“Stop bringing up the profile.”
“Why would I stop bringing it up when that’s the reason I flew across the Atlantic Ocean to be here with you?”
“That was your choice, not mine.”
“Uh, it wasyourchoice, when you selected ‘match.’”
Unsure why I’m arguing with her—once again, not making great decisions—but this is what a desperate man looks like. Take note: minimal sweat on the upper lip, fingers slightly curled into a fist, and a hint of a jaw clench.
“That’s not what I thought I was matching for, and you know it,” she says, hands on her hips now.
Well, I knew this was coming. I prepared for it, so on to plan B.
Tossing the ring box to Rupert, who catches it with one hand, I shrug out of my suit jacket and toss it to him as well. When I start to undo the buttons to my dress shirt, I catch the astonishment crossing Renley’s features.
“What on earth are you doing? If you think getting naked will convince me to marry you, then you have no idea what kind of woman I am.”
I scoff loudly enough for the entire town to hear me. “I have a lot more respect for myself than to flash you the goods to get you to marry me. It’s a fucking heat box in this town and I dressed up for you. I’m not going to stay dressed up if you’re going to turn me down.”
Now, I’d like to take a moment, because to be honest, what I just said is not true. Of course I’m taking the shirt off to flash her the goods. I know what kind of physique I have. I know that it’s a bonus in the “you should marry me” column. Not that we should focus on physical appearance or anything, but it’s all part of the plan. Trust me on this.
I shed my dress shirt and then exhale loudly before flopping back on the grass of her front yard.
From there, I observe her, observing me.
Her eyes linger on my chest, my arms, my stomach…possibly my lap—can’t be too sure, that might be wishful thinking on myend. Either way, she’s checking me out. She’s soaking in her man, trying to commit my body to memory.
Just for the hell of it, I place my hands behind my head and relish the beating sun.
Her eyes remain fixed on me, growing hungrier by the second.
Putting on a show, I say, “Rupert, I’m going to need a lemonade instead of tea this afternoon.”
“Uh…I’m unaware of when I became a butler?”
Rupert, bow to your lord!
Not really, just kidding. But seriously…go with it, mate.
“Mate, my fiancée just turned down my marriage proposal. I’m hurting. Lemonade is my only cure.”
“Oh my God,” she says with a giant eye roll, snapping out of her body-observing stupor. “Can you wallow somewhere else? Your limbs are creeping over onto my neighbor’s lawn and I don’t want them thinking that I have strange, half-naked British men just lazing about my yard.”
Oh…she doesn’t know. How could she not? Does she think I’ve just been creeping outside her house?
I mean, I sort of have been, but not the entire day.
Feeling like I’m about to break her brain, I say, “Don’t worry, they won’t be mad.”
“Pretty sure they will be.”
“No, they won’t.” Going in for the blow. She’s not going to be happy, that’s for damn sure. “I’m renting their place for the summer. I’m your new neighbor, love.”
All the color drains from those pretty pink cheeks of hers. Just to really dig in deep, I add, “And this fiancé is not quite finished with you yet.”
Her head shakes in disbelief.
“What the hell does that mean?”
