Determined to run away from her failed marriage, Cartier Davenport, finds herself escaping failure by secluding herself in a seaside village hidden away in the rolling hills of the English countryside.
Surrounded by her books, paints, and large over...
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n o a h
"My guy," I stand from my usual post at the end of the bar inside Gregory's pub.
Sumner, my best mate, arrives on the dot and lowers his head as he steps through the low beam archway to the only pub in this tiny village.
"Eh-oh," he greets and takes his normal spot beside me and signals to Pepper, the old as fuck bartender, for his pint glass. "And? You know I've been busting all day to know how it went?" Sumner doesn't hide his smile while Pepper drops the full pint on the glossed wood bar top and rests against his palms, clearly ready for me to spill the beans about the mysterious newcomer.
A laugh steals my breath, because fucking Hell. "She is fit. Fucking fiiiiiiitttt, mate."
Pepper, that is Vernon Colepepper, groans a smirk. He's very familiar with my rich luck of women and I'm sure he is reliving his youth through me and my raunchy tales of bedsheet romping.
Sumner expels a woosh of air and rubs his palms together, "Spill, bruv. What's she look like?"
Ms. Davenport plain and simple sucked the oxygen right from my lungs the second I saw her crash through the front door, but of course, I can't admit that. Not even to my best mate, I've got a reputation to uphold and becoming soft for some bird isn't on the agenda.
I'm fond of my Jack-the-lad reputation, keeps my 'romping' nice a tidy without any nuance of strings or cling-ons.
"Stunning. She looks expensive as Hell, but shite. Well worth the proper gawk."
Sumner drinks past the foam of his glass and gestures a hand requiring more details so I satisfy his mind's eye, "Brunette, petite, big tits, tight arse," I don't know how I managed not to drool down my chin when she showed me the property, house, and lake house today. Somehow, by the grace of God, I managed to keep it together.
Sumner's dark brows arch high and the dimples in his cheeks pop as he snorts and struggles to down his beer, "So a bit of you then, eh?"
A bit? More like the full fucking thing. Sum knows my type. "Jesus Christ," I throw a glance to Pepper, "I reckon she's a bit of everyone."
Well perhaps not Sumner. This lad might as well be celebate for how picky he is. Unlike me, who would nail anything that would bat an eyelash in my direction, Sum is a hard nut to crack--literally. I'm sure he hasn't busted a nut in over a year.
"What does she do?" Pepper asks filling John and Daniel's beers then circles around back to us.
"Not sure," looking the way she does, I'm sure she doesn't have to do a whole Hell of a lot, "whatever it is, it's the best I've ever got paid."
