Deliciously British

by Scarlett Avery

  “I know. That’s why I’ve never allowed anything in our lives to prevent us from enjoying that getaway. It’s not only good for his mind, it’s also good for his soul. By the time we leave and we drive home to Austin, I get my husband back.” She laughs.

  “How’s the Mount St Jude’s Sick Kids’ Gala coming along?”

  “It’s bigger than ever, honey. I’ve been working so hard and it’s paying off. It’s too bad you’ll still be in London and you won’t be able to attend.”

  Momma’s on the board of the community that takes care of the hospital’s yearly charity events. There are four big ones—the Fourth of July barbecue, which is coming in a few weeks; the end-of-summer gala, which draws in Austin’s richest families; the Secret Santa fundraiser and gala, which takes place in early December and leaves the kids with stars in their eyes; and the Easter Egg Run. With six kids, Momma never became a career woman. She wanted to stay at home to raise us. The year I started first grade, Momma decided she needed a new challenge. She started volunteering at Mount St Jude’s hospital on the recommendation of someone she knows well at her church and never looked back.

  “I know,” I say regretfully. “You can still send me selfies and photos.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I love taking selfies.” Momma laughs.

  “I know.” We both laugh.

  Every time I’m on Facebook, my newsfeed is full of Momma’s selfies. I taught her how to take photos of herself so she can show me which outfits she wears to different functions—that way we could pretend I still lived at home and not in the Big Apple. I never expected she’d end up being addicted to them.

  “On a different subject, have you been in touch with your brothers?” Momma asks.

  “Yup.” My answer is succinct because I know a lecture is coming.

  “Are you guys still doing that texting thing instead of picking up the phone and talking to each other like civilized people?”

  “Yup,” I repeat.

  “I just don’t get you kids.”

  “It’s a different generation, Momma,” I remind her.

  Since moving here I’ve been in constant contact with my brothers via text, Skype or Facebook messaging when we’re not communicating via WhatsApp. Although there is an ocean separating us, it’s not much different than when I used to live in New York. We rarely pick up the phone to talk to each other anymore, unless it’s pretty big news. Why should we? It’s way faster via text. Momma is all about using technology for selfies, but she frowns upon texting and pretty much everything else.

  “I guess you’re right,” she concedes. “I know I keep harping about it, but I can’t imagine myself texting one of my sisters back and forth when I can just as easily pick up the phone and talk to her.”

  “Texting allows you to multitask. You can’t do that when you’re on the phone with someone.”

  “So you’re not fully present?” she asks.

  “I am. While you respond to my text I can run to the kitchen and grab a glass of water or remove my shoes or run to the bathroom.”

  “In any case.” This isn’t the end of it. I know it’ll come up again—it always does. “Are you still enjoying London?”

  “I’ve had to resign myself to walking around looking like a ghost this summer. It’s been fairly gray since I got here. I’ve had to curb my insatiable appetite for the sun. It feels like I haven’t seen any rays since leaving New York City. I’ve had to force myself to accept that now. Other than the weather, I’m still loving the experience.”

  “I’m thrilled to hear that, honey. What’s new and exciting at the gallery? Do they still have those training wheels strapped to your butt?” My mom laughs.

  “I’m afraid they do, but I’m okay with that. I get to learn so much new stuff and believe it or not, I do have more responsibilities than I would’ve had at the New York gallery. In fact, I’m working on this exciting new project that involves an American artist.”

  “Really?”

  I nod even though she can’t see me. “Yup.”

  I give my mom a quick synopsis of Calysta Knight’s pedigree. Mom oohs and ahhs as I recount as many details as possible without boring her.

  “So where is this infamous gala going to be held?” she asks when I’m done. I open my mouth to respond, but she interrupts me. “Oh, let me guess.” All right then. “Is it going to be in one of those elegant, historic British castles? And if it’s held in one of those distinguished estates, will you end up meeting the king and queen of England?” I bite off a smile.

  My mom is convinced that just because you’re in London—or anywhere in Britain for that matter of fact—you’ll automatically end up bumping into the royal family. Nothing could be further from the truth. I just haven’t had the heart to burst her bubble.

