The Perfect Plans Series [Box Set] (6 page)

I’m mentally kicking myself in the ass for falling headfirst into my usual diatribe of doing what’s right, what’s expected, instead of following my heart. Have I typecast myself into this role I created during the last twelve years?

Okay, that’s it.
From now on, I’m going to have fun—screw the repercussions. I’ve come all this way, upended my entire life. It’s time I start living it
.

Sadly, I realize it took giving up a chance with Alex Tate to give me the much-needed kick in the ass.

Oh, Alex’s ass . . .

Damn. The showerhead doesn’t come off.

WE’RE MAKING OUR way to yet another flat viewing. Despite trying to squeeze in as many viewings possible, given Stacey’s departure tomorrow, the flats we’ve seen during our hectic morning have been okay, but sadly, not
the one.
The surrounding areas have been reminiscent of something you’d see in
Pleasantville
or
Judgment Day
—neither ideal for a young woman on her own.

To quote Stacey’s commentary, “This one won’t work . . . you’ll turn into a bible pusher. . . . ” and, “Not a chance in hell . . . we’ll find you murdered in the side alley.”

Another added bonus to her continuous diatribes regarding the flats’ suitability was her constant reminders of Alex. Her typical crass annotations resulting in my subjection to suggestive, and somewhat elicit, comments about all the areas I ‘could have fucked him.’ Though some of her ribbing did make me laugh, it merely solidifies my morning’s regrets.
Why do I have to be such a moron?

Oh, right . . . self-preservation.
It was better to walk away before I got hooked, than watch him walk later. There’s simply no reason he’d want anything more than a one-nighter
.

But Stacey’s relentless slurs about ‘what a charming bistro table . . . just large enough to fuck someone like Alex on,’ and ‘wow, that shower is huge. . . . big enough for two . . . even someone as large as Alex,’ were instinctively causing my libido to stir and my regrets to show their head full force. It’s a painful experience to be incessantly reminded of a recent blunder. Particularly when you’re already beating yourself up over it.

God, it would have been a dream to have sex with him. Even only for a minute . . . Maybe we could have played just the tip and that alone would have been satisfactory.
Damn. I’m so stupid.

Coming up on our next flat, Stacey’s cell phone chirps. We stop mid-stride, Stacey rooting for her phone in her bag, “Fuck almighty, why do I buy such big purses? Where the hell is . . . Oh, found it!” Eying the screen, she pauses. “I don’t recognize this number,” she notes, reading the text.

I can’t help but smile at the instant laughter that supersedes. “What does it say?”

“You’re gonna love this, Abs,” she holds up her phone for me to take a peek.

Subject: Kensington flat

Good morning ladies. A possible flat to add to your list today, belonging to a sister of a friend. She will be there between three and five if you would like to have a look. Let me know if you’re interested.

Alex Tate

At the sight of his name I grab the phone abruptly from her grip, “What? It’s from Alex?”

“No, no. It’s Thomas. It has to be Thomas. He’s just playing with us. He’s an idiot like that. Besides, I didn’t give Alex my number. As much as I’d like to believe it’s him just randomly texting, we both know that’s unrealistic,” Stacey pauses for me to look up from the phone, her head tilted in lecture mode. “You lost your chance on that one, sweetheart,” she adds sarcastically. Grabbing the phone, she takes a few seconds to reply to the text before tucking it in her back pocket, continuing walking, forcing me to fall in line beside her.

My curiosity at her reply is killing me, not to mention the instant heart attack still brewing in my system.
That text couldn’t be from Alex.
Who am I kidding? Why would Alex be thinking of me—the crazy chick who, after running off at the mouth, hightailed it out of there? “Are you going tell me what you wrote?”

“Oh, nothing special,” she replies sardonically. At my evil eye, she laughs, pulling her phone out of her pocket to hand it to me, “Since we
know
it’s Thomas texting, the little fucker that he is, I decided to play with him a little.”

“Oh God. What did you say?” I open the text app to take a look.

Subject: Suitability?

Funny hearing from you Alex (ahem, Thomas), Aby was just discussing the need for a suitable sturdy kitchen island to fuck you on. Will this flat fit the bill?

Stacey

“Stacey! I can’t believe you sent that! What if that’s Alex?”

“Your face is priceless, but honey, it’s not Alex.”

I’m startled by the vibrating chirp of the phone, still grasped tightly in my fingers.

“Wow. That was quick, Thomas—thank God he’s not that quick at everything he does,” she winks. “What did he say?”

Subject: Presumptions

I don’t want to presume to know whether the kitchen island can accommodate the task, however I’d be obliged to assist Aby in determining such.

Alex

My heart nearly gives out at Alex’s reply. Or Thomas’s reply.
Shit.
I’m now insanely annoyed at Thomas for playing this game. It’s giving me heart palpitations.

“Are you fucking kidding me? God, he’s good. Give me that damn phone, if this is how he wants to play,” Stacey grabs it conspiratorially. Typing her reply, she commentates as she goes, “Well, I suppose an experiment is in order. Care to meet us there at three-thirty to test the adequacy? Kindly advise your friend’s sister of our arrival. Much obliged, my sexy friend.”

Accepting that it
is
Thomas, I laugh at her witty reply. She’s really into this guy, that’s for sure. I think it’s because he keeps her guessing. Something for which Stacey is unaccustomed to. She’s typically the driver in the surprises department. This is a refreshing change for her.

At the chirp signalling his reply, Stacey checks the phone, filling me in, “Yup, the fucker is meeting us there. He clearly misses me,” she smiles cheekily.

