Page 63 of Jilted

“Thank you for doing this,” she said. “All of it. The flight, the hotel, going shopping early this morning so I would have something to wear. It’s so thoughtful.”

And I was… thinking of her. I was up to my eyeballs in contracts, meetings, paperwork, and negotiations—so much so that I hadn’t slept that well last night because I kept remembering more things I needed to do and adding to my list. But right now, right at this moment with Sloane wide-eyed excited to see the city? I didn’t give two shits about any of that. I couldn’t even remember what was on the damn list now. That scared the shit out of me as much as I welcomed the break.

I winked. “The things I’ll do just to touch your underwear.”

The first stop on today’s sightseeing tour was my absolute favorite place in London. I’d never come here with anyone before, and as we approached, I started to wonder if it was such a good idea to bring Sloane. I couldn’t put my finger on why the place was so special to me, but I hoped she wasn’t bored with my pick. Though as soon as we walked into the park, Sloane’s eyes widened. She looked like a little kid walking into Disney for the first time, and whatever nerves I’d had about bringing her here immediately settled. It helped that the sun was hitting just right, making everything glow like the forest inTwilight.

“What is this place?”

“It’s an old church called St. Dunstan in the East. It was originally built in 1100 AD. It was damaged in the Great Fire of London in the 1600s and later rebuilt—only to be destroyed again during the Second World War. Now the ruins are a public garden.”

Sloane looked up at the remnants of the church’s stone walls. Ivy and creeping vines weaved through archways that had once held stained glass, but today sun streaked in from the other side, creating a magical feeling.

“Wow,” she said. “It doesn’t seem real.”

I smiled. “I know.”

She pulled out her phone. “This would be an amazing place for a wedding. I need to take some pictures.”

I shook my head.

“What?”

“Nothing. Take your pics.” I stood off to the side, watching Sloane smile as she angled her phone and snapped photos from all different perspectives. I never thought the day would come when a woman mentioned the wordweddingand I didn’t break out in hives. And I certainly never imagined I’d take out my phone and sneak a few pics myself. But it gave me a warm feeling to see Sloane love the place as much as I did—a different warm feeling than I’d had a couple of hours ago picking out thongs. Which reminded me… My eyes dropped to her ass to see if I could make out whether she was wearing one I’d picked out. Sadly, I couldn’t.

We wandered around the small park for a long time, finding all the little hidden places and reading the informational signs I’d read a dozen times before. On our way out, Sloane stopped at the stone archway where we’d started. “What do you love about this place?” she asked. “I mean, aside from how beautiful it is?”

I shrugged. “That’s a good question. I don’t know really. I guess I like it because it’s been destroyed so many times, and yet it never falls.”

Sloane nodded. “Yeah. It feels… hopeful.”

Our eyes caught. I wanted so fucking badly to kiss her. I wasn’t a romantic guy—my idea of romance was drinking a little wine on the balcony off my bedroom before plowing into a woman on all fours on my bed ten feet away. But Sloane? I wanted to dip her in the middle of the ruins of a medieval church. Which meant it was most definitely time to get the hell out of here.

Stop two wasn’t as dreamy-eyed, at least not for most people.I took her to Wembley Stadium—the place I’d played for more than eight years. It was closed to the public today, but the guys in security all knew me, so they let me give Sloane a private tour.

We walked out onto the field through the tunnel I’d walked out of hundreds of times before, and Sloane looked up at the empty stands. “Wow. How many people does the stadium hold?”

“Ninety thousand.”

She shook her head. “I can’t imagine what this must feel like with all the seats filled and people cheering your name, wearing your jersey.”

I looked up, remembering those days. “It was great when I did well, but it was brutal when I had a bad day. Same fan cheering you on the way in could be throwing his empty beer bottle at you on the way out.”

“That didn’t really happen, did it?”

I pointed to the scar on my hairline. “Playoff game. Six stitches. It was the worst game of my career.”

“I can’t believe someone threw a bottle at you.”

“I deserved it. My head was up my ass that day.” I smiled at the stands, picturing them full. “There were more good days than bad though.”

“I bet you were the most popular player with the women.”

I wasn’t touching that comment with a ten-foot pole. “The fans were interesting. That’s for sure.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Yes and no. I took advantage of the celebrity that came with it—walking into any club I wanted, never getting in trouble for stupid shit I did—but after a while you start to realize none of it is real. People want to be friends with you for the wrong reasons, women want to be with you because of your name, not who you are. After you fall for it a few times, you start to retreat. I guess on the plus side, it taught me to value the people in my inner circle.”

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