Handle Me (Royals Saga Book 13), page 7
“That’s no excuse,” he said. “You’d be a total wanker not to go for her.”
“If that’s how you feel”—I tossed the card onto his desk—“maybe you should take her out.”
“That’s not the winning attitude I expect from you. Where’s your sense of competition?”
“Taking a vacation like you all wanted,” I said bitterly.
“Are you telling me that you aren’t even slightly interested in Lola Bishop?”
I pressed my lips into a thin line, trying to keep my face entirely blank.
“Exactly.” He snorted. “Do yourself a favor and try.”
“And how do I do that?”
“Make sure you smell good and buy her some flowers, idiot.” He tossed the card back to me. “Make it the best date ever.”
I swallowed, feeling a slight lump in my throat as I stood to leave. Wilkes couldn’t make me quit, but he’d lost his faith in me. I felt worse than I had when I woke up from my crash. The only thing I could do was prove him wrong. I paused at the door, turning the florist’s card over in my hands. “What am I supposed to do if I’m not driving?”
“Drive that pretty distraction crazy for a while?”
I had to hand it to him. That was a pretty solid place to start. And if Lola was going to keep distracting me, I might as well let her distract me from my unplanned hiatus from the circuit. She seemed to be the only thing easy to think about these days. Might as well lean into the distraction. I tipped my head in silent thanks as I opened the door. Checking my watch, I discovered I had just enough time to take his advice.
I had to make this the best first date ever.
CHAPTER TEN
LOLA
“Keep calm,” I ordered myself. “This isn’t a real date.”
So why was I acting like it was? I’d been staring at two outfits for the better part of an hour. The point of this evening wasn’t to work myself into a frenzy preparing for a romantic evening. It was to force Anders out of his comfort zone. He needed to learn how to act like a gentleman before he stuck his foot in his mouth at Buckingham or in front of the press. Since the world had discovered his connection to the royals, there’d been no end of paparazzi following him. Tonight would be no different.
And that was the problem.
I needed to guide him through how to act when surrounded by photographers, and how to behave at a fancy dinner—even when flustered. Helping him pick out new clothes was only the first step. I had to teach him how to be a prince.
I hadn’t really thought this through. The tabloids were going to make crazy assumptions if anyone spotted us together. We’d been fortunate when we went shopping. Maybe we’d manage to stay out of the spotlight tonight. But how long could our luck hold? I had a terrible feeling that if I wasn’t careful I’d be linked to Anders romantically, which was the last thing either of us wanted.
My phone rang, delivering me from my endless over-analysis of the outfits. I was only mildly disappointed to see it was my mother and not my business partner. My partner would have been helpful in an outfit crisis. Our entire business was based on fashion, after all. My mother was likely to dig her heels in and focus on the news I needed to deliver to her.
“I’m sorry that I missed you,” she said breezily when she answered. “I was with my trainer.”
My mom had been concerned with her figure before our sister accidentally fell in love with the prince of England. Since then, she’d committed no less than three hours a day to working out. It was exhausting just to think about it.
“I wanted to tell you something.” I abandoned the outfits and went into the loo to finish getting ready.
“Is everything alright?” she asked quickly.
“It’s fine. It’s not that big of a deal.” I’d learned a long time ago to manage her expectations to prevent a scene. It was a useful skill to have, but it didn’t work as well over the phone—or when I was distracted over my non-date.
“Okay,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “I was just worried. I’ve been trying to reach Clara for a few days. I thought maybe…”
“I’m sure Clara is fine,” I said in a soothing tone. My older sister was probably avoiding her. Madeline Bishop could get a bit overwhelming, and Clara was nine months pregnant. “She’s probably busy with doctor’s appointments.”
“Maybe you should call her.”
“I will,” I promised. “Look, you know how I went to Silverstone?”
“Yes,” she said slowly.
“Clara asked me to help Anders deal with some of the PR fallout from the…”
“Scandal?” she repeated, instantly concerned.
It was as apt a term as anything else. “Yes. Anyway, he’s been followed by a lot of paparazzi, and they’re probably going to catch pictures of us together.”
“How together?” she asked suspiciously.
This was exactly why I needed to prepare her in advance. She was as likely to jump to conclusions as the tabloids were. “I’m here strictly professionally. No matter what they put on the front page.”
“The last time I heard not to trust the tabloids, your sister was secretly dating Alexander.”
I cradled my phone to my ear as I haphazardly dangled one leg over the edge of the bathtub. I turned the water on to a trickle. “I can promise you that I am not dating Anders.”
“What’s that noise? You’re too busy to have a conversation with me? You have to do other things at the same time?”
I rolled my eyes at her shameless guilt trip. “I’m getting ready to go out to dinner.”
“Are you in the shower?” she asked as I sloppily applied shaving soap to one leg.
“Nope, I’m just shaving my legs.”
“So, it’s a real date,” she said.
“No.” I groaned, wondering if she’d heard a word that I said. “I’m going to dinner with Anders professionally.”
“The only professional who shaves their legs before a business date is a call girl,” she informed me.
