by Lila Monroe
“Depends on what it is.” My voice sounded all breathy.
“Just a little kiss,” said Charlie. “For luck.”
I realized then that he was wearing a white tennis uniform. I was in the locker room with a Wimbledon player who wanted to kiss me for luck. It was crazy. It was unreal. It was something that would happen to Paige, not to me.
But it was happening to me. And suddenly all the reasons I had given myself and Paige about why I wasn’t interested in a fling totally flew out the window.
Before I could stop myself, I grabbed Charlie’s shirt in my hands and gave him the best good-luck kiss I could muster.
His lips were firm and hot against mine. If he was surprised by my forwardness, he didn’t dwell on it, immediately taking charge of the kiss. His arm went around my waist, pulling me flush against him as he ran his tongue along the seam of my lips. Mmmm … I could feel his muscles flex beneath my hands, which I had uncurled, spreading my fingers across his chest as he deepened the kiss. His tongue tangled with mine and his other hand slid downward, cupping my ass and hauling me even tighter against his body.
Damn.
It was the best kiss I’d ever had in my life and I couldn’t get enough. He tasted all male, sweat and heat, his tongue taking control of my mouth. He knew exactly what he wanted and I was more than happy to give it to him. I had never felt so desired—the evidence of this pressing hard against my stomach.
Arching against him, I felt him groan and it empowered me. I slid my hands upward, twisting in his damp hair, wanting more, more, more.
Through the haze of desire, I heard the door open behind us.
“Davenport!” a voice barked, forcing us apart.
Standing in the doorway was a man in his mid-forties with a frown on his face.
“What the bloody hell is this?” he demanded.
I felt my face go red, and I crossed my arms over my chest, staring down at the floor as if I had been caught doing something bad. Which, technically, I probably had been. Or had been about to be doing.
“Just a little kiss for luck, Coach.” Charlie put his arm around my waist, but I scooted away, reality sinking in.
This was so embarrassing. So unlike me. I didn’t just make out with guys I had barely met! Guys who I had seen naked only a few moments before. This was all happening out of order. And it wasn’t supposed to be happening at all.
“I should go,” I murmured, keeping my eyes down.
Before anyone could stop me, I had grabbed the tea tray and edged out the door. It didn’t take long to find the equipment manager’s office after that, and he was kind enough to give me clear directions on how to get back to the tent, even though I was certain his tea was far past cold by now.
I walked back to the tent feeling as if I was in a daze. What had just happened? I wasn’t fully convinced it actually had happened. I had been in London less than twenty-four hours and I had already kissed someone? It took me eighteen years to get my first kiss, and that one hadn’t been half as good as the one I had just shared with Charlie.
Charlie. A guy I didn’t even know.
“You look flushed,” Jules said when I got back to the tent.
I nodded and she poured me another glass of water.
“There you are!” Paige came over, looping her arm through mine. “Where have you been? I have to train you before people start arriving!”
It was the perfect distraction. I had worked at a coffee shop during college, but I quickly learned that American coffee was nothing compared to British tea. Especially cream tea, which involved scones, jam, and something called clotted cream. Even with a couple of seasons watching The Great British Baking Contest under my belt, there was a lot of new information to absorb, and it was exactly what I needed to keep myself from replaying the kiss over and over in my mind.
“Phew.” Paige leaned against the table once the rush of customers had thinned and the first match had started. “Exciting, isn’t it?” she asked.
I nodded, keeping my attention on clearing the dirty dishes left on the tables. Paige and I were best friends. There wasn’t much I could keep from her. And it wasn’t that I didn’t want to tell her about what had happened with Charlie, but for some reason I didn’t want to tell her just yet. I wanted to keep it to myself. Just for a little longer.
“Come on.” She took my arm. “Let’s go spy on the games for a little bit.”
I didn’t know much about tennis, but Paige was a fanatic. We snuck over to the court, standing in the aisle towards the back, straining to see what was happening. I could barely see the players, but Paige, who was several inches taller than me, apparently had a better view since she was able to give me a play-by-play.
