The bastard ditched me.
“I suppose so,” I say as I turn to face them once more, my gaze locked on the elderly gentleman. “And you are?”
“Oh! How very rude of me,” the woman says, her cheeks flushing a deep pink. “Mr. Whittaker, this is my father, the Earl of Harwood.”
He’s a freaking earl? I have no idea how to respond to this. And if her dad is an earl, what does that make her?
Talk about high and mighty. This girl is too much for me.
Too freaking much.
The giant American football player appears at a loss for words—and social etiquette. Not that I expect him to know how to respond to the introduction of an earl. Thankfully, Father is a casual sort who can’t be bothered with too much protocol.
Though he does enjoy a little bit of propriety, what he’s due considering his position, if we’re being completely honest.
“Nice to meet you,” the footballer finally says, thrusting his giant hand toward my father once again. “Uh…”
“Lord Harwood,” I whisper loudly, punctuated with a cheeky grin, as I’m trying to put him at ease.
“Lord Harwood,” he repeats, shaking Dad’s hand. For the second time.
“You’re a strong sort,” Dad says with a wince as he withdraws his hand. “I bet you’re a terror on the field.”
“Just doing my job,” Mr. Whittaker says. “Sir. My lord.”
I almost laugh, but I keep myself in check. His over-polite ways are cute. He’s cute.
Attractive.
Sexy.
Not my type at all.
They talk for a few minutes about football, which I find dreadfully boring. I’m not a fan of American football. The players are all so big, bulked up by the gear they wear, and it’s such a violent sport.
Honestly? I’m not into sports at all. The only reason I accompanied my father to this event is because Mother’s ill and didn’t feel like going out this evening. She called upon me and guilted me into going, using words like, “duty,” and “family.”
Mom’s got the guilt thing down pat.
“Oh look! There’s Alford. I need to go speak with him,” Dad says, his focus on an old friend across the room, and he’s gone within seconds.
Leaving me alone with the hulking American.
“He can move pretty fast when he wants,” he says, amusement lacing his deep voice, his lips curled into the faintest smile.
I contemplate him, my gaze raking over him quick like, before he catches me ogling him. He’s incredibly tall, I’d guess well over six foot, and he’s impossibly broad. Those shoulders look like they could barrel through a brick wall and he’d come away untouched.
I’m not even going to contemplate his face. Suffice it to say, he’s handsome.
Terribly handsome.
“Yes, I suppose he can,” I say, hating how nervous I sound. How nervous I feel. I’m suddenly jittery, like I just downed three cups of coffee, and my hands tend to flutter around when I get this way.
And why am I behaving like this anyway? It’s not like we’re alone. We’re surrounded by at least one hundred people, maybe more, and the noise level is almost deafening.
Yet it feels like we’re alone. Just the two of us facing each other, unsure of what to say next.
“You never did tell me your name,” he says, breaking the ice.