One minute I’m minding my own business at a party and the next I meet this woman who blows my mind. She’s beautiful. Smart. Funny. A little shy. I’m immediately drawn to her. We make an instant connection.
The problem?
Lady Susanna Sumner lives in London.
I live in California
I play professional football.
She works part-time at an art gallery and lives off her family’s money.
Her family is nobility. I come from a single mom who always scraped to get by.
Susanna and I should have nothing in common. But when we’re together, it’s…
Electric.
What are we supposed to do? Can we really make this work? I can’t give up my career. And I can’t ask her to move to California for me. All I know is, I want her in my life.
Desperately.
I’m surrounded by hundreds of uppity British people. Just listening to their heavily accented voices is making me feel stupid. Like some of them I can’t even understand. And then there’s the fact that most of them are looking at me like I’m some sort of alien from another planet. I can’t help it if I’m twice their size. Besides, they all look skinny. Downright frail.
“I feel like a dumbass,” I mutter, shaking my head.
My close friend Jordan Tuttle laughs. “Why do you say that?”
It’s Saturday night and we’re in London, at a welcoming party for our team held at a fancy restaurant. We play for the San Francisco 49ers and we’re in an exhibition game tomorrow at Wembley Stadium, which is some dream-come-true type shit right there. A social group—I don’t remember the name, but it’s led by a dude who I think is a duke or whatever—decided to throw us a party in celebration of tomorrow’s game. I came for the free food and booze.
But the food isn’t that great—a bunch of crappy appetizers that don’t look particularly appetizing and taste like nothing. The only booze available is white wine, and I’m more of a beer drinker or a shot taker.
“I don’t fit in here,” I say to Tuttle, our quarterback, though he’s not really paying attention to me. No, he’s watching his girl Amanda, who flew to London to be with him this weekend, and who is currently standing on the other side of the room. They were a couple in high school during our senior year—we all went to the same school, so I know Amanda pretty well. Now they’re trying to get back together and I’m all for it.
I’m even a little jealous of it.
“None of us fit in here,” Tuttle says, never taking his gaze off Amanda. “We’re all Americans.”
“Yeah, but you got this high society shit down,” I tell him. He sends me a questioning look, and I continue, “It’s true. Your rich family is all high and mighty.”
I may have money now, but I will never have Tuttle’s wealth.
He actually snorts. “We’re not high and mighty. Don’t forget my dad is a complete asshole.”
“Who makes a lot of money, and that makes him high and mighty,” I remind him.
“Just because someone is worth a lot of money doesn’t mean they have class.” Tuttle finally glances over at me. “And you make a lot of money, so doesn’t that make you high and mighty by your definition?”
Sometimes I hate that Tuttle is too smart for my own good. The guy is constantly showing me up. Not that it’s difficult—he’s definitely smarter than me. He always has been, and I’ve accepted that fact.
“Fine, whatever.” I wave a hand and take a step closer to him, lowering my voice. “It’s different here. These people, you just look at them and you can tell they’re all a bunch of snobs.”
“You really think so?” Jordan’s voice is full of doubt.
“Oh, I know so. I mean, listen to them.” I raise my voice, giving it a shrill edge, trying to imitate one of the women I overheard earlier. “Oh my, just look at those American football players! They’re so disgustingly large and—quite beastly.’” I roll my eyes. “I heard a lady actually say that a few minutes ago.”
“Beastly?” Tuttle raises an eyebrow. “I kind of like it.”
“You shouldn’t.” I am broad. And I can be menacing, especially out on the field. I know this. But beastly? “It’s a total insult.”
“Hmm, I’m not so sure about that. I happen to quite like beastly men,” says a sweet, soft voice from behind me.
Oh. Shit.
Panic freezes me, my gaze meeting Tuttle’s. His eyebrows are so far up they’re practically in his hairline, and his lips are curved into a smirk. The look on his face says busted.
The feeling in my gut says busted too.
Clearing my throat, I slowly turn, pasting on a smile that immediately fades once I lock eyes on the petite woman standing in front of me. Our gazes meet, her eyes bright and full of mischief, and I’m immediately assailed with a multitude of things, all of them coming at me at a rapid-fire pace. Here’s what I can remember.
She’s blonde.