Sure Thing Read online

  Sure Thing

  Jana Aston

  Sure Thing

  Copyright © 2017 by Jana Aston

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Edited by RJ Locksley

  Cover Design by Kari March

  Cover Photo by Sara Eirew

  Formatting by Erik Gevers

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Sutton Travel Name Badge

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Social Media

  Also by Jana Aston

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Violet

  I can do this.

  Daisy does it. She does it all the time. I mean, I don’t want to insinuate that my sister is the slutty one, but she’s the slutty one.

  I flick my eyes back across the hotel bar and hold the stranger’s gaze. Three seconds. For three long agonizing seconds I lock eyes with him, then I smile and glance away. I got this tip from a women’s magazine. The article was titled something like ‘How to Snag Any Man You Want in Twenty Minutes or Less.’ The three-second gaze and smile was tip number two. Tip number three is holding his gaze while licking my lips. I think that’s beyond my capabilities though. That’s mid-level seduction stuff and I’m definitely a beginner.

  Tip number one was a glance while I touched my hair. So dumb.

  I did it anyway.

  Desperate times and all that.

  But if tip number two fails I’m heading back to my room. Alone. Wait, I wonder if those tips were meant to be used simultaneously? Like, was I supposed to hold his gaze for three seconds, smile and touch my hair at the same time? I might have fucked this up. Which, whatever. I mean, how could this possibly work? As if all it would take to get a hot stranger to have sex with me is three seconds of eye contact across a hotel bar? How does that even work?

  Daisy would know.

  Sometimes I hate the way she always knows, as if she’s lived a lot longer than I have when she most certainly has not.

  I sigh as I eye the maraschino cherry sunk in the last half-inch of my drink. I wonder if I tip the glass back if I can get to it, or if it’ll just cling to the bottom and make me feel like an idiot.

  Idiot, I decide.

  I should get the check and go. I have a big week ahead of me. A great, big, almost-certain-to-be-disastrous week. I should be getting a good night’s sleep, not practicing seduction techniques I picked up from an old magazine I found under my sister’s couch. But as I lift my head to ask for the check a fresh drink is placed in front of me.

  “From the guy in the blue shirt,” the bartender tells me with a look back in his direction. She smiles at me and raises her brow in approval before bouncing off to someone calling for a refill.

  Holy shit, that worked? The three-second gaze and smile actually worked? My eyes widen and I peek across the bar at the man and then down to the drink. What the hell was I thinking? What am I supposed to do now? I really should have read the rest of that article.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  I look up and he’s standing beside my seat, a drink in his hand that he uses to signal towards the empty seat beside me. And what was that? Did I detect an accent? I think I did, but I can’t be that lucky. I swallow my nerves and quickly run my eyes over him. Tall. Fit. Oxford shirt untucked, paired with a worn pair of jeans. Leather loafers on his feet and the hint of end-of-day scruff on his jaw. Thick, neatly cut, well-styled dark hair and expressive brown eyes watching me with interest.

  “I hope the drink is to your satisfaction.” He dips his head towards my beverage. “I asked the bartender to refresh you, but if you wanted something different…” He trails off with a small frown at my glass.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  Accent confirmed. I have just hit the holy grail of potential one-night stands.

  “You’re British,” I say, fighting the grin from my face.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he replies and sets his own drink on the bar top while resting on the stool beside me, his long legs bent slightly at the knees in order for his feet to rest on the floor. “Unless you have a problem with my country?” he inquires, brow raised and a small smile on his lips.

  Do you know what’s great about British men?

  Everything.

  I mean, I’ve never met one before this and they’re likely no different than American men, but the accent. It’s everything, right? You can say it’s a cliché or whatever, but come on. It’s panty-meltingly good. I know he’s speaking the same language but the words just sound so much better falling from his lips.

  “I’m Jennings,” he says, extending a hand, and I almost laugh. Jennings? It’s obviously fake. This guy is too old to have a trendy millennial name like Jennings. Also, it sounds British for ‘I’m giving you a fake name.’ But fine, I’m game.

  “Rose,” I tell him and slip my hand into his. His hand engulfs mine and he’s not quick to withdraw, instead running his thumb gently over the back of my hand. I like the feeling a lot, the texture and warmth of his skin creating an immediate spark of interest in touching a whole lot more of him.

  “Rose,” he repeats, pausing and tilting his head a fraction as if he doesn’t believe me. He shouldn’t, it’s not my name. But it’s close enough and he didn’t give me his real name, so it’s all he’s getting. I’m not supposed to be here right now anyway, so Rose it is.

  “Rose,” I confirm. “And no, I don’t have any issues with your country.” I smile and linger on his face for a moment. I’m actually a bit of an Anglophile, truth be told. When Will and Kate got married I woke up early to watch the wedding live and I’ve binge-watched all six seasons of Downton Abbey. Twice. And while I’ve never had afternoon tea I’m positive it’d be just my thing. “Thank you for the drink,” I add, picking my glass up.