  “No. A castle wouldn’t be appropriate for a modern artist like Calysta. In the end, it was a toss between three prestigious, but more contemporary venues—the OXO2, the Plaisterers’ Hall or the Silver Sturgeon.”

  “Not that I know what they look like, but they all sound so elegant,” she marvels. “Which one will it be in the end?”

  I love my mom. I know she doesn’t understand all the ins and outs of our careers, but she makes an effort to be invested in what we do.

  “My boss and the gallery owner selected the Silver Sturgeon for the smaller get-together happening in a month. They decided to keep the Plaisterers’ Hall for the more formal big bash that will be held in the fall. That’s when we’ll invite the press to announce Calysta as the latest artist we’re bringing on board. I’ve already done some searches online and you won’t believe this, Mom. The Silver Sturgeon is an actual private yacht that seats like five hundred people. We’ll be floating on the River Thames under the stars all night long.”

  “Ah,” she exclaims. “That sounds amazing. Things are going so well for you.”

  “I know. I had the same reaction. I already love this job, but this gala is the icing on the cake. I’m definitely looking forward to that evening. No doubt I’ll have to step up my fashion game for that night,” I say, tapping my index finger against my chin. What to wear? What to wear? “Something tells me I’m going to spend hours combing the streets of London in search of the perfect dress for the event.” I definitely didn’t pack anything for this type of occasion. Heck, I don’t even own anything back home that would be suitable.

  “Honey, you always look so put-together. You have such an exquisite sense of style.” She always believes in me. “I’m sure you’ll turn heads. And now with your gorgeous long red hair that accentuates your sapphire eyes so beautifully, there’s no doubt you’ll knock ’em dead. Who knows? Maybe you’ll look so dazzling that you’ll catch the eye of a lovely British boy. Well, I hope God is listening to my prayers.” She sighs. That last dramatic part is typical of a Southern mother desperate to see her only girl walk down the aisle before she turns twenty-five. “Daddy keeps saying his ancestors are British people who settled in Michigan before moving out to the West Coast. Thank you, Ancestry.com. So I guess it’s not that bad since you might have some English blood in you. Just make sure he’s not Canadian. It’s so frigidly cold up there all year long. I don’t know how people survive up there. I wouldn’t want that for you or my grandbabies.” You guessed it. That’s another one of Momma’s misconceptions.

  I roll my eyes. “No need to pressure me. My main focus in coming here is to expand my career.” This is the part where I’d usually add that I have no interest in meeting men and that I want to keep things as uncomplicated as possible, but I can no longer say that without it being disingenuous. “Not to mention I’m only here for a few short months.” Yeah, yeah, I know. I don’t even sound convincing.

  “Your father was in Austin for a few short months on an internship when we met. As you know, the rest is history.”

  Oops, I forgot about that one. God, she loves throwing her perfect Cinderella love story in my face when I start doubting myself. “I know, Momma.”<
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  “Your aunt Viola told me that Maggie officially has a beau. It happened while she was away for only three short weeks. Did you know she had met someone special?” I like the way she does that, as if she doesn’t know Maggie and I are the best of friends and as close as sisters could ever hope to be. Of course I know—I’m sure well before she did.

  “Yup.” That’s all I say.

  “He’s a Northerner, but at least he’s well-established and very successful.” I feel a pep talk coming. “Maggie and you are the same age.” She singsongs her sentence.

  “I’m fully aware of that,” I snap back.

  “No need to get fresh with me, young lady. A mother wants what’s best for her child. I’m just eager for you to get over that very confused… fellow.”

  Momma’s upbringing makes it hard for her to swear. My brothers and my dad love to tease her about it. No matter how much they nudge her, she just won’t allow the words to pass her lips. Along the years I’ve come to understand that when she uses the word “fellow,” you can replace it with “asshole,” “douchebag,” “dipshit,” “jerk,” “fucker.” For women she uses “gal” instead of “bitch,” “whore,” “ho” or the C-word. Anyhow, all that is to say that “fellow” is what Mom calls Paul since I explained the reason why I broke up with him.

