Page 67 of Arrogant Playboy

“Two rooms for Daniel DuPont,” I say.

“Oh, yes, Daniel. I’m sorry to inform you there’s a problem with one of the rooms. We’ve had a plumbing leak and we’ve had to close the room. We only have one room available. Will that be a problem?” she asks, looking between the two of us.

Shit.

“He’s my client,” Rosie states. The older woman’s eyes widen at her comment, and it takes Rosie a couple of beats to realize what the lady is thinking. “I’m an interior designer.”

The older lady bursts out laughing. “Okay, miss, I understand. Unfortunately, I do only have the one bed, but it is a king. There’s a wedding tomorrow and everywhere is booked up.”

“We can find a shop and buy a blow-up mattress and stay at the house,” I whisper to Rosie.

“Shops are closed, I’m afraid, this isn’t the city,” the woman says.

“It’s fine, it’s one night,” Rosie says, giving the woman a wide smile.

“Fantastic.” The lady grins as she starts typing into the computer.

I tug on her arm, and Rosie turns to me. “Are you sure?”

“It’s a king bed, it will be fine.” The clenched teeth she's talking through are giving anything but fine.

“Here you go, you two, enjoy your stay. The local pub is open until midnight, and they serve a nice steak and ale pie,” she suggests.

I give her a nod and we head up the rickety stairs, cursing with each step. Rosie unlocks the door, we step into the bedroom, and I want it to swallow us up. It looks like a damn honeymoon suite with its red velvet bed, white duvet cover, with red satin cushions. There is a neon sign on the wall saying, ‘Heartbreak Hotel’. Rosie covers her mouth and bursts out laughing, which I follow, staring at the room with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and a box of chocolate strawberries. There is a velvet chaise lounge underneath the window, I could sleep on that.

“I can take this,” I say, placing my bag on the chaise lounge.

“Do you think you’ll fit on that?” Rosie asks as she stares at the piece of furniture.

“It’s one night, or I can sleep on the floor, the white shaggy rug could be comfortable.”

Rosie shakes her head. “We’re adults, we can share the bed. She said it was king size.” We stare at the bed.

“Are you sure?” I question her.

“It’s fine,” she squeaks out, shaking her head.

I pick up my bag and place it on my side of the bed. “You want to grab something to eat?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

The local pub is a five-minute walk around the corner. It’s a gorgeous white and black pub, with hanging baskets and window boxes of colorful flowers. There are moss-covered tiles on the roof, and what looks to be three different levels of the pub, every hundred years another section has been added. Rosie and I walk in, and the place is packed, they must all be here for the wedding. We walk through the bar area, find a booth that is empty and take a seat. A waitress comes over and greets us while wiping the table down and handing us the menu before disappearing again.

“Everything looks good,” Rosie says over her menu, but I’m not so sure. She stills when I don’t agree. “Please, don’t tell me you’re going to be so French, right now. This is a quintessential English pub.”

“The floor is sticky, I’m not sure if I’m up for bangers and mash or steak and kidney pie,” I grumble.

Rosie bursts out laughing. “Are you missing your caviar back in London?” she teases. I don’t dare tell her that I am. “Have you been to a pub before?” she questions me.

“Of course,” I bite back, offended.

“No not the ones in London, a real country pub?”

I try to think back, have I ever? I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Daniel, how can you be living in England, buying a country estate, and not have adopted the English pub culture?” Rosie asks aghast.

“Do I look like a man that frequents pub culture?”

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