A Romance Novel
Standalone Book One of the Romance Romp Series
By
Emily Bow
To Play or Not to Play
Copyright April 2018
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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For upcoming books and other information, visit www.EmilyBow.com.
[1. Fiction 2. Romance 3. Contemporary 4. New Adult 5. Romantic Comedy 6. ChickLit]
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Books By Emily Bow
Acknowledgments
Book Description
A fun, stand-alone, contemporary romance, rated R, with a happily ever after.
How All-American college graduate Kira falls for the hot Prime Minister’s son.
I’m stuck.
Yep, I’m standing in the British Prime Minister’s house with my shirt caught up over my head. Heart thumping, anxiety happening, bra showing…that’s me…and someone is coming.
Solid steps. Not the light clicking of heels. It has to be a guy.
He. Is. Here.
I stare into his feral blue eyes.
“Help me.” Half plea, half demand, my words are clear, but I jiggle my body in case he is slow to understand the situation. I’m standing here like a half-transitioned, shape-shifting unicorn, like in the novel I’m reading, begging him for help.
It wasn’t the first bargain we’d strike this summer…
Chapter 1
Yep, I was in a public building, and I was going to take my shirt off. I wish I could say I was on a wild graduation trip, but I wasn’t.
I was late for my summer internship with the British government, and I was still in my travel clothes. In England, clothes matter. So, yoga pants and a t-shirt weren’t going to cut it. I needed to put on my suitable pink suit dress and look sensible. The Brits were all about sense and sensibility.
My practical side warred with my sneaky side. Should I do this?
I’d endured a nine-hour flight with security screens at the airport and here at the Prime Minister’s residence. Then, I’d followed the guards’ directions, but I hadn’t found the Interns’ Session room. Instead, I’d found a narrow back hallway that smelled like apple cleaning product and emptiness.
I couldn’t fix being late, but I could end this jetlagged walk of shame—me here, wearing the same clothes from the night before.
I was out of time, a little lost, and there was no one else here. So, why not? A pleased rush flitted through me at the solution. I toyed with the hem of my shirt.
I’d wear the dress Mom had picked out for me back in Houston. As if I didn’t know what to wear on the first day of a job. I was twenty-one, a college graduate. I knew how to appear professional. I jostled the dress I carried over my arm, undid the modesty hook at the top, and yanked down the zipper. I’d throw the dress over what I was wearing and then yank off my yoga pants from underneath.
So wrong. So, so wrong. Doing an inappropriate quick change to meet modesty standards.
I was doing it.
I shimmied my dress on over my clothes.
Whew. The dress was on. Unzipped. But on.
I quickly shucked my yoga pants and stuffed them into my overlarge purse.
Success.
I reached behind me and shoved my t-shirt down so it wouldn’t get caught in the zipper track. Heat hit me from my exertions. Wearing this dress over a t-shirt would be warm. I’d be uncomfortable, overstuffed all day. Especially here in England, a country that had minimal air conditioning. Some called Texas over-air-conditioned, but I knew the truth. No one else air conditioned enough.
So…
Why not? I let the front of my dress hang down so that I was essentially wearing a t-shirt and a skirt. I crossed my arms over my chest, grabbed the hem of my t-shirt, got it up and over… and… I pulled. My hair yanked; my charm bracelet caught in the strands.
I was stuck. And the position hurt.
Ring…ring. The mechanical buzz of my phone jolted me, reminding me that other people existed.
I pulled the top of the dress up over my bra. With my right arm holding up my dress and my left arm stuck in the air, I had no hand to answer the call.
On the upside, the gaping back of my dress made the room cooler.
Ring…ring… My sister’s ringtone sang out. I couldn’t believe Felicity was calling to bug me. She wasn’t even in the same time zone. It was probably 2 AM where she was.
Ring…ring. Ring…ring.
I kicked my purse like that would help. The yoga pants fell out along with half my stuff. Lip balm, an eye mask, the dirty book I was reading. It all clattered out of the purse and onto the floor, joining me in this ridiculous dance.
Steps sounded on the marble.
Crap. Crap. Crap. I jerked my head like my dog. Trapper did that right before he went still and then started barking like crazy at whoever had come to the door. I now knew what he had felt in those moments. Dread, interest, and a fierce determination to state that this was my territory.
Because here I was, half out of this dress and no way to get into it fast. Being stuck like this in a mall dressing room was annoying. Being half naked in a public foyer was panic inducing. Full on, heart-in-my-throat panic. That panic shot adrenaline through my veins and pumped anxiety through every inch of me.
Someone was coming. Solid steps. Not the light clicking of heels. It had to be a guy.
The steps stopped.
