Jock Royal

by Ney, Sara

  Er.

  Yeah.

  It takes me a good ten minutes to shuffle my way to Ashley’s, trying to clear my mind along the way but finding it impossible.

  When he pulls his front door open, I know the reason why.

  Wow.

  He is so cute.

  Which…could be a problem. How am I supposed to live with a guy I’m secretly lusting after all of a sudden?

  Shit.

  “Hey.” I give him a feeble little wave, the end of my sleeve flopping.

  Ashley pulls the door open wide so I can step inside. “Sorry the butler is not here to do a better job greeting you.”

  “Very funny. You probably do have a butler where you come from.”

  The silence is awkward, speaking for itself.

  “Do not tell me you have a butler where you come from.”

  He nods. “Okay, I won’t.”

  I put a hand on his arm to stop him from walking away. “Stop it, you do not.”

  I need more details.

  He shrugs. “It’s a big house and there’s no doorbell.”

  “You have a butler because your house has no doorbell.”

  As if there’s any good response to that statement.

  We’re in the entryway, and unlike last time, I take the time to survey my surroundings shamelessly—after all, that is why I’m here.

  It’s cute.

  Tile floor and a staircase leading to a second-level landing, one overlooking the space.

  Newer beige carpet goes to the second level, and all the other flooring looks to be hardwood. Dining room to the right—which I’ve already seen—formal living room on the left, which he seems to be using as an office. A desk sits centered there, faced away from the wall opposite the large picture window, an old-school desktop computer (complete with a tower) in the center of it all.

  Outdated gold chandelier dangling above.

  “Mr. Fancy-Pants,” I tease.

  “Just a Mr. Fancy-Pants looking for his Mrs. Fancy-Pants,” he jokes back, though the smile is wiped from his face as he realizes it sounds like he’s looking for a wife. “Uh.”

  I laugh nervously, letting him off the hook. “I know what you meant.”

  This is awkward for me, too.

  “So that’s the dining room.” He points. “This is the living room but my office? Kitchen through there, but let me show you the den.”

  Den.

  Who says den anymore?

  Through the office we go, under an arched doorway to an area off the kitchen I didn’t see when I was here having dinner before. It’s a sunken room with double pocket doors and dark green painted walls. My eye catches the massive television hanging above the brick fireplace.

  Brown sectional sofa.

  Wooden coffee table.

  Lots of comfortable-looking pillows.

  The whole room just screams Stay a while and cuddle! and an ache forms in my stomach as I imagine cold nights relaxing in this room after a hard day on the track field.

  Maybe in front of a burning fire.

  I clear my throat. “Cute.”

  Ashley snorts. “It’s not cute, it’s manly.”

  “Sure it is.”

  He flips the light off and doubles back toward the entry to the stairs.

  “I’ll show you the room I have available.”

  That makes me laugh. “Spoken like a true landlord.”

  He doesn’t glance back at me, just continues climbing the steps to the landing—but I do catch a low chuckle. He can’t hide that, but he can try.

  The room he shows me is bigger than I was expecting it to be—much larger than my entire dorm room and—

  “Here’s the bathroom.”

  SAY WHAT NOW?!

  What?

  “It has a bathroom?”

  “There’s no tub, just a shower, but—”

  Who even cares!

  I practically shove him out of my way, beelining for this glorious private bathroom, not unlike the one I have at home at my parents’ house.

  Glass-enclosed shower stall.

  Single sink with a decent-sized counter for all my makeup and crap. Lower cabinets for storage.

  Toilet.

  It’s basically the Taj Mahal of student living—not many people can lay claim to a private bathroom.

  The rest of the bedroom is furnished, which is another delightful surprise and means I wouldn’t have to hunt down furniture, thus saving time, money, and effort.

  Whoa—you’re getting ahead of yourself, Georgia. Slow your roll.

  Sorry not sorry, the bathroom is seducing me.

  My own sink?

  My own shower?

  “What other treasures are you hiding from me in this house?” I giggle, walking back into the bedroom from the bath.

  “Closet?”

  Ooh, I hadn’t thought to look in the closet!

  There’s another door in the room and I go to it, yanking it open unceremoniously.

  Angels sing the hallelujah chorus.

  Flowers begin blooming outside, the sky opens up, and did I mention angels singing?

  “How is the closet this big?” I twirl inside, arms stretched wide. It’s so much larger than what I need! I barely have enough to fill half of it!

  I’m tempted to do a cartwheel.

  “You look like you’re about to have an orgasm,” Ashley says behind me, filling the doorway with his huge body.

  I whack him in the arm without thinking twice.

  “Could you not?”

  Ugh. Honestly.

  “You don’t bring up sex to your potential new roommate. It’s tacky.”

  “I wasn’t bringing up sex. You do know you can have an orgasm without shagging someone, don’t you?”

  He’s mocking me, and I blush at the casual reference to masturbating.

  Speaking of which…

  How thin are these walls?

  “Yes I know you can have an orgasm without…shagging someone. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.” And I’m not a virgin, although I might as well be.

  I just used the word shagging instead of bang, which is so British-sounding of me.

