Page 1 of Improper Proposal
Chapter One
Harper
And so it begins…or not.
The excitement bubbling up inside me quickly morphs into panic as I watch the cabbie peel away, dust kicking up behind his wheels like a farewell wave—a goddamn middle-finger salute.
“Come back,” I yell the second I realize I’m not where I’m supposed to be.
I’m at the wrong freaking castle!
Despite the cool mountain air, I break into an anxious sweat. Jesus Christ—its nearing dusk and I’m lost in the middle of Northern England, my phone battery about to die. Not that I could call anyone for help. I’m on the other side of the Atlantic—stranded and abandoned—a million miles away from anyone who could possibly come to my rescue. Good Lord, this is so not one of my better moments.
I take in the landscape again and try to formulate my next course of action.
I tap my chin. I’m a smart girl, a problem-solving junior partner at Pratt and Winfrey Law Firm back in New York. It’s possible I’m lost, yes, but a logical woman such as myself would analyze the situation and figure out her next course of action. So why the hell am I freaking out?
Because a trip across the pond for epic sex is so out of my element.
Pull it together, Harper. Get on with this vacation.
The truth is, this whole adventure was my idea. Two years ago, during a New Year’s Eve party, I was the one who suggested we all put our names in a hat and draw one, each girl sponsoring an epic, twenty-fifth birthday vacation for whichever friend they’d picked. I’ve been waiting thirty-three long months—yes, I’ve been counting—for a dossier to arrive on my doorsteps, and I am more than ready to get on with it—and the hot sex. If only I hadn’t screwed up the addresses.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
As I berate myself, a dog barks in the distance. I go still, my eyes darting over the countryside as the autumn sun dips below the mountains, the last fingers of bruised light clawing at the road before me. My breath comes a little quicker, the pulse at the base of my throat tapping double time as the full moon rides the dark sky, providing sufficient light to see down the curvy stretch of road in front of me. Except I’m too afraid to look. Who knows what lurks in the darkness beyond the moonlight. I gulp air and try to pull myself together. While I’m not normally afraid to be alone in the dark, I am very familiar with the movie American Werewolf in London. That scared the living hell out of me. Another dog howls, and I pull my suitcase to my chest.
Alrighty, then. I suck in the crisp evening air as I take one step forward but stop when an elderly man emerges from a long, winding driveway, his scenic castle rising up like a phoenix behind him. I smile at the man as he pulls a stack of envelopes from a mailbox, a cute, miniature version of his home in the distance.
“Good evening,” he says, and eyes me like I could very well shift into one of those wolves I hear howling in the distance. Silver brows knit together as he gives me a once-over, like I fit here in England’s countryside about as much as that chocolate factory belongs next door to my health club—the real reason I’ve gained a few pounds. I mean come on, who puts a chocolate warehouse next to a gym?
Smart people, that’s who.
“Good evening,” I respond. I turn the embossed invitation over in my hand, and I’m about to ask him how far it is to the address written in gold letters when his eyes go wide and his cane hits the ground with a thump—in much the same way my heart just hit the pit of my stomach.
Thumpity-thump.
“What?” I ask and glance over my shoulder, my nerves jumping like a billy goat amped up on Red Bull. With fear firing through my veins, I take a hurried step toward the man, expecting a wolf to emerge from the gloom behind me.
“You…you’re a woman.”
His strange observation takes me by surprise. It’s not like I’ve ever been mistaken for a man before. “That’s right,” I say, trying not to sound as breathless as I feel as my heart gallops in my chest.