He. Was. Here.
I could see him. And he could see me. A lot of me.
He was fair-haired, tall. My age. Another intern maybe? My heart thumped impossibly harder. He was tourist brochure handsome.
“Well,” he said, sounding surprised and, I don’t know, intrigued?
Stop worrying about him. Think. Fix the situation. Process my strengths.
The guy was late. Like me. Not
where he was supposed to be. Like me. It gave me an edge over him, as much of an edge as I could grab at this moment. I knew how to take an advantage when I found one.
He was still staring at me, and a flush hit the top of his cheekbones. The blush, the tamed haircut, and the pressed navy suit belied his feral blue eyes. His gaze was fixed on me as if I were performing this arms-overhead inadvertent belly dance for his benefit.
I yanked at my arm. My hair pulled. I winced and maneuvered my arm into an angle I never wanted to feel again. Holding in the groan, I tried not to yank all my hair out. My American outrage roiled. This wasn’t how today was supposed to go.
The guy lifted his hand, held up his pointer finger to the left, and opened his mouth.
Dude was about to give me directions. I yanked my arm left. My hair pulled harder. A garbled yelp left my lips. “Grrr. Ouch.”
His pointed directions had not helped.
The clatter of dress shoes and a babble of voice came from down the hall. Great. Now I’d found the interns. Or a group of ambassadors. Or the press. All of them could be coming this way and see me stuck like this. My arm overhead, and my dress hanging open on my first day.
Nooo.
Alarm crashed through me. I stared into his bright blue eyes. He’d failed me once with his inadequate finger pointing, but I had no other choice but to seek his assistance. Fast.
“Help me.” Half plea, half demand, the words were clear, but I jiggled my body again in case he was slow to understand the situation. Fresh pain arced through my skull, and I held in a yelp.
He glanced down the hall, taking in the imminent arrival of the horde. Their voices were loud and eager. Had to be the other college interns. Interns who’d give me a stripper nickname that would last longer than this summer. It would haunt me for life. That was this moment.
“Please.”
He rushed forward and scooped up my stuff.
My yoga pants and lipstick! Was he kidding? My shoulders slumped, and my arm jerked, making my eyes sting at the painful pull. I was standing here like a half-transitioned shape-shifting unicorn, like in the novel I was reading, and he was gathering my spilled belongings. Bottled water. Eye drops. Plastic zip bag of hard candy. The book cover with the entwined couple inside a heart and two unicorns shimmering in the background.
Stop.
Please stop.
Didn’t he know? No girl wanted someone to pick up her private purse items. Ever. Who knew what I’d left in there?
He got it all though. Scooped it up without hesitation and stood in front of me, blocking me from the newcomers. He took a step closer, backing me toward the yellow wall. My butt hit the white trim.
He patted behind me, and a small coat closet opened. There hadn’t been a doorknob there. I’d have seen it. The front door to Number 10 hadn’t had a knob either. What was wrong with doorknobs? This was so British. Only if you were in-the-know could you get in. We shifted inside, and he pulled the door closed, securing us in the privacy of a cloak closet.
Safe. Secure. Private.
Finally. Relief hit me, and I closed my eyes. We stayed quiet.
Steps sounded louder.
The guy slid his warm, large hands over my raised arm.
My eyelids popped open, but it was too dark in here to see him. I could just feel him.
He worked at my charm bracelet and pulled the cotton t-shirt from my wrist.
He’d freed me. I shook out my arm and rolled my shoulders. Lovely.
I turned my back to him and put my arms through the armholes. The dress was on now. “Zip me up,” I whispered, keeping quiet so the outsiders wouldn’t hear me.
He put his hands on my waist, felt for the zipper with his calloused, strong fingers, and slid it up the tracks to the top. My breath caught with the motion, as if he were zipping up my ability to take in air. His warm fingers glanced over my back. Zings and shivers joined us in the small closet.
It just got weird.
Warm, exhilarating, and intense. More intense than my last make-out session with my ex-boyfriend, which was crazy. My breath slowed. I breathed in his cologne. He smelled yum. Clean and… I don’t know…exciting? I licked my lips and turned to face him.
Chapter 2
We were in the still darkness of the closet together.
I couldn’t see him.
I wasn’t touching him.
I could just tell he was there. Tall. Solid. Present. Just him and me. The footsteps became a white noise concealing us. Just us. Alone. Together.
More.
Did he deserve a kiss of thanks?
He did, or I just had to get closer, and this was going to be my excuse. I slid my arm around his neck and raised up to put my mouth to his ear. He smelled great, clean and masculine and like something I wanted. “Thank you,” I whispered.
He bent toward me.