  I wonder if I’ll start using British words in everyday life when I move in with him, or start speaking with an accent like Madonna did when she lived in London.

  If I move in with him.

  If.

  Ashley seems pleased that I’m happy with the bathroom, closet, and bedroom, chest puffed slightly, cocky grin stretched across his mouth.

  “I don’t think there’s anything else to show you.” He pauses. “Oh. Yeah, there is. Follow me.”

  Back down the stairs, through the dining room, through the kitchen, out the side door and past his truck parked next to the house.

  There’s a detached garage out near the backyard, and he punches the code for the keypad on the door, pushing through once it beeps and blinks green.

  It’s a small at-home gym.

  Weight bench.

  Free weights.

  Rowing machine.

  Treadmill and elliptical.

  Mirrors line the back wall, another wall is painted charcoal gray, a dry erase board with his goals hanging on it. A calendar. Charts. Next to all that, other equipment: jump ropes, resistance bands, yoga mats.

  It’s neat as a pin.

  Clean.

  Organized.

  “Um. What is this place?”

  Who is this guy?

  He’s living like a man in his mid-thirties with his shit together and his life on track and I’ve never been more confused.

  Is this how they raise them up in England? To be self-sufficient and self-starting and not fuck around when they’re in college, unlike their American counterparts who love getting drunk on the weekends and pissing their time away?

  “This is the gym.”

  “I know it’s the gym, I’m just…wow. This is…insanely cool.”

  I walk to the bench press and straddle it, lying on my back,
hat falling to the ground as I stare up at the ceiling.

  My head looks to the side. “Is that a fridge with water bottles inside?” It’s a small refrigerator with a glass front, stocked with water bottles and sports drinks.

  “Yeah. You want one?”

  He’s so hospitable, and I wonder if he’s this nice to everyone.

  “No thanks.”

  But honestly.

  I’m impressed.

  “There’s no membership fee to join.”

  “I use the gym at school,” I scoff, somewhat uncharitably. He’s being nice and I’m being a brat because I’m not sure what to do with myself.

  “Yeah, but sometimes it gets crowded or the machine you want is occupied.”

  “This isn’t a sales pitch.” I glance around, feigning indifference, as if I see garage home gyms like this daily. To be fair, I’ve never seen a garage home gym as badass as this anywhere, online included.

  “I’m just pointing out fact. If I want to work out at ten at night, I can.”

  I frown. “If I worked out at ten, I would be wide awake until three.”

  “Huh. Maybe that explains why I’m awake until three.”

  He winks at me before picking up what looks like a twenty-pound weight and beginning to do hammer curls.

  Biceps strain, and I have to look away. “Would you stop?”

  He blows out a puff of air as if the action is strenuous.

  He is definitely showing off.

  Ashley’s arm bends, and he kisses the bulging muscle. “Welcome to the gu—”

  “Do not say gun show.”

  When he flexes again, I lose it, erupting into a fit of giggles and practically falling off the weight bench. I reach down, scoop up my hat, plunk it back on my head.

  Ashley sets the dumbbells back onto the rack.

  “Should we eat?”

  I thought he would never ask, and my ears perk up.

  Now we’re talking! “You were serious about feeding me?”

  I didn’t see any food sitting out when we passed through the kitchen just now, although it did smell good.

  “Duh, we both gotta eat.”

  He’s becoming a real vocabulary slouch living in the States, and I don’t know much about his mom, but I bet she wouldn’t approve of his slang.

  Entering the kitchen again, Ashley goes straight to the oven, pulling it open and peering inside.

  Stands and pulls open a drawer, retrieving two red hot pads.

  Spellbound, I watch him slide a pan out of the oven: simmering chicken and vegetables, the smell hitting my nose in steamy ribbons.

  “It’s not exciting, but it’s healthy.”

  “Any food that’s not from the cafeteria or that I don’t have to prepare myself is basically gourmet. I’ll eat anything.”

  The pan gets set on the center island.

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “It’s…” Was that a compliment? “I appreciate you feeding me. That’s my point.”

  Ashley’s back faces me as he digs out utensils, grabs plates. “I learned to cook at school.”

  “Boarding school?”

  He stirs the veggies with a wooden spoon. “Indeed.”

  Who says indeed instead of yes?

  This guy.

  “Well it smells delicious.” I glance around. “Should I grab anything else?”

  “Salt and pepper?”

  I shoot up, opening the cabinet next to the stove until I find the condiments. Place them on the island, feeling like I need to be doing more.

  Snap my fingers. “Napkins!”

  “Thank you.”

  “What about water?” I ask, fishing glasses out of the cupboard.

  “Please.”

  Ashley Jones is so polite.

  More polite than any human I’ve ever met, which only makes me wonder about his upbringing.

  Boarding schools.

  That must mean he was taught etiquette? Don’t they do that there? Drill manners into them?

  I also wonder what kind of boarding school—aren’t there varying degrees? There must be, though I don’t have any knowledge about it. I’d do a search on the internet if I wanted to know more about him, but going down a rabbit hole right now would be weird, wouldn’t it?

  We eat in silence after he’s done serving us, both starving.

  Chewing.

