Page 3 of Getting Lucky in London

His third year in college—my junior year in high school—I took on a part time job, scrimped and saved where I could, and finally earned enough money for a round-trip bus ticket, a hotel for one night, and a ticket to his game. He’d been so excited to have me there, to watch him play in person, but the second he introduced me to his teammate, Michael, I hadn’t seen anyone else on the field that day, the rest of that season, or the following.

So silly, the teenage heart. Michael hadn’t even noticed me that day, given the fact he had a gorgeous, sorority blonde on his arm.

“Hmph.” I tapped the envelope with my index finger. “I hope he’s gone bald and fat.”

But…what if hewasn’tfat or bald? What if he was still as delicious as I remembered? And what if I showed him I wasn’t the same little girl with stringy hair, crooked teeth, and threadbare clothing? What was the worst thing that could happen?

He could have another gorgeous blonde on his arm.

Or he could be alone. He only had one ticket.

Hmm. Michael Winters all to myself, with no one to keep my naughty in check. That could be dangerous…and a whole lot of yum.

A smile tugged at my lips and excitement scrubbed at the edges of my exhaustion. I couldn’t miss the opportunity to finally put my teenage infatuation to bed…literally.

I grabbed my sweater, purse, and suitcase and headed up the stairs for a shower and a little—make that a lot—of primping. I had a fantasy to fulfill.

****

Michael

The sun was out for the first time in days, and the city shone as if it had been washed clean. Yet the bright and cheery view that promised a warm summer afternoon outside my eighth-floor office window did nothing to brighten or cheer my mood as I read my father’s text for the third time.

It was short and to the point. Brandon Winters had never held much use for sentimentality, but news like this seemed to warrant at least a phone call. Didn’t it?

Dad:Getting a divorce. Didn’t work out with Callie.

“Bloody hell.” Not that I had ever liked Callie. Just as I hadn’t liked Jennifer, his third wife. I liked the one in between though—Leeann. She’d been good for my father, made him seem almost human.

The intercom buzzer on my desk turned me from my musings. I spun my chair around to answer, “Yes?”

“Lady Chandler to see you,” Jaycee, the receptionist, answered. “Shall I send her in?”

“Please do.”

A few seconds later, my mother peeked around the flat panel of mahogany that blended with the walls of my office. Her smile instantly calmed the anger roiling in my gut, which was probably the reason for her visit. She knew everything before I did. Probably heard from one of her friends in the States.

“Do you have time for a chat?” she asked but let herself in anyway and closed the door behind her.

“I always have time for you, Mum.” I met her halfway across the room and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. “What brings you here?”

Her hazel eyes searched my face as she sat in a chair in front of my desk, smoothing slacks that weren’t wrinkled. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

I rounded the desk, lowered myself into my chair, and tried to hide my frustration with a shrug and a smile. I should be used to my father’s merry-go-round marriages by now. “I’m fine. I’m only surprised it lasted this long.”

My parents’ marriage had been turbulent until they came to an agreement that my mother would turn a blind eye to my fathers’ extramarital affairs until I graduated high school. Not long after I began my first semester at university, they told me they were getting a divorce and my mother was moving back to England. And as soon as I held my diploma in my hand, I joined her.

I loved my father, but I didn’t respect him. And I wanted nothing to do with the family law firm. Instead, I’d made my own way in my mother’s country, in her beloved city of London, and in my own preferred career in architecture.

“Well, I know how much it bothers you.” She eased forward until she perched on the edge of the chair, concern creasing her otherwise smooth forehead.

I looked away for a moment. I should never have shared my greatest fear with her, that I was too much like my father, that I couldn’t have a relationship with a woman longer than it took to learn her name or to hear her moan mine.

That wasn’t quite fair. I’d dated a few women longer, possibly a month, maybe six weeks. I’d tried. I really had. But as soon as I knew—usually right away—they weren’t the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, I saw no reason to drag out a relationship only to hurt them more.

“You are not like him.” She’d never had a bad word to say about my father, but for the first time I could remember, her voice gave a small hint of what I suspected she truly felt—anger, hurt, and disgust.

I sighed and faced the woman I’d seen torn apart every time a new woman took her place in my father’s bed. “I’m trying not to be.”

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