Page 3 of Improper Proposal
“I don’t plan on having children anytime—”
“Later it is, then.”
Or never. But I don’t say that when I see the wistfulness on his face. Dammit, maybe I should get out of here right now. I open my mouth, but the second I do, the front door opens, and I’m swamped by a mob who can only be George’s large—and when I say large, I mean enormous—family.
Do they all live under one roof?
“Looks like this young lady is George’s surprise,” Gramps says.
I stand as still as a stealth soldier while a dozen people fuss about, looking me over and chatting endlessly in British accents that I have a hard time deciphering since they all speak at once. Any second now, one of them will realize I’m not the surprise George was talking about and call me out. Then again, maybe I am.
God, I am so confused.
I’m passed from one person to the other, air evacuating my lungs as each gives me a huge bear hug and a kiss on each cheek. It’s kind of sweet, really.
I mean nauseating.
Charles introduces me and explains he found me at the end of the long driveway.
“Harper, we had no idea George had such a lovely surprise for us today, or that you would still come along even after his delay,” a middle-aged woman with big blue eyes and blond hair says excitedly. She touches my hair and pushes it from my shoulder like she’s trying to get a better look at my features. “So pretty.”
A girl around my age presses her hands to her heart and spins around. “Will you and George be getting married?”
“I…uh…no.”
“Bronwyn,” the middle-aged woman exclaims. “Harper just got here. Let her breathe for a moment.”
Bronwyn clasps her hands together. “Well, I think secretly surprising us with his girlfriend is all rather romantic.”
“I’m not his girlfriend,” I say quickly.
The girl takes my hand in hers. “Oh, whatever it is you call it in America, then. I’m Bronwyn, George’s youngest sister, by the way.”
Okay, this is just getting weirder and weirder. George said he had a surprise for them all today. I show up, and there is talk of girlfriends and marriage. I glance around the vast countryside. Am I being punked? I’m not sure, but I need to talk to my friends. As I take in the rolling hills, I pray the mountainous terrain doesn’t interfere with cell phone reception, because I need to find out what’s going on.
“Come in, come in,” the middle-aged woman with the kind eyes and warm smile says.
I stand still and sort through my option. I can either tell them I don’t think I’m George’s surprise—although I’m beginning to believe I am—or go along with it for a little bit and enjoy this welcoming family and countryside and wait for George to return. Only problem is I’m not seeing epic sex in this scenario. As I mull that over, a car door slams. We all turn, and my breath stalls when a tall, drop-dead gorgeous man climbs from a BMW. Could this be George, returning early after all? I hope it is—because, holy hell, he is super hot.
My heart misses a beat as I take in the man smoothing a hand through thick, dark hair. Cripes, how come there are no hot guys like him back home? He lengthens his stride as he makes his way toward us. His gaze locks with mine then slides lower. Goose bumps break out on my body from his visual caress, and in turn I look him over.
Hello, Mr. Gorgeous.
An expensive suit jacket—one that must have been tailor-made to fit his hard body—showcases broad shoulders then narrows to a trim waist. His dress pants accentuate long legs and muscular thighs I can’t help but envision holding me down. Good God! While the others are all dressed in casual clothes, this guy looks like he just came from a business meeting or stepped straight off the pages of GQ. After a leisurely inspection, my eyes travel back to his handsome face. As I take in his clean-shaven jaw, the corners of his mouth twitch, like he knows what’s going through my dirty mind.
The woman I assume is George’s mother takes my hand in hers and squeezes to collect my attention. I turn back to her, and a bubble of warmth cocoons me as she offers me a warm smile and says, “I’m Claire, George’s mom. I can’t believe in all the commotion I forgot to tell you that.” She does a
round of introductions, giving me the names of her husband, George’s brothers, sisters, cousins, and grandparents.
She points to the man coming our way. “And that’s Will, another of George’s cousins. His mom, June, is my sister. She married an American and moved to the U.S. ages ago.”
I’m trying to take it all in, but my head is spinning so fast, no way will I be able to remember anyone, except, perhaps, for the hot cousin who has my thighs quivering like a leaf in a windstorm. I once read that description in a book and thought it sounded stupid. I mean come on, do thighs really quiver? Up until this moment, I would have said no.
As everyone gives me another warm welcome, it touches me in places I’ve long ago closed off. With or without George here, I can’t let myself get close to this loving family. My chest tightens, and I take a step back, about to tell them that since George hasn’t made it back, I should probably go, but my words turn into a yelp when my stupid high heel slips off the top step. Luckily for me, Mr. Gorgeous, aka Will, is there to catch me before I tumble to the ground with an undignified thud and follow it up with a round of curses that would put any drunken sailor to shame—because that’s how I roll. I’m pretty sure any man who came from a sweet family like this wouldn’t choose a pessimistic, passive-aggressive, emotionally detached lawyer whose motto is: if it can go wrong, it will.
I turn to face Will, and he has a devious grin on his face. I want to thank him, but when he leans into me, instead of speaking, I put my hand on his hard chest and breathe in his scent. A hot jolt runs through my body, hitting every erogenous zone along the way. I’m not sure what brand of cologne he’s wearing. If I had to guess, I’d say it was called Let’s Do Dirty Things Together.
One whiff of him and my mind is off on an erotic journey. Heat zings through my body at lightning speed, awakening the part of me that has been dormant for too long. That’s right, dormant, shut off, closed for business. That’s what happens when you work fifteen hours a day to prove you are senior partner material. I was so counting on breaking my dry spell on this trip. If I wasn’t a grown-up, I’d stomp my heels and throw a fit of disappointment.
