The Broody Brit for Christmas (Holiday Springs #1) - M.J. Fields Page 0,17
son.
I shouldn’t be attracted to her; she bears an uncanny resemblance to my late wife.
I shouldn’t want to taste her lips; she’s a resident of a town whose dating pool I’d sworn I wouldn’t even dip a toe in.
I shouldn’t want to bury myself inside her, but I most definitely want to. Hell, I’ve passed the better part of two weeks thinking of doing just that.
“Two-seven-nine-seven Ridge Road West,” Jenny informs me again. “Did I already say two-seven-nine-seven Ridge Road West?”
“Yes,” I reply dryly, counting down the minutes to reach the destination.
Nikki, who is safely tucked in the back seat snorts out a laugh, which is seemingly contagious because the two of them begin laughing hysterically.
When their laughter simmers, another onset seems to boil up in Jenny’s throat, and it starts all over again.
Had I known I’d have to deal with this, I’d have spent the money to put them in a cab, and the nearest is thirty miles away this time of year. The locals don’t start their Uber-ing or Lyft-ing until the Holiday festival begins.
“By chance, do you know David Beckham?” Jenny asks, her horrible impression of a British accent popping in and out on occasion.
“Yes. I also know John, Paul, George, and Ringo. I share tea with the queen whenever I am in London, and Harry Potter is a close personal friend of mine. We attended Hogwarts together.”
Nikki snort laughs again, and Jenny looks back. “Who the hell are John, Paul, George, and.” She stops just before mentioning Ringo. Apparently, a gust of air has blown the drunken cobwebs from her brain, giving her a bit of clarity. “The Beatles! Hey, Jude, don’t make me mad...” she mangles the words, singing off tune, and I cringe.
They fall into another fit of laughter, and all I can do is keep my eyes focused forward because the side of the road is tempting me to pull over and boot them both out, well, one, and if I’m honest with myself, it’s purely for selfish reasons.
Jenny leans toward me. “I’ve set her up on four dates. None gave her the bent over like Beckham feel if you know what I mean.”
“Jenny, so help me God, I will Sharpie your face when you pass out if you don’t stop.” Nikki laughs.
For some reason I can’t explain, I feel quite happy with the fact that there is no man in the picture. “Some men have it. Others don’t.”
“Please don’t encourage her,” Nikki nearly begs from behind me.
I ignore her, wanting to know more about these dates. “Tell me about the men Nikki has yet to be satisfied with.”
“The house is up here,” Nikki says before Jenny has a chance to answer.
“Is not.” Jenny laughs. “Don’t try to dodge this discussion, picky Nikki.”
“Picky Nikki?” Nikki huffs.
“So damn picky. They were some of Holiday Springs’ finest.”
“Lawyer Larry, Handyman Hank, Policeman Paul, and Franky the freaky fireman? That’s Holiday Springs’ finest?” Nikki’s voice squeaks.
“Oh, they’re not that bad. They all own houses and have jobs. None are self-absorbed little princes of Manhattan.” Jenny shrugs. “Surely one of them would be a decent rebound fuck.”
“Larry picks his nose, Hank got too handsy, Paul asked me if I’d let him cuff me, and you don’t even want to know why I call Franky a freak.”
“Ricky whateverhisname is, is single.” Jenny snorts out a laugh.
“And I’m going to assume Reverend Ricky is still a virgin, therefore making him a less than decent lay.” She slaps her hands over her mouth. “And now I’m going to hell because of you.”
Then the laughter begins again.
But I’m not laughing, not even mildly amused. I’m actually stewing just thinking about her, Nikki, considering any of them as a bedmate.
Pulling into the paved drive leading to the two-story white colonial at two-seven-nine-seven Ridge Road West, the porch light flips on, and then the front door swings open, and Bobby, Jenny’s husband who works ski patrol steps out.
“If he weren’t so damn delicious to look at, I’d be pissed he called me to come home and take care of a sick kid,” Jenny says as she attempts to open the door.
Lucky for her, Bobby opens it for her, putting an end to his wife’s embarrassment, well, what should be embarrassing to her, yet I’m quite sure it isn’t one bit.
One look at her, and he’s rolling his eyes, trying not to smile as he holds out his hand. “Classic Jenny and Nikki shit right here. How are ya, Raff?”