about to pop open my umbrella when my phone buzzes in my tote.
I gasp. My stomach flutters.
Xander just received my number.
Could he have texted me?
I wince. No! No, no, no, there’s no way that’s him.
More than likely, it’s the normal assortment of notifications I get. Let’s see, that would be:
Mum, who doesn’t understand messaging apps and still kicks it old school with phone texting.
Now, for everyone else, it’s the Connectivity Messaging App, so that would be:
Isla.
My brother, Leo.
My sister, Eva, when she can be faffed to return my messages, as she is busy partying at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland.
Or it could be a text telling me my pizza is on the way, which isn’t likely as I haven’t ordered a pizza since last week.
I decide to prove wrong that one, dim, odds-are-it’s-not, flickering, dumb thought that maybe just maybe it could be Xander and retrieve my phone. I draw a breath of air and flip it over.
The number is unknown, but there’s a message. I practically hold my breath as I read it:
Poppy, this is Xander. I had to get some laundry washed today, so I hope you don’t mind, but I took yours with me, so hopefully, any stains can be taken out before they set. I’ll let you know when they are ready to go.
Oh, my Lord. Is he having my clothes washed?
What madness is this?
His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, is washing my clothes?
Nobody would believe this if I even tried to repeat it, it’s so crazy.
I quickly text him back:
Xander, please, you’ve done so much for me already. Thank you for your kindness, but please do not worry about my clothes. I’ll come over to Liz’s place right now and pick them up.
I can see he’s typing a reply, and finally, it drops in:
Too late. I’ve just had them picked up from my place. I’ll let you know when they are ready, but I can assure you it will be today.
Oh, no! Is he making his people work on washing the mud out of my clothes? Because if there is one thing I’m sure of, the future king would have people. I reply:
I’m so sorry. Oh, I wish you wouldn’t have done this. I don’t want to put your staff out!
I can see he’s replying again, but before Christian and Clementine think I’m loitering on their property, I place my phone into my trench coat pocket and hurry back to the minivan.
By the time I’m situated back inside, Xander has replied.
My people? Who do you think I am, a royal? That’s a joke, by the way. My housekeeper has them, and it’s no problem. Just a bit of laundry, I assure you.
I quickly type back as the rain continues to fall against my windshield:
Please let me know how to pay you back. And thank you for your generosity. Please thank your housekeeper, too.
I wait for his reply, which drops in:
I can think of one way you can pay me back.
I freeze. Disappointment nearly suffocates me. Oh, no. Is this how Xander seduces women? He is a gentleman and kind and then goes in for the sexual move? I might not even have to be his type for a man like Xander the Philanderer.
And why does the payback have to be a sexual favour? Disappointment switches to anger like a light switch. Disappointment off, pissed off on. I want to tell him to sod off, but as he’s the brother of a client, I can’t.
Damn it. I can’t think of a good reply. Where is Isla when I need her? She’s quick-thinking. She’d know how to answer this with tact, while putting Xander the Philanderer in his place.
As I think, another message from Xander drops in:
I like chocolate, you know. Let your imagination run wild with that.
What? Chocolate? Like how? Chocolate body paint? So, dessert is on me? Literally? And use my imagination? So what, I’m painted in chocolate while handcuffed to his royal bedpost? I fume. Oh, how dare he think I’ll roll myself in chocolate and let him lick me for doing my laundry! Or because he’s the Prince of Wales? I’m so mad, I’m practically sputtering in my car.
While my brain is stuck in place, another text arrives:
Or banoffee pie. I love a good banoffee pie. Maybe you could make one for me?
I blink. Banoffee pie.
My neck grows red hot. Then my face, and the heat climbs all the way up to my scalp.