  It doesn’t feel strange at all not to be talking—the silence is easier than I would have thought.

  Comfortable.

  Companionable.

  Is that a thing? It should be.

  The dinner he’s cooked is decent: simple chicken that’s tender, veggies that taste fresh from a farmer’s market. As if he’d go vegetable shopping for little ol’ me—yeah right.

  “Your place is really great, Ashley.” I lick my lips and wipe them with a napkin, sitting back in my chair.

  “But?”

  I can’t imagine what he’d want for rent on a place like this, and asking seems so rude. The fact that I’m too scared to even ask is ridiculous—this is business, not personal. What fool enters into a contract without knowing the details?

  I set down my fork. “But I just don’t think I can afford it.”

  Brows shooting up, he mirrors my pose, leaning back in his chair, setting down his fork.

  “How do you know? You haven’t even asked me what the rent is.”

  My mouth opens.

  Closes.

  I feel like a guppy trying to breathe out of water, so out of my element.

  Negotiating isn’t my thing; numbers aren’t my thing.

  I’m terrible at math and fractions and debating.

  “I just assumed…” I want to bury my head, but there’s no place to hide.

  “What are you paying now?”

  “Um.”

  Ashley cocks his head to study me. “Georgie, have you even tried to figure it out?”

  “I’m bad at math,” I utter weakly.

  If a guy’s eyes could bug out of his skull, his would be doing it now as he gawks at me.

  “Do you want to move out of the dorms or not? I already told you how easy it would be. All you have to do is give them written notice by filling out the form. It’s idiot-proof.”

  Is he calling me an idiot?

  Hard to know with that British accent; it seems to make everything he says sound like he’s a bit bored.

  “Yes I want to move out of the dorms, it’s just…” I pick up the fork again and begin pushing carrots around my plate—like a child. “Like I said, I can’t afford rent and cable and utilities and…and trash removal. And…snow removal.”

  “Snow removal,” Ashley deadpans. “Are you being serious?”

  I shrug.

  “Georgia, if you don’t want to live here, have the balls to say it.”

  I do want to live here—that’s the problem!

  Frustrated with myself, I stab the orange carrot that’s loose on my plate and pop it into my mouth, chewing to avoid responding.

  I’m making a mess of this the same way I make a mess of everything.

  “I told you to find out how much the dorms cost.”

  His tone annoys me, and I shoot him a sharp glance. “I know that, Dad, but thanks for reminding me. Again.”

  Ashley is still leaning back in his chair, belting out a laugh—at my expense, mind you—mouth wide open, white teeth flashing. They’re not all straight and perfect, but they’re perfectly dazzling.

  “Dad?” He snorts. “That’s brilliant. Oh I love that.” He’s chuckling to himself as he wields a steak knife and cuts his chicken the proper way instead of sawing into it with his fork as I did with mine.

  I blush. “Glad I could amuse you.”

  “You do amuse me, Georgie Parker, or I wouldn’t want to live with you.”

  I can tell he’s thinking, constructing a statement in his mind by the way he’s staring at the window, squinting and chewing in the way people do when they’re thinking about what to say n
ext.

  He swallows.

  Dabs at his mouth.

  “I’m prepared to beat whatever you’re paying now by two hundred dollars.”

  “You don’t know what I’m paying now.”

  “So?” He smirks. “Neither do you.”

  Touché. “This isn’t a time for sarcasm, Ash, but I appreciate the effort.”

  “Isn’t it though?”

  I huff stubbornly. “Do you honestly think you can seduce me by lowering my rent by two hundred dollars?”

  “Uh, you’d be a nodcock not to accept it. And I’m not seducing you—this is a business arrangement only.”

  My cheeks flush. “You know I didn’t mean that literally.”

  “I know you didn’t,” he says, taking another bite of chicken. “But I like seeing you get red.”

  Oh my god, why is he like this?

  “Use of the garage gym, a fully furnished bedroom—and that mattress is new, by the way. No one has slept on it.”

  “I was going to ask that—why is the room full of furniture when you live here alone?”

  “Mum keeps intending to come for a holiday, and she refuses to sleep on a mattress ‘soiled by college children.’ Her words, not mine. But, the one time she did visit, she booked a room at a swank hotel.” Ashley rolls his eyes. “She did take me to Target and Costco when she was here, which seems like an American mum thing to do.”

  It is. “My mom takes me grocery shopping when she visits, although…” I clear my throat. “She hasn’t been here yet. It’s too far.”

  Too far.

  I want to facepalm myself.

  Why am I telling him about my parents being too far when his are clear across the ocean? Do I sound like I’m whining? Or ungrateful?

  “You’re not a first-year anymore—this is what happens when you become an adult. Mum and Dad cut the cord. You feel rubbish because you’re still living in the dorms.”

  Rubbish?

  What the hell is that all about?

  “Don’t give me that face. You know it’s true.”

  My mouth gapes open, but I snap it shut because it’s bad manners.

  “Georgia?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Is there a reason you don’t wanna live here?” Ashley has a piece of broccoli on his fork ready to pop into his mouth. “Are you…I don’t know.” He shifts almost uneasily in his chair. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”