  “I’m past Paul,” I say to put her mind at ease. “It was easier for Maggie to be open to love because she didn’t have to lick her wounds like I did.”

  “I know, honey. That fellow hurt your pride with his filthy, debased perversions. Normal people don’t behave like that.” I told my parents and brothers about the women’s lingerie. For obvious reasons, I left out the large strap-on cock and Paul’s need for anal stimulation. I doubt they would’ve taken it lightly. I think my mom would’ve had a heart attack. Heck, I don’t even know if she knows what a strap-on is—I surely didn’t until that day. “Don’t you worry, he’ll have to answer to God one day. I hope you know he was never worth it.”

  To this day—and even after meeting one of his ex-girlfriends—I’m still not sure if Paul is a closeted gay man or not. Being gay isn’t an issue for me. Paul not knowing which side of the fence to stand on is. His need to transform himself into RuPaul in order to have sex goes way over my head.

  “I do.” I know she means well.

  “Going back to your cousin. Did you know her beau is… well...”

  I laugh inwardly. “I don’t understand,” I lie.

  “Viola tells me he’s much older,” she stresses.

  “Of course, I knew. Maggie and I share everything.”

  “I guess you two do.” She inhales. “She’s so adventurous, that Maggie.”

  Translation, that’s quite the age gap.

  “From the elated text messages she sends me every day, William is good for her. He’s way better than her past boyfriends,” I retort.

  “A younger man would’ve been better. What do they have in common?”

  Translation, contrarily to Viola, it’s not something I have to deal with. Thank God.

  “She went with her heart.”

  Momma remains silence for a while before saying, “Maybe you’re right, honey. As long as he makes her happy, right?”

  Ethan and Xander might be close to my age, but I wonder if Momma would say the same thing if she found out that her only daughter was falling for not one, but two hot guys. At least they’re not Canadians. I snicker to myself.

  “Grandma and Grandpa weren’t that keen on you dating Dad.”

  “That was different.” Her tone is defensive.

  “Was it really?” I let my words hang.

  After a few minutes, Momma comes to her own conclusion. “I guess you’re right. My parents hated the fact that not only was your dad not Texan, but he wasn’t even a Southerner. Worse than being a Northerner, he was from the hippy-dippy flower-power state, as they call California. And he was so different from every other boy I had dated before. They just didn’t know what to make of him. I’m sure secretly they were praying that it wouldn’t last. When Daddy popped the question, they realized there was no going back.”

  “My point exactly. And now they love Dad. Sometimes I wonder if they don’t love him more than they do their own sons.”

  My mom laughs. “I know. And it’s very much mutual.” She pauses for a beat and then she starts laughing out of the blue.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You and your infinite wisdom. How can you be so young and understand so much?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I wave off her compliment even if we’re an ocean apart. “That’s exactly what my coworker Piper says,” I tease.

  “You’ll make some lucky guy a wonderful wife one day.” Oh, no, back to the marriage thing. “I can’t wait for it to be your turn. I don’t think it’s right for a beautiful young woman to be single for such a long time. You’re too smart and creative for that. You’re a real catch, honey. I know you’re independent and all, but having a man in your life wouldn’t be a bad thing,” she laments. “And before you come out and remind me you’re in London for only three months and you’re really focused on your career, I think it would be unfair for you to put blinders on. Who knows? Maybe he’s a Brit after all. Maybe that’s why it hasn’t happened for you yet.” That’s exactly what Ethan and Xander keep saying. “And if that’s the case, you can convince him to move back to the States at the end of your internship. Better yet, the two of you can get a house here in Austin.” She laughs.

  “If you must know, I do have my eye on someone,” I say defiantly. Frankly, it wasn’t part of my plan to open up, but when she goes into that oh-when-will-you-find-a-good-man mode, it kind of drives me crazy. Maybe this way, she’ll back off.

  “You do?”

  “I do.” I’m not lying. I’ve had my eye on Ethan since the first day. I just didn’t know I’d be attracted to him and his best friend with the same intensity and I surely never expected that them sharing me was even possible.