“Mom, please.” I shook my head. “This is exactly what I’m trying to avoid from the public, I don’t need it from you when you know it’s fake. I don’t want you to think I’m involved with Anders.”
“Then, why are you shaving your legs?” she pressed.
“Because I’m going to wear a skirt.”
“You’re a modern woman. You don’t have to shave your legs to wear a skirt,” she said.
I nearly dropped the phone in the bathtub. I’d grown up with very clear expectations on how to present myself. Expectations that were relics of a different time and place. My mother felt strongly about gender roles. She’d supported my education and business mostly because she saw it as a way for me to find a husband. Being a modern woman in her eyes was news to me. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“You could wear tights,” she suggested.
“With this outfit, I’d still need to shave,” I said with a sigh.
“Not necessarily—”
“Mom, I only called so you didn’t see me on a tabloid cover with Anders later this week and jump to conclusions.”
“Well, that is thoughtful of you to save me from the same fate twice,” she said with a sniff that suggested she still had yet to forgive Clara for finding out about my sister’s relationship that way. “What are you wearing?”
My shoulders sagged at the question. I’d nearly forgotten my dilemma. I wasn’t sure she was the person to help me, but if Belle wasn’t going to return my calls, what choice did I have?
“It’s a bit cool up here. I was thinking either the Saint Laurent mini sheath, or that lacy Alexander McQueen we picked up a few weeks ago.” As nosy as my mother could be, she did know my closet. She’d been there when I bought half of the items.
“The Saint Laurent,” she said without pausing.
“Why was that so easy for you?” I grumbled.
“Well, a sheath is always a professional choice. At least, more professional than a lace dress,” she pointed out.
I wiped the remnants of soap from my legs before stumbling back into look at the dresses on the bed. She was right. “Of course you’re right,” I said, frowning that it hadn’t occurred to me. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it that way.”
“Lace does imply romance,” she continued, “so if you want to avoid speculation…”
“The sheath,” I agreed. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Of course,” she said in a proud tone. “Then again, maybe…”
“Maybe what?” I asked as I picked up the Alexander McQueen to hang up in the wardrobe.
“Are you sure nothing is going on between you two?” she asked.
I took a deep breath to refrain from hanging up on her or screaming into the phone. “Nothing. Zero. Nada.”
“It’s just that you picked out the Alexander McQueen…”
“I only brought a few items. It was new.” Maybe we were going about this all wrong. Clearly, she needed to go work for the tabloids spinning stories from flimsy threads like wearing a lace dress out to dinner or choosing to shave one’s legs.
“You two would make a beautiful couple,” she started.
I think the fuck not. I kept this thought to myself and said, “Look, I need to run. I’ll call you later this week.”
“Call your sister and tell her to call me,” she shouted into the phone before I could hang up.
That was basically my position in life: carrier pigeon between my family members. It was like they were all incapable of talking directly to each other. Instead, they preferred to go through the medium of me. I tossed my mobile on the bed before carrying the lace dress to the closet, realizing I wanted to wear it. I hadn’t gone out with a guy in a long time. I’d been far too focused on my fledgling subscription company. But she was right. The ivory dress skewed a little too bridal for someone trying to keep things professional.
The red dress required very little to make it stand out. Despite its close fit, its skirt flared slightly, and that, combined with its long sleeves, kept it from looking too sexy despite its color. I’d brought even less by the way of shoes—only fifteen or so pairs. Thankfully, I had a strappy pair of Louboutin sandal-style heels. I pulled my hair down from its messy bun and fluffed it, pleased to discover it had curled while up. A few spritzes of texturizing spray and it hung in thick waves around my shoulders. After a quick glance in the mirror, I decided to stop there. Any more, and I was in danger of looking like I thought this was a real date. As it was, I wouldn’t be embarrassed to be photographed with Anders. It would be enough to keep him eating out of my hand, but nothing about how I looked would encourage him past harmless flirting. I hoped. This morning’s unintentional orgasm could undermine plans. I couldn’t let it.
Even if the memory of it kept creeping into my mind at the most inconvenient times.
Of course, the suit that had been rush-delivered from the tailors at Barnaby’s was equally likely to stimulate my own mixed feelings—or rather, mixed hormones. Tonight would be good for us. We both needed to learn how to be together without fighting or flirting.
I dropped a few things into a Chanel clutch, took a breath, and opened the bedroom door. I hadn’t given Anders a set time. I suspected we didn’t need a reservation at even the fanciest restaurant around. Anders was a celebrity whether he liked it or not. That meant doors opened to him, as did tables. I opened my phone and began to text him that I was ready when a low voice interrupted me.
“Hey, boss.”
“Shit!” I startled, dropping my phone.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He stepped into the darkened corridor and my mouth fell open. I’d seen him in the suit earlier, but this was different. His blond hair was swept back and his face cleanly shaven.
It seemed that even guys shaved for fake dates. I made a mental note to tell my mother Anders was also a shitty feminist.