HOPPING IN A cab, we make our way south of the River Thames toward Kensington for our three-thirty viewing. And not a moment too soon for Stacey, as the past several hours’ innuendos seem to have her looking forward to some face-to-face playfulness with Thomas. I just pray this is the flat for me, being it’s my final hope of the day.

Kensington is the perfect mix of urban and suburban, showcasing grand terraced and charming houses in whites, blues, greys, and browns. The pedestrians walking along the sidewalks look to be around my age, if not a bit younger. It appears to be a very posh area to live in, which bids me the question . . .
How can I pay for this?
“Stace, I don’t think I’ll be able to afford this place.”

“Don’t be silly. Thomas wouldn’t send us here otherwise,” she argues, ringing the doorbell.

After a few moments, a young, beautiful East Indian woman greets us at the door, a welcoming smile on her face. She can’t be more than twenty years old. “Hi, I’m Amira Syed, you must be . . . ”

“Stacey Stevenson,” Stacey interjects with her usual flare and bright smile.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Come on in,” Amira gestures.

The flamboyant ray of sunshine that she is, Stacey struts past Amira at the invitation.

“Hi, I’m Aby Ryan,” I offer with an apologetic shrug at Stacey’s lack of introduction. “You’ll have to excuse my friend, she’s been looking forward to this viewing all afternoon. And to seeing Thomas,” I add, walking into the foyer.

I barely register the bewildered expression on Amira’s face as my attention is caught by Stacey’s abrupt halt, and subsequent gasp, at the end of the short hallway.
Either this place is amazing, or Thomas is sitting naked on the island,
I giggle to myself.

Coming up behind Stacey, I peek around her shoulder, taking in the view that’s stopped her in her tracks.
Holy shit bag mother of pearl. It’s Alex-mother-fucking-Tate. Where the hell is Thomas?
Grabbing her arm in unspoken warning of
I’m going to kill you
—and possibly as a means to support my wobbly legs—I look into her eyes in desperation, rendered completely speechless.

I can see that even Stacey is at a loss, cupping her hand comfortingly over mine, her eyes screaming
OH MY GOD.
Seconds seem like minutes, if not hours, before she seemingly gains composure, looking towards the cause of our hysteria, “Alex, what a surprise.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was under the impression you were meeting each other here,” Amira states, clearly confused, her presence behind us forcing us forward by short measure.

I remain immobilized, my death grip firm on Stacey’s arm.

“Never mind us, Amira. Slight miscommunication. We were expecting Thomas. But, I’m sure I can speak for Aby when I say we’re delighted to see you again, Alex.”

Donning a sexy smirk, he nods in agreement, clearly amused with the joke and our display of outrageous bewilderment.

Prying my fingers from her arm, Stacey takes Amira’s elbow gently, “Amira, why don’t you show me around,” she turns to look back to me, her expression a mixture of pleading forgiveness and
cry me a river.

I’m unable to formulate a sentence as they walk away, feeling Alex’s stare.
This can’t be happening.

“Hi, Aby. Shall we check out the kitchen?” he asks in a playful, teasing tone, shrugging his shoulders.

“The kitchen? What? Where’s Thomas?” I mutter my incoherent rambling thoughts aloud, slurring like a drunken fish-net-clad hooker in the red light district. My brain still hasn’t processed the last few minutes—or seconds.

With a boisterous laugh, he slowly walks towards me. “Why don’t I give you a tour?” Offering a warm smile, he gently links his arm in mine.

The man is even more stunning in the light of day; his blue eyes glittering in amusement. His nearness to me, and my intake of his masculine scent is doing crazy things to my already overwhelmed system.

“I take it you weren’t expecting me?”

No shit, Sherlock.
I’m still expecting Thomas to come around the corner
.
“Umm . . . no,” I manage, finally mustering some ounce of composure as a fast-forwarded recap of this afternoon’s text-play flashes through my mind. “I’m so sorry. We thought you were Thomas . . . a joke . . . ”

“Yeah, I got that,” he winks, gently leading me through the living room, towards a narrow staircase. “I must say, I don’t recall you mentioning last night that sex on countertops was a prerequisite to the tall bill you were looking to fill.”

“I . . . ”

“I’m kidding, Aby,” he laughs. “It was pretty clear you both thought I was Thomas. It was very entertaining.” Offering one of his sexy-as-shit grins, I lose myself in his lips.

Though the ridiculous joke has finally run its course, the heat in my cheeks seems to be elevating rather than dissipating.

Taking my hand in his, he leads me up the staircase. It’s a wonder he isn’t actually dragging me—head and limbs bobbing against each step—since the moment he took my hand I certainly felt as though I hit the floor.

“So, as I mentioned in my text, Amira is my best friend, Mo’s, sister,” he continues. “I was thinking about you this morning and it occurred to me that since she’s leaving for Paris in two weeks, she should consider subletting her flat. It would only be a six month term while she’s studying abroad, but I thought this might be perfect for you.”

Wait . . . What?
He was thinking of me this morning?
This is too much
.
To say this is surreal is putting it mildly.
But he’s right though, from what I’ve seen so far, the flat does seem perfect for me. Quite an assertion on his part considering he barely knows me. The area is ideal, keeping me in my preferred central London location. So it goes without saying, I’m interested, but . . . ”I truly appreciate you thinking of me, but I don’t think I can afford this.” I’m embarrassed to admit this to a man who can afford just about anything life has to offer him.

Abruptly stopping at the top of the stairs, he turns to me, “Amira doesn’t need the money. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.” His eyes search mine, a brief silent exchange of glances before he offers a broad—and oh-so heart-stopping—smile.