“Oh! The prince is playing,” she squealed. “I was hoping to see him. Everyone has been talking about him.”
“The prince?” I asked. “There’s a prince here?”
“Third or fourth in line for the throne,” Paige said with a wave of her hand as if that was nothing. “He’s supposedly a beast on the field. All passion, no polish.” Her eyes were darting back and forth. “But damn, he’s got passion in spades. Check it out.” She pushed me forward.
I stood on my toes, trying to get a glimpse of the field. I saw the net first, then one of the players, a tall redheaded guy, sweating and flailing as he struggled to return each volley.
“Which one is the prince?” I asked, still unable to see the other player.
“The brunette,” Paige pointed.
I finally found him, and my knees buckled. Because the prince was none other than the person I had just been playing tonsil tennis with.
Charlie Davenport.
AKA, His Royal Highness Charles Edward Alexander Davenport the Third.
To be continued…
What happens next?
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BET ME
A Romantic Comedy
What happens when your sex strike goes viral — and suddenly every man in town has their eye on your prize?
All I wanted was little old-fashioned romance. After a parade of Tinder disasters who think chivalry is giving me a pearl necklace on the first date, I made a pledge: until guys step up their game, my goods are off the market.
But one bottle of chardonnay later, and my drunken rant has gone viral. I’m the most famous person NOT having sex since the Jonas Brothers put on their purity rings. A men’s magazine has even put a bounty on my (ahem) maidenhead: fifty Gs to whoever makes me break the drought.
Be careful what you wish for…
Now my office looks like an explosion in a Hallmark factory, I’ve got guys lining up to sweep me off my feet - and the one man I want is most definitely off-limits. Jake Weston is a player through and through. He’s also the only one who sees through the mayhem to the real me, but how can I trust he’s not just out to claim the glory?
And how will I make it through the strike without scratching the itch - especially when that itch looks so damn good out of his suit?
The thrill of the chaste has never been so sexy in Lila Monroe’s hilarious, hot new romantic read!
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Lizzie
You know what they say about a guy’s hands. No, not that myth about dick size. I mean, that’s what they might say, but I can confirm with an almost scientific certainty that hands don’t lie. Guys with great hands—hands with fingers that can tease concertos out of a piano, or that have the light, sure touch necessary to make life-saving incisions with a scalpel—it’s hands like that that will make you come your brains out. I mean, some girls are into arms, or abs, or the way a guy’s happy trail leads down his stomach, but me? I’m all about the hands.
So there’s a part of me that’s both impressed and horrifyingly turned on as I watch Colin’s near-surgical approach to tearing the chicken meat off one Super Sizzling Sweet Sauce-slathered chicken wing after another.
Be careful what you wish for.
“Sure you don’t wan
t any? It’s two-for-one,” Colin grins through a mouthful of chicken. “I’ve got a coupon and everything.”
“Thanks, I’m good,” I say weakly, watching those gorgeous, elegant hands smear barbecue sauce across his chin. So this is where a Sunday afternoon spent swiping right on cute dudes without bothering to read their profiles can land you come Monday evening.
I pick up my glass of warm chardonnay and try not to grimace. Not that he’d notice. I’m fighting to be heard in a packed sports bar just off of Times Square, where “the game” plays at an ear-splitting volume on an endless series of flat-screens, and the beer is served at such frigid temperatures that you almost forget that you’re drinking something that would taste like piss if it happened to be warm.
“What in the fuck was that?” Colin yells suddenly, his hands flying up in tandem with every other dude in the bar—solo dudes who clearly didn’t have the balls or the enterprising nature to combine Monday Night Football with a Tinder date.
“Sorry, sorry—I just can’t believe this ref,” he says, finally turning away from the screens. He shoots me a bashful smile, exposing a set of blindingly white teeth. “So what’s your name again?” He downs his beer in one gulp and lets out an almighty belch.