  “Honey, that’s wonderful news.”

  “I’m excited,” I say with forced restraint. It’s more like I’m walking on sunshine, but she doesn’t need to know that right now.

  “So am I. What’s his name? What does he look like? Is he real tall, like Daddy? Is he British or American? Did you meet him at work? What does he do for a living? How long has it been?” When Momma asks questions about a boy I’m interested in, it feels like trying to drink out of the firehose.

  I just wanted her to ease the pressure. Now she’s coming at me with a vengeance. “Momma, we just started hanging out. It’s still in the early stages. You know… no pressure.” It’s not as if I can tell her that I spent the night with two guys. “We’re kind of taking it day by day now. Yes, he’s British and he’s a great guy. In the short time I’ve known him, he’s really expanded my mind and opened me up to new things.”

  I give her just enough to keep her satisfied, but not enough to hang myself.

  “Praise the Lord.” There she goes. “Thank you, God. I knew if I prayed hard enough, he’d come her way.” She’s such a drama queen and way too invested in my dating life.

  “Momma, I’d love to keep talking about him—”

  “Can you at least give me his name?” she interrupts.

  I don’t see how that can hurt. “Ethan.”

  “That’s a solid British name right there. I’m sure he’s a fine gentleman.” She kills me.

  “It was great talking to you, but I’m looking at the time and I have to go back to work. My lunch hour is almost over.” Man, that went by so fast. I guess I’ll have to finish my sandwich at my desk.

  “You do that. I don’t want to get you in any kind of trouble. We’ll have to talk soon about Ethan.” I’m sure she’s grinning from ear to ear.

  “Please don’t say anything to Daddy or my brothers yet. And not a word to Aunt Viola.” I know Maggie won’t say a thing to her mom.

  “Of course not, honey. Ethan is our little secret.” I can ima
gine her winking on the other side.

  CHAPTER 30

  Xander

  When I woke up and noticed it was already twelve o’clock in the afternoon, I nearly fell out of bed from the shock. I never sleep this late. I’m miffed Ethan didn’t bother waking me up. It goes without saying that I immediately sent him a text to inquire why he thought I could linger leisurely in bed. His defense was that I’ve been traveling the globe for weeks now and my body is still trying to adjust. When you combine that with the merciless way we devoured Delilah over and over and over again, it’s no wonder I wasn’t able to get up.

  That may be true, but I’m thoroughly disappointed I wasn’t able to kiss Delilah goodbye. At least I’m able to find comfort in the fact that Ethan was up and he was able to drive her to work. I would have hated for her to be up alone trying to figure out how to get back to her place. It’s a good thing that one of us could look after her.

  When I finally crawl out of bed, I stand up with my hands on my hips and assess the signs of our carnal exchange. Although my clothes are the only ones still on the floor, there’s no doubt what happened here. I shake my head, astounded, as I take everything in—the two pillows Delilah and Ethan used are tossed at the foot of the bed, the box of condoms on Ethan’s side has spilled on the night table, the ones on my side are fanned out and Delilah’s make-up smudges spot my white sheets. By all accounts, it was wild.

  With a smile stretching my face, I decide to change the sheets. I ready myself to pull the top one off, but instead, I flip it over and place my hands against the mattress. I inhale deeply, hoping to catch a whiff of Delilah’s lingering perfume. Damn, she smells like some of the most beautiful flowers in our garden. Suddenly, realization hits that Ethan and I have to talk so we know when we’re seeing her again. The sooner, the better. Preferably tonight.

  Once I get my fix, I go back to the task at hand. Twenty minutes later I’m done. I run to the bathroom to take a quick shower. I plan on jumping in and out. That’s not quite how things turn out. A flashback to this morning’s romp has me so worked up, I have no other choice but to slide my hand over my hard cock and stroke furiously, imagining Delilah’s lips wrapped around me until I climax. It’s so violent, I think I’m going to black out. I had to hold onto the wall in fear of collapsing to my knees. Our voluptuous little redhead has that kind of powerful effect on me.