Beauty and the Brit by Poppy St. James
2
STERLING
“Pick me!” a platinum-blonde in red pumps calls from the crowd.
“No, choose me! I’m great in bed.” A second girl winks. She’s got a nice set of cantaloupes too, but that’s beside the point.
Reaching down, I pinch the inside of my arm to make sure I’m not dreaming.
Ouch. Definitely not dreaming.
I quicken my pace toward the doors, intent on getting to safety from the mob that’s been following me constantly. From my office to the doors of my apartment building, they’ve been relentless ever since the news broke five days ago. My love life has been fodder for the gossip rags and page-six columns all week, and I’m cursing Uncle Charles for taking this long to get here as I duck my head and ignore the attention.
After shouldering my way through the crowd, I step inside to the cool air-conditioning and straighten my tie. I’ve never seen so many hopeful-looking women all in one spot before. Evening gowns, push-up bras, and eyelash extensions seem a bit much for seven in the morning, but what do I know? I feel a bit like the guy on The Bachelor. But there are no roses to give out, and this is my life, not some freaking reality-TV program.
Only once the doors to the lift close do I take a deep breath for the first time this morning. This is insane. Insane.
I check the text message on my phone to double-check the location of the conference room, and punch the button for the twenty-second floor.
Did I mention this was insane?
When the doors open, I stroll down the hall, desperately trying to keep a calm, neutral expression. I can’t let anyone know I’m rattled by this. Maybe after my appointment this morning, I can swing by and see Rebecca, take the edge off. Nobody knows how to take the edge off quite like Rebecca. Even on the rare occasions when we do just talk or hang out, it helps. Then again, we rarely just hang out. She does this thing with her legs; she’s a pretzel.
Wait.
With resounding clarity, I realize that Rebecca is not likely part of my future. And that I’m going to need to clean up my image. Quickies in my office aren’t going to work anymore. I need to start thinking like . . .
My jaw ticks at the thought, and I suppress a shudder.
A husband.
One little word shouldn’t make me break out in hives, but as one of New York’s best divorce attorneys, the idea of marrying scares the bloody hell out of me.
Regardless, Rebecca is a habit I need to kick. She was someone who filled the void, but it’s unfair to let her live on the fumes of hope that she and I can be more. If the scene outside is any indication, I need to get my life sorted out, and that doesn’t include banging my ex when I have an itch that needs scratching.
When I pull open the door to the conference room, I spot a familiar and unexpected face. The hot as hell, and just as unobtainable, Camryn Palmer. Her tousled honey-blond waves rest just past her shoulders, and her glossy pink lips form a polite smile. When my family’s estate manager, my uncle Charles, said he was hiring a public relations expert, I never would have guessed it would be the gorgeous Camryn.
Just because I’ve made the decision to do this doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it. And the last thing I want is the one woman I can never have overseeing the whole thing. She’s driven and intelligent, but most of all, she’s beautiful, which is an added distraction I don’t need, one that could be disastrous in an already dicey situation. She also sees right through me.
“What’s she doing here?” I whisper as I slip into the chair next to my uncle Charles.
Camryn’s wide-eyed optimism falls, and she pulls her lower lip between her teeth.
Great. Now I feel like a tool. Her puzzled expression conveys her confusion and hurt.
Memories of the last time I saw her invade my head. It was at my best friend Noah’s wedding. She was the maid of honor; I was the best man. Everything about that night is still crystal clear. The light floral scent of her skin when we swayed on the dance floor during the customary wedding-party dance, her flirty smile and cheerful peal of feminine laughter when I said something undeniably British that amused her.
She was nearly irresistible that night in her long plum-colored gown, her hair trussed up in an elegant twist with fragrant curls framing her face. We shared a dance, some laughs, a glass of champagne. I was thirty seconds away from testing my luck by asking her to go home with me, begging if I needed to, when I saw it.
The way she turned, eager to watch Noah and Olivia share their first wedding dance . . . the unshed tears gathering in her eyes as she looked on.
The excitement and blind faith in her expression was undeniable. In that moment, I knew. She’s a true believer in happily-ever-afters, a slave to the idea of lasting love and forevers. I’m a jaded divorce attorney who can tell you every statistic on marriage and divorce over the past thirty years. I can also personally tell you about the lasting pain that endures for years after the split.
And even as jaded as I am, it was a beautiful moment. So I left her alone and let her enjoy it. Even if I knew my chance with her had just rotted on the vine.
I knew a bit of her history. She’d recently come off a bad breakup, and since I refused to further destroy her belief in men, it was final in my mind. She was lovely, but she wasn’t meant to be mine.
Camryn will never settle for one-night of fun with a guy who has zero interest in commitment. She’s the type of girl who will want it all, and since I’m not the man to give it to her, I wouldn’t allow myself the pleasure of taking her home that night. As far as I was concerned, the petite, curvy, and enchanting Camryn was forevermore considered off-limits.
Except here she is, blinking at me, looking hurt.