Guys these days are so charming that I can hardly stand it.
Colin grabs another chicken wing like his life depends on it before pulling the meat from the bone and shoving it in his mouth. Before I can answer, he keeps talking, his mouth full of dead bird.
“So tell me more about this … what? Art shit, you said?”
His brow crinkles, as though the task of recalling the few details I’ve ponied up about my life so far is about to give him a stroke.
“You’re really into that stuff, huh? Old movies? My mom can’t get enough of them. I don’t know what she sees in those old dudes, though. Cary Grant? I mean, that stuff’s from the dark ages. TV is where it’s at. Have you seen Ballers? Now that’s a great fucking show … Oh shit!” he yells out, jumping to his feet like he’s been electrocuted, and his hip knocks into the table upending his entire glass of beer … in my lap.
Talk about a cold shower. I grab a pile of napkins off the table and start dabbing at my dress. This is definitely my cue to hightail it the hell out of here before something even worse happens. And let’s be brutally honest: I’m pretty much lonely and horny enough that three more chardonnays might wind up with me being poked and prodded like another juicy wing by the end of the night.
“Great to meet you, Colin,” I say sweetly, my cheeks hurting from the fake smile plastered across my face. I push my chair back from the table, the peanut shells littering the bar floor crunching beneath my heels. Colin may not have a romantic bone in his impressively-toned body, but there is no way in hell that I’m even going to consider hooking up with a guy who dares to blaspheme Cary Grant in my presence.
After all, a girl has to have standards.
A look of confusion flits across his face. “Wait … you’re leaving? But the game’s not over yet!”
Oh, it’s definitely over. “Yeah, I’m sorry,” I say, “but I have to get up early for work tomorrow. Let me know how it ends?”
“Sure,” he says slowly. “And maybe we can do this again sometime?” He cocks his head to the side and gives me an earnest smile, as if he has no idea that I can’t wait to get the hell out of there. “I mean, this was fun, right?”
Oh sure. Like going to the dentist is fun. Like being trapped in a Turkish prison is fun …
I don’t answer, turn around, and keep walking until I’m out the door. Miraculously, my Uber arrives almost right away and soon I’m slumped in the backseat, watching the twinkling lights of the Brooklyn Bridge flash by outside the window as we cross over the water from Manhattan.
The worst part is, I’d give that date a six. I mean, compared to the disasters I’ve been on, he’s practically a knight in shining armor. Remembered my name? Check. All his own hair? Check. Didn’t paw me in the coat-check line? Give this guy a medal and call it true love.
God, I’ve been dating in this town way too long.
At least New York will always make me feel better, even after the worst of bad dates—and I’ve definitely had my share lately. I try not to think about my track record until I’m home and can pour myself another glass of wine from an open bottle in the fridge and sink down into the couch, pulling my red heels off and throwing them across the room. It’s not like they have far to go because my apartment is literally the size of a shoe box. A charming shoe box with exposed brick walls, windows overlooking Prospect Park, and a fire escape where I leave bowls of food for the neighbor’s white Persian kitty (that I am slowly in the process of catnapping).
Everyone has to have a hobby, right?
But hey, it could be a lot worse. At least I don’t have a roommate—or five.
Before I moved to Brooklyn from Toledo, Ohio, where I grew up, I pictured my first apartment as this charming, bohemian space where I’d store my Manolos in the oven a la Carrie Bradshaw and host glamorous parties like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
But Manolos are hard to come by on an assistant curator’s salary, even at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. In fact, I’ve yet to have a single person over, much less an excuse to throw any kind of wild, Hepburn-esque soiree where people pass out face down on the floor while yelling “Timber!” Ever since the breakup with Todd, aka the man I thought was the love of my life, I’ve been too dejected and heartbroken to do much dating at all—until recently, that is.
And just look how that’s turning out.
I reach over and grab my laptop off the floor and pull up Facebook, feeling better as I click to video message and the image of my sister, Jess, appears on the screen, looking none of her thirty-five years, with what looks like oatmeal smeared across one cheek.
