I was still catching my breath as Mary rolled beside me. I once more felt the urge to tell her that was a first for me, but I didn’t dare. I wouldn’t ruin the moment. She kissed my collarbone and pulled me towards her. I didn’t want to end this. I knew I should go home, but it felt like it might cheapen what this was. The moment wasn’t about getting off. It was some sort of five-years-denied connection I couldn’t fight.
I drifted off in Mary’s arms feeling I’d unlocked something beaten down within me for a very long time. As I breathed her in, I realized there was no part of me that wanted to run. It wasn’t scary. It was my truth and it was terrifyingly easy to want this.
Chapter 11
Kensington Girl
MARY
“Mary!”
“Huh?” I groaned as the covers rustled around me.
“Hvor bor du?”
“Huh?” I repeated, slowly opening one eye in my dark room to see the slightly panicked face of my houseguest from the night before.
“Sorryvarbor do? I don’t know ‘address’ in Svensk,” Betty corrected herself. “Where do you live?”
“It’s a cognate.” I groaned and sat up.
To my dismay, she was fully clothed. I longed to lay in bed with her, wondering if her nipples would be the type of pink I envisioned in the deep darkness or if she’d let me go down on her as enthusiastically as she had the night before. Would I make her scream again—this time maybe even my name? As all things did with my posh romantic interest, we met an end.
“We’re on Eastway - 10,” I mumbled. “By Hackney Wick. You’re so quick to leave?”
I pulled on the neck of her t-shirt and kissed her shoulder.She let out a quiet, low hum that suggested I might convince her to take it off again. Then, the dream died.
“I just need it for the car service,” she said. “Sorry. I don’t know where we are. Thank God you aren’t an axe murderer, right?”
Car service.She confirmed my suspicions with that phrase. Even fairly well-to-do Londoners would have just called a cab. That wasn’t enough for Betty. She had a driver on retainer. I only benefitted from such a thing while we were in New York to sign with our label.
“That you know of. But you haven’t leftyet,” I joked.
She dialed, stood, and mouthed “sorry” as she walked into the hallway to speak with dispatch. She was posh enough to have an entire car service on hold. Whowasshe? I remembered I needed her phone number.
“Yes, could I please have a car? I’m at Eastway Number 10 by the tube station,” she answered.
Curious, I listened forheraddress, assuming it would be a posh hotel in Mayfair.
Instead, she answered, “Kensington Gardens. Yes. Apartment 1A. Yep. If you drive to the gate, they can buzz me in. Thanks.”
I noted the address. My curiosity would get the better of me when I looked up my mysterious wealthy guest later. The only thing I knew in Kensington Gardens was the garden itself and the palace. I’d heard of exclusive mews houses of hidden private lanes and assumed that must be where she lived.
Betty returned, face visible in the low light, brow pulled sympathetically. “I’m really sorry I gotta leave so early, but I’m already late and my sister-in-law is about to strangle me because I could potentially make her late for our competition. My friends are already on their way and?—”
“It’s all good,” I promised. “But can I get your number this time? I learned my lesson.”
She held out her phone.
I obliged, watching her type it in, then handed it back. I noted that she’d sent herself a message as me.
ME
Jag älskar Norge.
I snickered. “You really took the time to change my keyboard to that?”
“Ja!” She giggled. “And youdolove Norway, don’t you?”