  “You’re welcome. What exactly is it that you’re drinking?” he asks, eyeing my glass again as he takes a sip from his own. I’d guess he’s drinking bourbon, the amber liquid swaying in his glass over a single ice cub
e. It looks expensive, if I could judge the cost of his drink based on seeing an inch of it swirling in a glass. It must be the British accent that makes him seem posh inside of a nondescript Sheraton by the airport.

  “A champagne cocktail,” I reply with a blush. It’s a stupid drink, but I like it.

  “Ahh,” he replies, and even that half a word sounds better in his accent. “Is that a popular drink in this country?”

  It’s not.

  But wait, he doesn’t know that, does he?

  “Very.” I nod. Wow. Who knew I was such a great liar? This week might be easier than I thought. “So what brings you to Washington?” I ask, changing the subject. I run my fingertip around the rim of my glass and wonder if I can really do this. It’s a great opportunity though, isn’t it? He’s perfect, appears interested and I’ll never see him again. If I’m going to get back on the horse I couldn’t ask for a better scenario. Or a better horse. Like a totally-out-of-my-league thoroughbred kind of horse I’d most definitely like to ride.

  “Business,” he replies. “You?”

  “Same,” I reply quickly and wave the question off with my hand. “Dull,” I add with a smile and a roll of my eyes.

  “It was dull, yes,” he says in agreement, his gaze direct before dropping his eyes to my lips.

  I feel a flush moving down my neck and I swallow.

  “So you’re in town for a fortnight or something?”

  “Have you any idea what a fortnight is, Rose?” He laughs and takes a sip from his glass as he watches me.

  “Um, four nights?” I guess. I don’t actually have a clue what a fortnight is but I like the way it sounds and I’ve never had the opportunity to use it in conversation.

  “A fortnight is two weeks, and no, I won’t be in America quite that long.”

  Perfect.

  I smile and drop my eyes to look for a ring. I may be willing to use him to get my groove back, but I’m not willing to enable a cheater.

  “And what about you, Rose? Where is home for you when you’re not staying at this hotel?”

  Sore subject. “Here and there.” My sister’s couch, but I don’t say that. I’m way too old to be in between apartments. And jobs. So I definitely don’t tell him any of that. Instead I smile before taking a large gulp of my drink. This week is all about bluffing anyway.

  “Here and there?” he questions with a raised brow and tilt of his head. Great. He probably thinks I’m not stable enough for a one-night stand. I need to redirect this conversation.

  “Where did you say you lived?” I ask. “London?” I add as a guess because, yes, my geography skills are so stellar that London is the only city in England that I can come up with quickly.

  “London, yes,” he agrees while watching me. “In Mayfair. Hertford Street,” he adds. I’m fairly certain he’s being specific to make a point about me being so vague. Too bad.

  “Sounds nice.”

  “Does it?” He smiles at me like I’m amusing him. I take another sip of my drink and eye the cherry at the bottom of my glass. The last one got away from me when the waitress replaced my drink with the one Jennings sent.

  “I like your shirt,” I offer. Subject change, take two. “Is it bespoke?”

  “Shall I ask if you know what ‘bespoke’ means or is it just another British term you’ve been anxious to use?” He shakes his head this time when he laughs.

  “It means fancy?” I ask, because he’s correct. I don’t know what that word means either.

  “It means custom-made. And no”—he pauses as he glances down at his shirt—”this shirt is not bespoke.” The pause makes me wonder if his other shirts are custom. He does seem a little fancy, but who has custom dress shirts made? No one I know, that’s for sure.

  I’m distracted when a gaggle of what appears to be a traveling soccer team of pre-teens moves through the lobby towards the elevators. Excited calls about who is rooming with who and snippets about meeting at the hotel pool echo through the lobby as they pass.

  “It’s getting kind of loud in here,” I say, glancing towards the lobby entrance where the kids have already passed. It’s not, not really. But seriously, how do I move this from drinks to sex? How?

  “Hmm,” he murmurs, his eyes on me.

  “Do you want to go somewhere a little quieter?” I suggest.

  He pauses, glass halfway to his lips, and looks at me in surprise. I must really suck at this. Is my sister right? Ugh. It pains me to even think it. Lord help me if I ever have to admit it out loud. My sister is rarely right, but she might be this time. I might be incapable of pulling this off.

  “Cutting right to the chase, are we?” he questions, a small smirk on his lips. “I had you pegged for another two rounds of hemming and hawing before you were up for it.”

  Up for it? Does that mean sex? I eye the cherry in my glass again then force myself to look him directly in the eyes. I hold his gaze for three seconds before I speak. It worked the first time, right?