Even though she still basically resembles a college student (Botox), she always seems completely stressed out, which is not exactly surprising considering the fact that she’s raising two toddlers, Amelia, fourteen months (light of my life), and Jackson, three (devil’s spawn), while trying to start her own internet business selling coffee mugs with the hashtags #Blessed and #Basic printed on them. When I asked her what she wanted for her birthday this year, she told me, “I want to check into a hotel for the night, order room service, and eat French fries while watching reality TV until I’m fucking comatose. Then I want to sleep for sixteen hours.”
Motherhood is a joy.
“Lizzie, babe, what’s up?” she asks.
“Oh my god,” I say, reaching over and taking a sip of my wine, then pulling my legs beneath me so I can sit cross legged. “I just had the worst date ever.”
Jess reaches one arm off screen, presumably to shove some goopy homemade concoction in Amelia’s mouth, a smile twitching at the corner of her lips. “Ooh. Details. Gimme.”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Please. I spent my day inventing elaborate fairytales to make my kids take their antibiotics. Remind me what adults even do, please.”
“Watch a stranger devour hot wings in a crappy sports bar while completely ignoring their date?”
“Ouch,” she winces, before her attention is yanked away. “Jackson! We don’t strangle the dog!”
“Why are the kids still up?” I ask, fully aware that my sister hates to be off schedule. She runs her house like a military base—or a high-end prison.
“Don’t ask,” she sighs as she holds out a spoon to my niece. “Richard’s working late and my night just went to shit. Amelia, open your mouth, sweetie,” Jess coos before turning back to the screen with an exasperated look. “Why does she hate pureed parsnips,” she mutters in exasperation, mostly to herself, “and why do you waste your time with these losers anyway?”
“What else am I supposed to do?” I moan. “Tinder is the only way anyone meets up these days, and these guys all look normal enough in their profile. Well, most of them, anyway,” I say, backtracking quic
kly before she can call me out.
“Besides, I wasted my hot twenties on Todd, living in a crappy studio apartment, working that stupid sales job to make his dreams come true, and then he leaves me for his assistant! Now I’m THIRTY and stuck in this Tinder wasteland. I mean, the last three guys I hooked up with all stopped in the middle of sex to come on my tits! Not one, not two, but all three!” I despair. “Is romance totally dead, Jess? And more importantly, does my chest have a target painted on it or something?”
Jess bursts out laughing, still holding a goop-covered spoon in one hand. I can see Jackson running around behind her in their living room naked like some sort of crazed animal in need of a tranquilizer gun. “Lizzie! Not in front of the kids, okay?” she warns me, grinning. “And it’s not like thirty is even old! I’m thirty-five, you know!”
“Yeah, but you’re thirty-five with a husband and two kids living in a gorgeous house in Austin, Texas! I’m thirty with nothing waiting at home for me in the Naked City but this half-bottle of Two Buck Chuck.” I gulp my wine like it’s oxygen, aware that I’m rapidly crossing the line between tipsy and flat out drunk.
“I’m literally sobbing for you inside,” she drawls. “I mean, it’s Tinder! What were you expecting? That this guy was going to sweep you off your feet and you’d move into his penthouse in Tribeca and live happily ever after?”
I sigh, taking another sip of wine. Not expected. Hoped was more like it. I mean, is it so bad that I still believe there’s a guy out there who might wine and dine me, and also fuck me like he’s straight out of Magic Mike XXL? Who will send me flowers unexpectedly, leave little love notes in my purse, and bring home a bottle of prosecco just because?
The “told ya so” look on my sister’s face answers the question for me with a resounding no. Clearly I’m not going to get much (read: any) sympathy from my own flesh and blood, so the only thing to do is clear—change the subject.
“So what’s that on your cheek?” I ask mischievously, one eyebrow raised—a move that took me months to perfect in front of endless Joan Crawford movies. “Did Richard come home early and give you a facial?”
