So I think he meant both dinner and sex.

I’m free tonight. A fact Jennings pointed out because he’d taken the time to check the itinerary and confirm that there’s no group dinner planned for the tour this evening.

You know what rebounds are good for? Rebounding. They are not meant to make you fall for them before they go home. To a place that you couldn’t even drive to if you hypothetically wanted to see them again because an ocean separates your countries. International flights for booty calls seem really impractical.

Groaning, I pull back the duvet covering my bed so I can flop onto it. We arrived in Williamsburg about an hour ago but I’m just now walking into my room. The check-in process is fairly seamless as we’re pre-checked in at each hotel by the tour company, but I’m responsible for getting the keys from reception and then handing them off to each guest while they hover around me anxious to get up to their rooms. And then there’s the questions. Does this hotel have a pool? What time is breakfast? When does the bus leave in the morning? Where can I buy a magnet that says Williamsburg, Virginia? Where should I eat dinner tonight? Is it safe to walk? Is there free wifi in this hotel? Is there a Wal-Mart close by?

Who the heck comes to America to see a Wal-Mart?

In any case, I’m finally done doing Daisy’s job for the day and blissfully alone. Which gives me time to think.

Dinner seems like it involves feelings. My feelings.

I eye the ceiling for another minute then thumb my phone to life and place a call.

“Please tell me you’re calling to talk about your new British lover, because I cannot handle any more bitching about the tour,” Daisy says by way of hello.

“Hello to you too,” I deadpan.

“Hey, girl, hey,” she replies. “Is that better?” There’s a buzzing or some noise in the background I can’t identify.

“What is that noise? Is that your vibrator?”

“What? No, you freaking weirdo,” she says slowly, “it’s the microwave.”

“Sorry,” I tell her. “It sounded like a vibrator.”

“I’m happy to know you think I’m unable to stop vibing long enough to answer the phone.”

“Vibing? Is that a word?”

“It is now. So what’s up?”

“I’m, uh, calling to talk to you about my new British lover.”

“Did we really just go through that entire song and dance when I was correct to begin with?”

“Yes,” I admit. “The tour went well today though, thanks for asking.”

“Glad to hear it,” she says easily as the microwave beeps.

“I’m still never doing this again. Ever. Ever, ever,” I repeat because I’m not sure she’s taking me seriously. “So you’d better be back from whatever it is you’re doing in time for the next tour. I mean it.”

“Never, ever,” she agrees. “No more tours. Now tell me about your guy.”

“Tell me where you are. Because that was not your microwave. Yours beeps differently,” I add with a triumphant finger pointed at the ceiling. I know she can’t see it but it still feels good to have sleuthed that out.

“Mad detective work,” she quips. “I’m visiting a friend.”

“A friend? What friend?” That’s so not an answer. Everyone’s Daisy’s friend. A friend could be some guy she met twenty-seven minutes ago or a classmate from first grade.

“Fine. More of a frenemy,” she admits as she stuffs something into her mouth.

“A frenemy with benefits?” I question.

“It’s complicated,” she mutters around a mouthful of food and I smile. We’re definitely twins. “I’ll tell you about it later when it makes more sense,” she adds.

“So you’re hate-fucking some guy all week while I do your job? Is that what’s happening here?”

“You’re not exactly suffering, Vi. Now why don’t you tell me about Mr. Tall, Dark and British and stop harassing me?”

“Fine.” I sigh loudly and dramatically into the phone. “He’s nice,” I finally say after a long pause.

“He’s nice?” Daisy repeats, her tone making clear how she feels about that summary. “That’s why you’re calling me? Because he’s nice?”

“Sorta,” I admit. It does sound pretty stupid when I say it out loud.

“Weren’t you just bragging to me about how great the sex is? Like, the last time I talked to you which was all of six hours ago? What the hell happened in the last six hours?”

“I was not bragging!”

“You so were,” she replies, unfazed. “Honestly, I was proud of you.”

“Oh. Well, thank you. I think.”

“You’re welcome. So what’s the problem? Is he boring?”

“Erm…” I can see where this is confusing. “No, he’s not boring. Not at all. He makes me laugh.”

“Are you bipolar or something? Is that hereditary? I can’t deal with this right now,” she mutters and I hear the clang of dinnerware as she sets down whatever she’s eating. “So he’s hot, he’s nice and he makes you laugh. Is he dumb? Is that the problem? Sometimes the pretty ones aren’t the brightest. I know it’s not politically correct to say so, but it is what it is. But it’s just a week, it’s not like you’re having his baby, so just let it go and have fun.”

“I like him,” I blurt out. “Okay? The problem is I like him.”

“Oh.” Daisy’s quiet for a moment while she takes that in. “And you’re worried you’re going to fall in love with him and have dumb children? I just saw this little monster of a child at Target and he was screaming his head off asking for glue. Glue! What kind of kid asks for glue? I suspect—”

“Daisy.” I cut her off mid-sentence. “He’s not dumb. Can you focus, please? He’s not dumb and we’re not having children.”

“You never know,” she huffs. “Shit happens.”

“Focus,” I repeat.

“Okay, okay. So what exactly is the problem? He’s hot. Good in bed. Smart. Nice. Makes you laugh and you like him. This is you living your best life.”

“He asked me to have dinner with him.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a huge problem. Wear my navy dress. The one with the lace hem. I know I packed it.”

“It’s just…” I start and stop, trying to put what I’m feeling into words. “It’s just that he was supposed to be a one-night stand, not make me fall for him.”

“Take it from me, a lot of things happen that aren’t supposed to.”

“Was that meant to be reassuring?”

“Listen to me, Vi, I’ve dated a lot of guys, most of them assholes.”

This is true.

“So when life hands you a good one, grab him.”

She’s got a point.

“And then get him microchipped so you always know where he is.”

“Daisy,” I groan.

“Violet.” Her voice softens. “None of this is a problem, trust me. This is the fun stuff. Go to dinner. Have fun. Screw his brains out. You’ll figure the rest out later. Or he’ll annoy the shit out of you before the week is over and the rest won’t matter.”

“Sage advice,” I say, but I’m smiling. I can always count on her to call it like it is.

“I know,” she agrees. “Someone should hire me to write greeting cards.”

“They should.”

“Remember, sometimes the best things in life are unplanned.”

“Just like twins. I love you. You’re my cupcake.”

“Love you too, sprinkles. Now go have fun. And wear the navy dress!”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Violet

I hang up with Daisy and jump into the shower because if I’m going on a date I might as well primp. I think about what Daisy said as I towel-dry. She’s got some valid points. I’ve planned my entire life and where did it get me? Heartbroken and homeless, that’s where.

Meanwhile Daisy flies by the seat of her pants and always manages to land on her feet. More than land on her feet, really. She’s totally got her shit together. Dumping her job on me to meet up with some guy for a hate-fuck not withstanding.

The call today with the recruiter was a total bust—I’d been hoping she was calling with an opportunity. Turns out she was only calling to check if I’m certified in Revit. I’m not. My experience is entirely with AutoCAD design, which is fine because Revit is for dweebs who do nothing but yell at people when they use the wrong title block.

But it sucked getting my hopes up. For the hour or so until I was able to call the recruiter back hope swirled around in my stomach—hope that this could be the lead I’ve been waiting for. I even had a little fantasy that the job would require overseas trips to London and Jennings would invite me over to his place and we’d order takeout and have sex. Obviously that was a really specific and unlikely fantasy but fantasies are by definition improbable.