  “Look, I’m a sure thing,” I tell him with a small shrug while shifting my eyes away then back.

  “Are you?” The amusement on his face is clear.

  No. I’m not a sure thing. I’ve never been a sure thing. But I’ve never been Rose before either, so to hell with it—tonight I am.

  “Yup,” I say with more confidence than I feel.

  “Hmm,” he says again and so help me, his murmur is the sexiest freaking thing ever. He tilts my glass and reaches inside with a single long finger, pulling the cherry to the rim. Extracting it, he holds it to my lips and I open my mouth and take it from him, my tongue sliding under his fingers as I pull the sweetened fruit from his grip. I roll it across my tongue and look into his eyes, wondering what’s next.

  “Well, let’s go then, shall we?”

  Oh, shit. I swallow the cherry and worry for a second that it’s going to stick in my throat and I’ll choke. Did I really just tell a complete stranger I’m a sure thing?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jennings

  She’s lying, this girl. I’m not sure what she’s lying about—her name for starters, who knows what else. Not that it matters. I don’t really give a toss, do I? She’s a distraction, nothing more, a very welcome and unexpected distraction before the beginning of a dull but hopefully informative week.

  A sure thing, she said. I stifle a chuckle as I hit the lift call button and add that to her list of lies. I sent her the drink after I caught her looking at me in the bar but I didn’t expect it to lead anywhere. I expected, based on her shy smiles, that she was interested enough to allow me to sit with her. Pass an hour or two in conversation before she demurely excused herself with talk of an early morning. When she sucked in a breath and made the comment about moving to a quieter location, she surprised me. When I tilted my head in question and she blurted out, “I’m a sure thing”—well, fuck me.

  “Rose,” I say as the lift doors open. There’s no response, her head buried in her phone as she attempts to discreetly tap out a text. If I had to guess I’d say she’s sending a safety check to a friend. Ensuring her phone GPS is on. She likely snapped a photo of me when I wasn’t paying attention and sent that too.

  She’s cute.

  “Rose,” I repeat while laying a hand on her arm. She looks momentarily confused, a flash so brief I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t been looking for it. She’s definitely not called Rose.

  She smiles and precedes me into the lift as I wonder what brought her here, to this hotel and to this moment. Boredom? A bad breakup? Trying to prove to herself that she’s desirable?

  I’m happy to help with that.

  But I can’t call her Rose. When she remembers this night it shouldn’t be with another woman’s name on my lips. And she will remember this night.

  The lift doors close and I turn to her. She’s wearing a short-sleeve shirt, her breasts forming an exquisite curve under the material. I run the tip of my finger down her bare
arm and watch her nipples harden as her eyes move to mine, then to the lift control panel and back again.

  “Are you suggesting we have sex in this elevator? Because if you’re fast enough to come before those doors open again, I’m not actually interested.” Her brow creases and her face is a mixture of regret and arousal. This time I do laugh as I reach past her and hit the button for three.

  “No, love. I wasn’t suggesting a romp in the lift,” I assure her and move closer without touching her. Her pupils widen and her chest rises as she sucks in a breath and tilts her head back to meet my gaze. She’s wearing a knee-length skirt and heeled sandals on her feet. The skirt flows and would easily accommodate the spread of her legs if I were to boost her off her feet and wrap them around my hips. It’s a tempting thought, and she’s slight enough that she’d be easy to pick up and fuck against a wall. But no, that’s not in my plans for her tonight. I can definitely spare her more than a few minutes of my time.

  The floor beneath us jolts the slightest bit, signaling the lift doors are about to open. I keep my eyes on hers as the doors slide and then lean past her to place a hand against the open lift door, blocking it from closing. “After you,” I tell her, my voice low. She pivots and exits, stopping as her eyes rest on the opposite wall where an arrow points in one direction for rooms three hundred to three-nineteen and another for rooms three-twenty to three-forty. She pauses and I wonder if this just became too real for her. I wonder if she’ll back out.

  I take her hand and lead her to the right. She follows, her hand soft in mine, her heeled footsteps near silent on the hotel carpet. I wave the keycard to my room in front of the electronic lock and push the door open when the light flashes green, stretching my arm out and holding it open for her. She drops my hand and walks into the room and I note how lovely her hair is. Long tumbling waves of rich chestnut brown or possibly black resting against her back. It will look even better on my pillow.

  She stops a few feet into the room and looks back at me over her shoulder as the door snaps shut behind me. Seeing her here in my room, I feel a moment of regret. Because while I know nothing about her, I know she deserves more than this hotel. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. It’s perfectly nice, in a business-class, family vacation sort of way. But I’d prefer if I had her in a five-star with a view of the capital, the lights of the city casting a soft glow through the room. A marble bathroom with a shower big enough for two. But we’re here, so the view of a fast-food chain across the street will have to do.