I looked him over, telling myself it was part of the job. I was teaching him how to be a gentleman, right? But as my eyes traveled down, I gasped when I saw what he was holding.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ANDERS
This wasn’t a date. Not a real one. So why was I standing here, holding a dozen pink roses? I’d had no idea what was taking her so long. I’d gone by the florist, gotten home, shaved, showered, and put on the new suit I’d found lying on my bed, and she was still in there. What did women do in the loo that took forever? And then it had hit me. She was avoiding me. Lola had been cured of whatever insanity had prompted her to insist on a date—even a fake one—this evening. I’d made up my mind to toss them in the bin before Lola saw when the door to the spare room opened.
Or maybe she had just been busy transforming herself into every dirty dream I’d ever had, because as soon as I saw her I could only process two words.
Fuck me.
The dress she was wearing was probably illegal in half the villages in Britain. It barely covered the perfect ass I’d been daydreaming about all day. Maybe it was the way her dark hair billowed past her shoulders that made her look softer. But this wasn’t the no-nonsense, sexy as sin business woman who had walked onto my track yesterday.
She was so preoccupied with tossing things into a small black bag that she didn’t even realize I was here. I swallowed and decided to take Wilkes’ advice. This might not be a date, but I could drive her a little crazy.
Especially if she was going to show up looking like that.
“Hey boss,” I said softly.
“Shit!” She jumped and dropped her phone in the process.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” I took a step closer to help her but thought better of it.
A gentleman would bend down and pick up her phone. But I wasn’t a gentleman—or so she’d been telling me—and I wanted to see how short her skirt really was. She stared at me for a moment, phone forgotten on the floor, and I realized I must look like an idiot standing here holding flowers for a woman who’d made it clear she had no interest in me.
Lola shook her head a little. Then she bent gracefully at the knees and swiped her mobile from the floor. That was disappointing.
“Have you been waiting long?” she asked, immediately putting on her bossy, businesslike tone. “You could have knocked.”
On second thought, maybe it was good she hadn’t bent over and revealed her rear end. I might not have been able to stop myself from spanking her. My palm twitched at the thought of bending perfect Miss Bishop over my knee and showing her that she underestimated me.
“These are for you.” I thrust the flowers at her.
She took them, chewing on her bottom lip. For a second, I could have sworn I glimpsed a smile. “Anders, you didn’t have to do this. Tonight isn’t really—”
“I know,” I cut her off. “But you seem to be laboring under the misunderstanding that I’m a hopeless caveman in need of rescue. I thought I would prove that I can be a gentleman when I want to be.”
We stared at each other for a minute, each waiting for the other to make their next move. Finally, she tucked her black bag under her arm and smiled.
“Do you have a vase?” she asked, smelling the blooms.
“Um…” I had not thought of that. “I don’t usually bring flowers home.”
“Fair enough.” She skirted past me toward the kitchen. “Let’s see what we can find.”
I followed behind her, enjoying the view as she swayed her hips. Did she realize she was doing it or was it a simple holdover from some prehistoric time when females shook their rears as a mating call? I wasn’t sure, but I definitely felt the urge to throw her over my shoulder and answer.
“You probably won’t find much,” I warned her as she began opening cabinets, looking for an appropriate vessel for the bouquet.
“Don’t you eat?” she asked.
“At the pub or my mum’s.”
She snorted as if this explained something. “I guess you usually take flowers to your dates at their houses.” She gave up and closed the cabinet. “We can leave them in the sink.”
“I don’t usually take women flowers,” I said.
“Never? I thought you were proving me wrong.”
“I don’t have much time to date. I’m on the road a lot,” I reminded her.
“Oh, I thought…”
“What?” I asked, leaning back as she reached for the faucet and began filling the sink with water.
“There was some lipstick and stuff in the loo. I thought they were from an old girlfriend.”
“Do you think I bring a woman home and tell her to sleep in another room?” I couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe I needed to show Lola exactly what I did to the women I brought home. The trouble was that she’d brought herself here. Not the other way around.
“I don’t know,” she said defensively.
“Boss, when I bring a woman home, I take her straight to bed until morning.” Let her think what she wanted about that.
“I just thought maybe you liked to sleep alone.” She lifted one petite shoulder.
“Sleep is for times when there isn’t a beautiful woman in bed with you.” My response earned me a small gasp. It reminded me of how she’d sounded when she came this morning.
“Well, someone left their shit in your bathroom,” she said stiffly after a long pause.
It took me a second to realize what shit she was talking about. “My mum stayed here after my accident to help me get back on my feet. It’s probably her stuff.”
“That makes sense.” Lola didn’t turn to look at me. She just arranged the roses in the sink quietly. “You two are pretty close, huh?”
“Yeah,” I grunted. It felt weird to talk about my mother with her. Yet more proof that this wasn’t a real date. I’d never discuss my mum on a first date. In fact, I couldn’t remember a time when I’d ever brought her up with a woman.
This was the problem with having Lola here acting like lady of the goddamn manor. She was prying into my business. She’d already gotten rid of half of my shit. Hell, she’d woken up in my bed this morning! I was about to let her know that some lines needed to stay firmly in place if this was going to stay a no-touching relationship when she sighed.