Yeah, he was sending me a signal. I slid my lips over his cheek. Half a thank you, half to see how it felt.
Who was I kidding? Totally to see how it felt. It made all those panicked feelings float away, melting into a delicious warmth and leaving behind an ache.
I wanted more.
I wanted his lips on mine. His hands back on my waist. On me. I inched closer.
“I’m missing one.” A female voice sounded through the door—my age, peeved.
It jolted me out of my stirring moment, and I let go of the guy. He put his hands on my waist as if to keep me. I liked that. Warm strong guy-hands that made electricity flow through me in the dark.
“Shouldn’t I have been notified by now? That would have been appropriate, don’t you think?” the voice asked, clearly berating someone else.
Their presence put a damper on my moment.
Two people were out there. Lingering and griping like no one had given them their morning tea or it had been under-steeped and weak. That would probably be part of my job—to tote tea. I hoped it wouldn’t be for the griper.
I had a suspicion that she was Peppa, the head intern, and I was the “missing” intern. Or…maybe she had the numbers wrong. Two people were missing. Him and me. The guy in here with me had been late, too.
They were probably mostly talking about him.
Yeah, it was him.
A desire to slip into the crowd outside and leave him to take the blame for being late flitted through me. He was late, too. He deserved it.
He brushed his fingers back and forth on my upper arm in a small motion. Comforting, a turn-on…both. No way I’d screw him over. He was late because he’d helped me. I owed him. And, I could save him. “Stay here,” I whispered. “I’ll move her away, and you can get out.”
I stepped toward the door, the motion shaky. My shakiness was due to jetlag, adrenaline, or hunger. Or maybe it was this encounter with him. My lips on his cheek. So close to his mouth. If Peppa hadn’t arrived… I would have taken it a step further. He wasn’t mine. Not my boyfriend, not even a date, but I would have.
I had to go. I didn’t want to. But I had no choice. I drew in a breath and slipped out the door, leaving my filmy t-shirt, a bit of dignity, and him behind.
I was out of the closet, but I wasn’t ready to face the consequences of my lateness. I blinked against the light. Not that the Brits used bright lights, but after the dark closet, the mild hallway lighting hit my eyes hard. Like when I changed a light bulb and knew to look away, but I didn’t. I walked across the small side foyer where the griper was going at it with another lady.
Closer. Closer.
I didn’t want to chat with those two. I was hungry, tired, and not eager, but I had to do it for the guy I left behind.
A little bird popped out of the mahogany cuckoo clock, marking 9:30 AM, making sure they knew I was late. The interns were supposed to meet Peppa in the sessions hall at 9 AM GMT sharp. Peppa was going to judge me for being late. The wigged guy in the portrait behind her sure was.
The other interns were disappearing up the hall. I could catch them, blend right in. Half
of me wanted to. But that would leave the hot guy trapped.
I sighed and followed the maroon floor runner over to Peppa and the lady she was berating. I strove to stir up some enthusiasm and energy. Bracing myself, I smiled one of those big, all-teeth smiles, one too big for this early hour. “Hi. Looking for me? I’m Kira Kitman. I couldn’t find the sessions hall.” I looked straight into Peppa’s gray eyes as I half-lied.
“I’m called Peppa.” Peppa was shorter than me, but she did one of those sweeping looks, checking out my appearance from my ballet flats to my tied-up brunette hair. I could only imagine how great my hair looked after all my maneuvers. Her English-gray gaze assured me it was a mess.
Whatever. I tucked in a loose strand.
Peppa smiled a small smile like she’d won and arched her thin blonde eyebrows. “You’re late, you know. Did you go to Number Five Downing Street instead?” She snickered to herself like she’d made a joke and turned to the other lady, who smiled back at her but didn’t really look as if she got the joke either. She looked back at me. “Did you even think to ask someone where to go? Read the map in the packet? That would have been the appropriate thing to do.”
I sucked in a breath through my nose and didn’t answer the rhetorical question. Wasn’t her job to welcome me, make me comfortable, and then lecture me about it? That’s what would have happened at home. Well, bless your heart. Those airlines. Can I get you a glass of tea? Now, you know, if you’d set your alarm a little earlier…
I shook my head out of Texas culture. I was in England. Things would be different, colder, more confusing, but I’d get it eventually.
I turned to the shorter lady beside Peppa, hinting for an introduction. She was dark-complexioned, and her big brown eyes looked relieved that I was there. Probably because it took Peppa’s focus off her.
The lady said, “I’ll ensure the room’s sorted.” Then she scampered off.
Yeah, scampered, like a bunny breaking for the open fields.
“You weren’t here at nine?” Peppa stated more than asked.
